Scrips, scraps, and other unfinished miscellania

by Pacific Penguin

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Rainbow Dash, Comedy, Rarity, Random, Princess Celestia, Slice of Life, Alternate Universe, Gore, Original Character
Length: 9956

Slop from my head, alas unfinished. But creations ought to be shared, so have a look see.

Slop and other creations I've made over the past two years or so. Creations that aren't shared can't be relevant, so I figured I'd share them. Even if they're unfinished, maybe the basis of these stories can entertain you for a little while. Normally, I'd leave them put aside and try to finish them, but considering my hobbies have changed (and amounts of free time have not), it's unlikely I'll ever get to doing so. But mayyyyyybe someday!

Enjoy!

Stories tagged individually:

Time Off With Rarity: Slice of life
Dog Days of Summer Everlasting: Comedy, Random, Slice of Life
Celestia and Luna's Existentialism: Sad, Alternate Universe
Fallout Equestria: Burn Bright, Burn Blue: Dark, Adventure

(Note: only gore in the story is some minor gore in the Fallout Equestria side story. Everything else doesn't have gore.)

Published 2013-10-13 02:50:04 UTC
Last updated 2013-10-13 02:50:04 UTC

Time Off With Rarity: Chapter 1

The sound of nimble hooves running fabric through a sewing machine echoes throughout the room.

One ivory hoof stops briefly, and seems to consider the material lightly, then returns to the task at hand. Skillfully finishing the stitch, it swiftly lays down another sheet of fabric. Using yellow measuring tape wrapped around the opposite hoof, it quickly measures out some lengths, makes a few markings here and there, then shuffles the fabric carefully into place.

It stops before producing a thin, silver, apparatus: A needle.

A glow lights up around the current thread. The sheen brings it up to the needle. After a brief moment, it’s shifted through the eye of the needle and pulled through with practiced precision.

The sewing continues. The unfinished piece moves back and forth through the sewing machine. The sound of fabric becomes a predictable pattern, the one distinct noise in the large, round, room. After a spell, the delicate white hoof takes what can now be made out as a simple dress, places it on a mannequin, and carefully references it with a sketch.

A shimmer of faint teal brings the sketch to a nearby work table. The hoof quickly arranges several pieces of fabric in a seemingly chaotic fashion. That same teal glow brings scissors to the fabric as the hoof holds it down – softly, but firmly. Efficiently, several pieces of fabric are cut and stitched together. The piece isn’t quite done – yet, the hoof stops.

Moving up, it removes a pair of red glasses from the bridge of a white nose. Another shimmer of light blue, originating from a pearly-white horn glowing similarly, manipulates and twists the glasses around. This horn conceals the base of a great coiffed purple mane. And a very well styled one, at that. Just below the horn, great blue eyes with prim lashes contemplate the glasses concernedly.

Something outside seemingly catches the chic unicorn’s attention, and she sets the glasses down carefully.

“My, my, Rarity, you do know how to work. You’ve been at it all morning! But look at the marvelous weather outside! You haven’t had an excursion in so very long, perhaps you ought to treat yourself? All work and no play does make a dull pony, after all.”

Leaving her “organized chaos” as it were, she turned off the lights, but then glanced back at the room. The late morning light cast soft shadows throughout the room. Even with the lights off, the room seemed to give off a hospitable feel. Perhaps that was peculiar for a work room, but the unicorn liked it. Once again engrossed by the late morning light peeking in, Rarity began her preparations for a day on the town.

It all lay near the entrance of the boutique. A Saddlebag. Quiver. Arrows.
But something was missing, and she couldn’t quite put her hoof on it.
She paused for a moment. Then inspiration struck her. She quickly ran into her room and put her hoof to chin, before opening a closet, revealing a sturdy wine rack amongst more fabrics and other supplies. She looked about. Scanning the various wines, she pulled out one bottle before her. Looking at the year, she slowly put it back, and drew out another one instead, farther down, one with an fading label. Satisfied, she shut the door.

On her way out of the boutique, she made sure to post a note on her storefront. She briefly considered what to write. Then, she took pen to paper, writing quickly, efficiently, and perhaps most importantly, elegantly, her neat cursive gracing the paper. She finished her note with a flourished “Ta Ta for now, Darlings!”. And so, she set off.

The path leading from her house winded around a few circus tents. Walking upon it, she could see the pony statues that adorned the upper levels of her home. They evenly lined the circular second floor, with the same number of statues facing each other. The effect was to direct attention towards the middle of the building, where the sign for her store was located. Which was exactly what Rarity had intended.

The sign, seemingly from a carnival, reminded her that the entire building, and the surrounding tents, had been given to the town by a traveling circus that had been based there. The owner of the circus really should have tried turning a profit on the building, but insisted that he had earned more than enough doing his circus gig, and was ready to retire, so had generously sold the building to the town at a very modest price.

Naturally, the building caught Rarity’s eye, and she knew she had to purchase it the moment she saw it. The décor was too… refined, too renaissance-like. Naturally, it had needed some repainting here and there, and could use some complementary adornment… but the whole design of the building was too perfect to show off new designs! It had been perfect!

She realized she had never really thought about how lucky she was to actually come to own the building. This thought crossed her mind as she crossed a bridge leading to Ponyville proper, water babbling below the white mare.

Ponyville shined brightly in the morning sun, as it always did. Ponies moved to and fro, most running some errand or another. A blue jay’s “be boo” call sounds off in the distance. And somewhere a mocking bird performs its songs freely.

In front of the ponyville spa, ponies gather about, many either chatting contentedly after a good treatment, or just arriving to refresh themselves. A newcomer arrives, a distinguished white unicorn.

“Hello, Rarity!” one says.

“Good day, Magdalena! It’s been too long, how are you?”

“I’ve just been peachy lately, actually!” she says, while they share a quick hug.

“Good to hear! I’m just dropping by to treat myself this weekend. I do love my work, but all work does not build character, now does it, hmm? Oh! Your mane is coming undone! I’ll just tie that hair braid back together for you! There, all better.”

They walk together to the main spa door before Rarity pushes the door open a crack with a jingle from within. “We must catch up some time, darling. Right now I want to see if I can’t get the usual done before I tend to some other activities I’d like to attend to. We’ll talk soon!” she says, before slipping inside.

“Ooooh, my, I’d almost forgotten how divine this was!” Rarity said amidst the last motions of a back massage.

“Oh yes, sweetheart, and don’t you forget it this time. We’ve missed your patronage!” says a blue mare with sparkly pink
mane, finishing. “Do you want anything else done while you’re here?”

The fasionista lets out a contented sigh before sitting up. “Well… yes. I’d like my mane done up the way it usually is while I’m here. But this time… do it up, and have it set that way. I want it to stay that way for awhile. Would that be possible?”

“Why, my pleasure! It’ll be done right quick!” she says, helping Rarity to her hooves. “If you’ll just follow me to the main spa…”

Rarity left the spa relaxed, cleansed, and most importantly, fashionably. Getting her mane done was the easy part. Making it stay that way, was a bit of work. It was nothing heavy amounts of hair gel, pins, and clever braiding couldn’t solve, but it took a little longer than usual.

She probably could have made it go faster by helping do it up with her magic, but when at the spa, Rarity made it a point to leave everything up to the spa ponies. She had worked herself hard enough as it was, so here she wanted to make sure she could give herself some time to unwind.

So, as often was the case, she let her mind wander, thinking about nothing in particular.

Author's Note

Inspired by the comic series, time off, by explosivegent: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Time-Off-Threading-the-Arrow-255927653

Celestia and Luna's Existentialism: Chapter ?? (End?)

The wandering reminds me. It has taken years, but it reminds me now. It reminds me of… my purpose.

There have been many races upon this world in my time. There is but emptiness now. Infernal, solitary emptiness. It could end. I could – we could – bring those celestial bodies of ours slamming into the world, uniting them all in an unholy trifecta of light, shadow, and earth…

Or we could start again. There is sun, moon, and earth… blank slated earth. I bring a limb up in front of me, the sky acting as its backdrop. With an effort, I extend it up. On the end of it, there is activity… now, a wiggly digit exists on it. Now four more.

They are… what should I call them? But I know before I even ask myself. They are fingers. No, claws. No… it is a paw, and they are toes.

They will be as I, Celestia, will. It is time to create, not destroy. It’s been long enough. The world is pure.

This was for the best.

After all, from solitude, comes soul. True, refined, soul.

This is my meaning, my purpose. To be a world builder.

The Dog Days of Summer Everlasting: Chapter 1

An incessant buzzing resounded. It didn’t want to stop, did it?

The pillow could not be more useless against the horrible sound of it… it just… kept… going…

“No… no Mom, I’ll be up in time…”

It kept on.

“I’ll get up in five more minutes… it’ll be fine. I won’t sleep in… not that it matters if I do… I’ll be there so fast…”

The sound didn’t seem to care. It continued.

“…Okay, okay, okay… geezzzz…”

Slowly flicking away a bit of my not particularly more unkempt than usual hair, I opened my eyes just a crack. Then with practiced ease, I slammed my hoof down on the nightstand I knew was next to me. The goddesses annoying sound finally stopped, but I smashed my hoof down a couple more times just to make sure.

Then I lazily shifted over. The ceiling seemed especially interesting for some reason. Sigh. But I don’t get paid to stare at ceilings. So I splayed my legs out, and did an epic leg wiggle.

Okay. I was ready for the day. Yet the ceiling still seemed incredibly interesting. There were circles and winding lines on there, I swear… just going round and round in circles… I kept tracing them for some time, then finally groaned and glanced at the alarm clock. Yeah, I guess it was late enough to get up.

All right Rainbow, you think you can get the raincloud rounded up and sent their way in record time? Aw yeah. I was ready to get it done. But first, bathroom. I threw off the covers, and flew in there, quick as lightning. As I left, I made sure to mat down my hair a bit with my hooves, to work out the kinks. There. It looked good enough. I did the same with my tail.

It occurred to me that Rarity might be doing the same thing about this time of day… except like four hours earlier, probably. I wondered how much hair gel she used… and how long it must take her... eesh, I didn’t even want to think about it. All that time. Who would even care about how your hair looked anyway? If you were doing something awesome, no one was really going to look at your hair… they’re just looking for the performance! The thoughts made me shudder.

Anyway, I left the bathroom, dashed away into the kitchen, tossed some ponytarts into the toaster. I pulled out a cereal box, a bowl, and a carton of orange juice and milk. I poured out some orange juice into a cup, and filled the bowl with cereal. Then I carefully balanced the green ceramic bowl on a fork, and a spoon on the end of that. Ding-ding-ding. The toaster pastries finished. Now was the time to act!

Smashing the toaster’s lever, I sent the tasty pastries flying high into the air, simultaneously taking to the air myself. Then I flung some milk into the air, and slammed my hoof down on the fork. In perfect slow motion, I kicked the cereal bowl towards the still rising milk. Reaching my outstretched forelegs the opposite direction, I squeezed some orange juice into the air, and flew further upwards to meet the toaster pastries, swallowing them in one bite. The bowl and cereal hit their mark perfectly, meeting the milk, which perfectly fit between the bowl and cereal. I met the flowing orange juice mass as it reached the highest point of its arc, and drank my fill. And to finish it off, I caught the bowl in my hooves, hooves lightly touching the ground, and the cereal and milk fell into place.

Remembering the silverware, I reached out with one hoof and caught the spoon by the scoop of it. I turned it just slightly, so that the narrower part of the handle faced the ceiling. The fork fell perfectly on it, its tines trapping it on the spoon. I removed the fork, and began eating my cereal.

All and all, I think it was a pretty easy breakfast routine. Executed perfectly. Yup, not a flaw. Okay, maybe not perfectly. All right fine, I might have missed one ponytart. And the cereal and milk and bowl might have landed on my head. But that’s not as awesome. No, don’t bring up the orange juice.

Anyway, after an impeccable breakfast, I opened up my front door, and looked out. My house gets awful lonely sometimes. It’s a pretty darn big cloudsdalian style house for just me. And it’s the only one for quite some distance… sometimes I wish I had a roommate or something. But then I remember that only pegasi can walk on clouds without enchantment. And heck if I’m going to have Fluttershy as a roommate… she was over for a sleepover this one time, and I started telling the most radical story, and then, well, that’s another story. And a boring one at that. Anyway, the clouds here are perfect. Making cloud angels is great.

I walked on some, admired some of my spectacular liquid rainbow flows (I put them in myself), and overall cool architecture. Then I took off. I had some cloud wranglin’ to do.

The weather team wanted about a dozen clouds brought in, six to be sent over to Sweet Apple Acres, four over to the Everfree forest, and two over to Ponyville (I think Carrot Top wanted help with her garden or something), but they never were too strict about how to get that task done. Today, the clouds they needed were close to the mountains, about two miles from my house.

I was feeling a bit spectacular today, so once I arrived there, I thought I’d try something new. After, though, flying through one of the more water laden clouds. To, eh, wash off the orange juice. But after that, I flew over to a nice big and fluffy pure white cloud, soft to the touch. So soft you could just nuzzle down, put up your legs, and daydream a bit… start drifting off to unwakefullness… and then, you could just be anywhere…

Right. What was I doing?

Yeah. So I slowly worked off a bit of the cloud. It’s not really hard, they just come apart like cotton candy fluff. But with less of the melting into a horrible mess on your hooves. Mess on your hooves. Ergh. This bit of cloud I stretched out as far as I could without making it disassociate, then spindled it around so it became narrow and taut as well as long and durable. Perfect. Doing this with a few more cloud bits only took about five minutes or so. Then I lashed them together with some basic flight school knots. Like the overhoof knot. That’s a good one. I had a good length of cloud rope. Fashioning a lasso, I was set. It was time to wrangle down some clouds!

Get ‘im flygirl! I whipped out the rope, and tightened the lasso hold around the middle of the cloud, clinching it firmly but gently, preventing splitting. Yeah! That’s how we do it!

Tightening my tooth-hold on the cloud, I hauled it behind me, and flew upwards. Then, taking the rope into my hands, I began to give the cloud bundle a little spin, twirling it around and around, until it began to drift forward of its own momentum, and unleashed it. It continued forward. I retracted the rope, and flipped it around. Doing my best Daring Do impression, I snapped the rope forward, slicing off another section of nearby cloud, and quickly wrangling it in with a battle cry, and giving it the same rotational treatment, sending it away.

A few more whips, cracks, and lassoes later, and a whole flock of clouds were moving off towards Ponyville. That, and more than a few Daring Do oneliners, I’ll admit. Without them, it just wouldn’t have been quite as brilliant.

In any case, once they reached Ponyville, I could fine tune their bearings, and get them where they needed to go. Yup, hard work done. It was time for a well-deserved nap. Adventuring is tiring! So, rushing forward, craning my neck straight ahead for superior speed, I pulled up, then let myself fall, the half loop trajectory allowing my outstretched limbs to find the heavenly embrace of a cloud. Today was going to be a spectacular day. But the rest of that hard work could wait until a tiny bit later.

Author's Note

Inspired by The Catcher in the Rye somewhat.

Celestia and Luna's Existentialism: Chapter 1

Truth.

Universally so? Perhaps. Only time will tell. Only time does anyway… Truth and life, they are one and the same, are they not? As life is always a quest for significance, for meaning.

I can no longer tell. It’s been a long time. And very long time.

Celestia willing – oh, wait, I am she. I still hold on to their colloquialisms too, it seems – it might as well have been forever. It’s too bad I don’t even know what forever feels like.

I still inhabit this grandiose room, carefully etched, decorated, in my favor. They did their job so terribly well, I’m afraid. The structure is still sound, firm. A sure testament to whatever-kind used to live here. So many things that are lost to me over the years...

But, well, it’s been so long. So long since I’ve seen a true equestrian form, other than dear sister.

The details are mundane, trivial. They are just that: details. What matters now, is that my life consists of but two souls: that of my sister’s, and that of my own.

Aforementioned sister’s face looks calmly into the distance. Her wings, outstretched, now fold neatly and gracefully. Her eyes stare into the distance, not focused on anything in particular, but not unfocused, either. Her mane flows cooly like it never has… or perhaps like it always has.

There was a time when her form – as well as my own – were restrained. Shackled, perhaps isn’t the way to put it. We had… regalia? Yes, regalia would fit. Regalia to weigh us down. Stunning trinkets. Each catered to our own forms. But we threw those away. Carelessly let them go. They were only ever… symbolic. They weren’t true.

They represented something that we never really were… we ended up being treated too… all mighty, all power, and godlike.

Unburdened by these trivialities, it has left us utterly free.

Free.

Except, what is this existence? There is vast expanse, no responsibility to any particular entity, space, vastness. Nothing is required of us anymore. We roam. Do as we whim. But is there… purpose? Drive? For what? To what end?

There is no end. There wasn’t ever a beginning, either. It just is. Such as it was, as it ever will be. From now until then. It is flow!

I stand on what clearly was all a manner of opulence, whatever this was. A few steps run down before me, and a long chamber goes forth. The walls reach up and curve, touching at the ceiling, so high above me. Behind me, a most accommodating chair sits, built into the floor itself. But creatures no longer regularly inhabit this place.

I raise my wings. Luna turns at the sound. She understands, there are no words to say. She rouses to leave. We slowly walk to the end of the room, and out the open doorway. Faster now. The carpet becomes stone, the light becomes bright. I leap, and then she does too, like a ghostly shadow of mine.

But she is. Younger, but only in as much as that she comes second. Before I came along, she had to have already commandeered the moon. So that I could go next. Thus so on forever and since ever, for always. They… we… are two sides of the same coin. Youth is only actually an appearance.

It is true she has stumbled more than I, but such things are irrelevant once the lesson is learned and couple hundred years have passed. And Celest – why is this colloquialism so persistent? – I know that learning stems from failure.

It was jealousy, sharp and cold. A keen deluge, and relatively, only a moment of overwhelming spontaneity.

It was ‘Our subjects think Dear Sister’s radiant Sol is more important!’ this, and ‘We rule creatures of the day, not night!’ that.

She did not want to be an orbital of her sister. She did not want to be known throughout the ages as just a… satellite of the sister, the lesser one. She did not listen when I insisted that there were plenty of creatures of the night, such as herself, that we ruled over, but tended to shy away from watchful eyes.

She wouldn’t have it. So she sought to take some of my light. To roll slowly in and push the light to the fringes, so that she could have the black spotlight for herself, and to cause the shadow to become the star.

It was a matter of mass, though. Her capacity for magic was nothing in comparison to mine. But she was formidable beyond compare, being the exact compliment of myself. So I tricked her. Into doing her duties. And she ended up on the moon.

That way she could do her duties. Because it was the only thing she could do. Other than think.

Reflect.

I know how she was, now. It’s the only thing I have time for now. The only thing we don’t have time for, either. Free, perhaps. Free to think, and explore every nuance of our mind and soul. Of the abstract, and the concrete indiscriminately.

But thinking can be dangerous. Do it too much, and you may make yourself miserable. Within the confines of your own head, there is nothing to reassure you. No one to say, whether it means anything or not, that it’s okay, and everything will be all right. Nothing to stop the past from replaying, over and over, in your head, nothing to talk to and challenge. Nothing to prove, except to yourself.

I forgave her. I forgave her a long time ago.

But, that is my existence now. However, it might as well be just my solitary self, because we are true compliments to each other. And we are so close, we know, and there is nothing to be said most of the time. Our minds might as well be linked. We are one and the same, but we are different. Separate entities of the same force. What would we even say? All avenues of dialogue have been exhausted so many years ago.

We fly through the lands. They might have had a name once, but they’ve flowed away with the passage of time. Like many other things. Do I miss it? Yes, sometimes I have to say, I do… There was true meaning then. Problems that always needed addressing, other nationalities to deal with… but, oh, the paperwork, the paperwork. It was so dynamic though. Can’t say the same can be said about… now.

Can I change that…?

I digress. There is freedom now! We soar over the lands, coasting along… the green extends for miles, up to the mountains, reaching to the lazily moving clouds in the sky, ones reflecting the orange from the falling sun. It’s been awhile. I’m still moving the sun down, and soon, Luna will bring the moon up.

Is this the only thing keeping us going? Doing the task we were graced with since the beginning of time? Keeping the cycle going?

It is critical to the lifeblood of the world around us… Our responsibility… it graces the plants, allows them growth. Its rays touch the whole domain, encouraging it to sprout forth… it keeps the tides regular, a constant ebb and flow. It moderates the weather, making it even and temperate.

Would it be the same without us? What if we… just didn’t move those beautiful orbs in the sky?

We’ve considered it before, but habit thousands of years in the making just keeps us raising them up, setting them down… Is that really freedom? Why don’t we do it differently? Because this is comfortable?

Would we have enough… faith for that? What if the world fell apart? What if the sun burst into an trillion tiny flames?

No. It wouldn’t. But I don’t know that. No matter. I’m confident enough the world could survive that.

Flames… that reminds me of a creature. Exactly what the creature was called, again, is beyond me, lost to time. I’m not entirely sure what happened to it. But I know it came back. It always came back. Its life cycle was based on its death. Because, as it grew older, it died. It died, so it could come back to life from the ashes, stronger than ever. Philo… Philomena, was what I had named it…

The only creature ever fitting for the immortal… a re-living, immolated being. Hah. Good description of immortality. I don’t know what happened to it. I think it went to the center of the earth, to find its kin… I haven’t seen such a beautiful creature in a long time.

Beautiful… the creatures that used to inhabit this place made such a beautiful civilization. It worked like clockwork. They took care of eachother so well. The townships were simple, minded by mayors. If anyone had a pertinent problem, they went to our capital to petition it.

Author's Note

Just an experiment in existential writing, stream of consciousness. It's very hard to follow, I know, that's the point. It's kind of like Ulysses by James Joyce, which I never finished.

Fallout Equestria: Burn Bright, Burn Blue; Chapter 1

“You got all that tragedy and horror out in the w-wastelands, and you’re going to call me out on
s-smo-muh-smoking?!” Parish finally spat out. He shifted the cigarette to the side of his mouth, and flicked his black tail back violently.

“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s going to kill you young, boyo.” The light yellow unicorn said. “gotta enough shit out here to take the years offa pony,” Lemon Lime paused. “Not that I ever took ya for the ‘live long and prosper’ types anyway, judgin’ by yer cutie mark.”

The burgundy pony mottled with dandelion colored spots shot back. “W-what can I say, L.L., I’ve got a red-hot personality. It’s t-too short out here to care about my goddamned health, you n-naïf”

Parish was sick of this mare, this… this… filly. A month of this crap. Always hassling him about “good health” and “taking care of yourself”. Who the hell cared anymore? Why the hell did she care? With all the shit anypony that lived in the wastes went through, it was surprising most ponies didn’t have six legs, nine eyes, and an extra tail sticking out of their heads. Ponies should rejoice their self-destructive race even survived at all.

“Would you two knock it off? Stay alert.” The drab brown pony snapped from alongside the overburdened Brahmin, whose load continuously rattled. “You never know when a raider might show up… or someone like Red Eye pops in out of nowhere trying to get ‘recruits’. Us caravaners are pretty vulnerable as it is. But it’s not profitable to hire so many guards, and you’re all I’ve got, so stop squabbling and stay sharp.”

“Yeah, yeah. If Le-eh-emon didn’t have to bring my health up to me all the t-time…” As he walked, he pulled a lighter from his extra-armored saddlebags. His spot in the caravan was directly behind and to the right of the Brahmin. Taking the lighter in his hoof, he turned it over. Etched on it was a reclining pegasus pony on the wing of some sort of pre-war plane. He flipped open the cap, and flicked with his hoof. Not even the vaguest hint of flame lit up.

“Why do you still keep that thing around if it doesn’t even work, Parish? I know you can fix it, so why don’t you?” Bart said, adjusting his goggled cap in the early morning sun.

He sighed. “I dunno. Just a swell souvenir I suppose.” He paused, then shot back at Bart. “Hey, you too? Can’t ya-ya’ll just lay off me? What about that guy, Bottle Opener, is it? Why pick on the st-st-stutter?” He mentally facehoofed. Of course he would stumble on that word.

“It’s because he does his job. He keeps watch, pipes up when something comes up, and if he doesn’t talk much, well so be it. I give him the caps, he does what he’s supposed to do, it’s a fair transaction, and I don’t question it. And when he happens to have a PipBuck, well, you don’t turn them down. Those things are more useful than you could ever imagine.”

To make his point, he glanced over at Bottle. “Eh, big guy?”

Mr. PipBuck merely grunted in response, without even turning towards him.

“He’s a regular philosopher, I tell you…”

Parish groaned. He looked over at Lemon Lime. She stuck her tongue out at him.

He pretended not to notice and stuck the etched lighter back in his bags.

They had left New Appleloosa just yesterday. Their route would take them to Junction R-7 and the correctional facility, and then onward to Fillydelphia. They might have gone to Old Appleloosa, but the raiders had been growing especially sadistic as of late, and they seemed to be attacking caravans at random instead of trading with them.

Because of this, they were taking a bit a detour from the usual routes. Presently, they passed through a craggy region, which they had been dredging through for some time. It was as dead as any part of the wastes. Trees sparsely littered the place, and the sun approaching its zenith looked as lifeless as ever. And yet, Parish was sweating. Figured. Even through the dirty smears that were the clouds, the sun was still beaming down. And it wasn’t even noon.

I’m going to be glad when this is over, Parish thought idly. Once we can go down to Fillydelphia and make some real money… I can relax for awhile…

Caravan guard jobs usually paid pretty well. Not without good reason, though. Raids on caravans were commonplace. In fact, it wasn’t unheard of for one to get hit upwards of five, six, seven times in a single run. Sure, many attacks were easily fended off, but the fact remained, if you signed up, you were signing up to get shot. It was dangerous, yes, but it was dangerous everywhere in the wastes. At any given time, a raider band might attack, someone might decide they wanted your stuff and kill you, the flimsy shack most ponies called home might collapse on you, hell, a pre-war undetonated balefire bomb might just go off and kill you…

Parish was still thinking of various ways the wastes could cause an untimely death when a shot rang out. He watched as Lemon Lime keeled over, large amounts of blood already spewing from her chest onto her yellow coat. He didn’t even see where the shot came from. A second shot sent the brahmin stumbling. He jumped behind the brahmin to use it for cover. If it was one of those talking ones, he might have felt a little guilty for using it as a live ponyshield, but it wasn’t, and its heavy pack would offer it some protection.

Bart hastily slipped in next to him. “Two up high, more around the bend,” He said quickly as he settled.

Parish peeked over the brahmin. The rocks helped form a roughly T shaped intersection ahead of them. Bottle Opener had taken cover behind a rock formation several feet in front of them. He had his automatic rifle out, and was crouched, hugging the rock with his form. Two rock formations jutted out into the path up ahead, staggered so there was first one on the left, then one on the right. There was a muzzle flash, and pieces of Bottle’s rock crumbled. Parish quickly ducked as the second pile of rubble took a shot at him.

It hit the brahmin, and it mooed woefully. It’d survive. He put his pistol in his mouth, and rustled through his pack. He took out a different, working lighter, and pulled out a couple of metal apples, of the explosive variety. He hoped he wasn’t going to need them all. It was hard to find a reliable supply of them, especially on caravan jobs.

He thought for a moment, then popped his head back over the brahmin’s back in time to see a group of raiders approaching from the right side of the T junction up ahead. Well, this was going to get messy. He pulled a stem.

One…

Bottle Opener had been taking pot shots at the well-hidden snipers (not that it took much to hide a raider in the wastes, they practically were dirt anyway), and they focused their fire on him.

Two… He was sure they hadn’t noticed him pop back up again. Bang. Okay, maybe not.

Three…

Parish arced the grenade towards the sniper down on the left overhang, since he knew Bottle had a terrible angle to get at him. Clk,clk,clk, it bounced on the crags around the sniper, then rolled a foot or two behind him. He ducked back down. He heard the explosion and moments later a thump of body on ground, and pulled another stem. He stood up completely, and the raider group turned towards him.

“Look boys, we’ve got an idiot who decided he didn’t want to suck his mom’s teats anymore, haha. ‘Cause his mom here is a two-headed cow! Oh, that’s rich! KILL ‘IM BOYS!”

“Fresh meat!!”

As they readied their weapons to fire, Parish threw the grenade as hard as he could. It flew a short distance, then struck a rock outcrop at an angle, bouncing gracefully back into the air. Like a throwing stone, the grenade arced for a second time, and exploded two feet from the ground, in the middle of the crowd. The pony bits went everywhere.

A bullet whined by. Parish cried out and fell as a bullet scored the back of his neck, taking a good part of his mane with it. The second raider sniper was mad now, and had risen from behind his rocky perch to get a shot at the grenadier. As he wracked the bolt for another shot at Parish, Bottle riddled him with bullets, and the sniper was no more.

Unfortunately for Bottle, the first sniper survived his ordeal with the grenade, and had landed next to him. His red and further reddening form was struggling to rise behind him. Parish was able to see all this, he begged his vocal cords to work, but all he could do was croak as he watched the severely bloodied raider rise up to Bottle Opener with a razor-sharp combat knife.

In the next moment, which seemed to drag on and on, the raider reached forward, and pulled his knife across Bottle’s neck, letting loose a great stream of blood. Bottle Opener tried to clutch at his now-exposed throat, but it was too late, and he fell, gurgling, onto the ground. The raider collapsed on top of him.

Just then, two shots rang out.

Bart had taken out a pistol and peered over the side of the Brahmin to finish off the raider. Even though he probably would have bled out from the shrapnel wounds anyway.

“Fuckin’ wasteland!” Bart raged. “Parish, give me a smoke.” Still on his belly, he nonchalantly offered him one as he lit a new one on his lips. He weakly tossed the lighter, which landed at Bart’s feet.

“I’ll patch you and the brahmin up, scavenge what I can from Bottle, Lime, and these bastards.” He stopped to survey the area. “And I just might take up smoking again.”

Parish took a whiff and closed his eyes.

A few hours later, he awoke. He was still on his belly, and rose carefully. His now scabbed wounds itched a little, and he brought a hoof up to scratch, but stopped when he met the bandages now around his neck. He glanced up into the sky. The sun had begun its descent in the sky. Lifeless clouds partially hid it like a shawl. Same as it always was. But for a second, he thought he saw something swiftly fly through it…

Parish shook his head. No. Nothing ever flew in dead skies anymore…

“You awake? How are your bandages holding up? Let me see.” Parish turned to face Bart as he shifted his attention to him. “Well,” he said, shifting through the bandages, “It’s a little deep, but it’s nothing you can’t walk off. Here, I think half a dose of healing potion should do you fine. It’s coming out of your payment, mind you.”

“You’re kidding right?! We’ve two dead, and you’re going to foot me the bill for that?”

Bart sighed. “I know. But you did sign a contract… maybe I should just give you that PipBuck gizmo instead of caps. Look, I know we just lost two of our party, but I haven’t been making as much as I should be. I can’t go in the red. Not in the wasteland. You’ll end up dead like that.” He stopped again. “I hate to say it, I really do, but they were expendable. Heck, you’re expendable.”

“Fine,” Parish retorted. “I’ll have the potion.” He took it, downed half in one gulp, and set it in his saddlebags after recorking it along with his temper. “How’s D-Daisy doing?”

“Not too bad. Her load took most of the force out of one shot. She took a shot to the ankle as well, but I think she’ll be able to make it to the junction. If we leave now, and venture back onto the main routes, we might be able to get there by morning.”

“I could go for that. This route isn’t w-working out.” Parish looked out. Lemon Lime’s corpse had been dragged out to where Bottle and the raider had fallen, her things already packed onto the brahmin. The raiders had been similarly looted. Most raider gear was junk, but they occaisionally had things of value, such as handguns, submachine guns, and other small arms weapons. The two snipers had been using partially modified hunting rifles, he would learn later, and they were stashed as well.

Bottle opener had been shaken down for everything by Bart, except for the PipBuck. They had the tools to take it off, just Bart wasn’t skillful enough with them. He asked Parish to do it, and he complied. He fetched the necessary tools, and set about fiddling with the device.

He brought up one of the small screwdrivers, and carefully began to unwind some of the screws. But then a fit of coughs attacked him, as he nearly retched from the smell. Pulling a rag from his bags, he tied it over his nose. He went back to work.

After a good half hour of work (and two instances where he nearly lost the tiny screws), he managed to pull it off and put the device back together around itself. He set it in Daisy’s pack, along with the tools. “W-well, I’m ready to go if you are,” he said.

Bart had just been finishing off an apple. “You’re scary with those tools of yours, ya know that? Move out!”

Thus they struck out once more into the wastes.

Their journey to Junction R-7 proved uneventful. A few bloatsprites here, a few radscorpions there, but nothing surprising. Mutant creatures were just about as guaranteed as radiation.

By late morning, they were approaching the small settlement of disheveled traincars and rust, and its mass of rails and ties, turning every which way, and yet getting nowhere. Many traincars were moved back up onto the tracks, but many still lied down in odd directions, or as gnarled wrecks.

“I hope Gawdyna’s in a good mood today… I could use a merc contract that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.”

You get what you pay for, Parish thought…

The junction got about as much attention as the rust on the rail tracks did. A few scrapes here and there to keep it going, but otherwise left alone and neglected. It had no major items for regular trade that couldn’t be bought over at Shattered hoof. But, where there are customers with caps, there are merchants with various means to empty their cap purses.

In its time, it might have been a major hub for freight shipments equestria wide. Ponies, firearms from the weapons factories near Ponyville, Ministry exports to the rest of the country… It probably bustled. Even when things escalated back then. It probably still bustled then. Even more, even. Work foreponies here probably shouted at their orderlies to increase their work efficiency, fit in more loadings and unloadings. All the way up to the fateful day. And then…

Parish was jarred from his wandering thoughts when Bart quite literally slammed into another pony as they turned a traincar corner. They fell into a jumble on the floor. The other pony’s odds and ends he had been carrying in hoof and on flank, went everywhere, and rolled about the floor. Bart’s hat had fallen off and landed squarely on the other pony’s face.

“Where the hell were you going, you moron?” Bart glowered. “If there’s so much as a scratch on me, goddesses help you, ‘cause you’re paying for every last healing potion I’ll need!” He snatched his cap off, and stopped with the cap halfway to his head. “Hold on… Wolfgang? Tainted Wolfgang? Well hell!”

“Bart? ‘Tis you? Aha, good to see you, friend!” The apparent Wolfgang said, and proceeded to give Bart a warm embrace, seemingly ignoring the fact that all his things were strewn about the floor.

“It’s been too long since I’ve run into to you in the wastes! How has your caravan been doing? Just as prosperous as ever, I’d wager! You were a born salesmen, last time I checked!”

“Ah. That. Yes, it’s been… quite… successful. My sales pitch is quite good. Would you like to hear it? Of course you do, good man! All right. Ahem. ‘Welcome, filly or gentlecolt, to Tainted Wolfgang’s traveling junk store. The Depot of Detritus, the Shop of Clop, and the Caravan of crap. Now what odds and ends can I, the most tainted of all possible Wolfgangs, offer to you?’” He raised his eyebrows at Bart. “Ingenious, isn’t it? Eh? Eh?”

“My god, you were always so much better at the pitch than I! I’m surprised you haven’t sold out already! But first, I should probably help you with your goods. These are your goods, aren’t they?”

Parish butt in. “No offense, but do I even exist, Bart?”

“Right. Sorry, Parish.”He gestured with his hoof. “Wolfgang Parish, Parish Wolfgang.” Finally, he put his cap back on. Then, he began to pick up bits of Wolfgang’s wares.

Ignoring his wares for the moment, Wolfgang got up and offered a hoof to Parish. “How do you do? The one, the only, the Tainted Wolfgang, at your service!” Shaking hooves, he continued. “You are a most… shall we say, curious pony, aren’t you?” Circling, he proceeded to look Parish up and down. “A most dark, sanguine, earth pony I see… with dandelion spots! And the mane and tail! Black and styled in the classic ‘Wasteland Windblown’ style I see! But tastefully done!”

“I’m c-curious?” Parish said, unamused.

“Oh, and he stutters to himself too! Yes, curious indeed!”

He grunted. This pony really bothered Parish. But, he knew a trick that would blow him away… He pulled out the engraved lighter, which, although no longer able to ignite a flame, had been modified by him to release a flammable gas into the air. He flipped it open, and flicked it, releasing some.

“It looks to me, that your lighter is broken! Your friend Wolfgang can help you with that!”

Instead of making him an offer, Parish swept his head forward and exhaled in a sweeping motion, so as to hide the movement of his lower jaw. Because, in his mouth, he had two false teeth, one made of flint, and another of steel. He struck them together, and pretended to breath fire.

“WAH! Curio-oso! You are most talented! B-but now I must be going! Things to attend to, you know! Nice meeting you, bye!” And the Tainted Wolfgang ran off.

Through this exchange, Bart had been far too occupied with collecting odds and ends to notice. Hooves full, he turned around and was dumbfounded to see that Wolfgang was gone. “What… where’d he get off to?”

Grinning, Parish simply said, “Oh, something about errands needing running, goods demanding re-st-stocking… swell guy though. Glad to have met him.”

The surviving caravaneers wandered the worn, churning junction, stopping here and there to greet other merchants, and show wares to eachother, or ask Junction residents if they had anything for trade. Daisy’s pack was mostly full, but Bart purchased some chems to sell in Filly, and some armored barding bits for repair. Parish managed to get some more apple grenades and some dynamite at a good price.

Eventually, they found themselves at Gawdyna’s office. A traincar completely undistinctive except for the white griffin talon logo spray painted on one of the sides, and the reinforced locks on the door.

“Well, here goes.” Bart rapt on the door.

“If that’s Blueblood, no, request denied, get back on patrol. I can’t have you on active mercs right now so stop asking. If yer here for business, come right on in, otherwise, kindly go the hell away.” Came a griffin’s voice from within.

“Actually yes, I’d like to hire a Talon for a caravan guard contract.” Bart said, hopping up onto the traincar.

The imposing, and rather battle-scarred griffin looked up from her writing. “Well now, someone who gets right to it. That’s what I like ‘t hear. I can sign a contract like that for you right now, 500 caps. We’ll have a Talon with you, to carry out that contract to the letter, not a single word, comma, period, or dash more, or less.”

“500…?” His ears went back.

“Look, yer not going to get a better merc, and I’m not going to haggle with you. Take it or leave it.”

“Aye… I’ll think about it.”

“Just be quick, yeah?”

Bart took a walk around the traincar with Parish and Daisy to think it over.

“…I’m already behind this year, and if I’m not careful, I’ll be cutting into my savings…” He sighed. “Would you take a cut in your contract…?”

Parish put hoof up to the side of his head, annoyed. “Ugh, if y-you don’t want me…” He stopped. A ridiculous, crazy idea kindled in his head. Then, suddenly, it oxidized and flared up. “You know what, forget it. You give me that PipBuck we found, and I’ll be gone. Completely out of your hair. I’ll leave the contract behind entirely. It’s not like you’ll be able to sell it on the caravan routes, and I know you’re not going to use the combat spells. Give me that, and I’ll call it even. The Talon merc should be more than enough protection to Filly.”

“Hmm. Fair deal. It’s all yours.” With that, he turned around, wrestled the hoof-mounted device from Daisy’s pack, and tossed it to him.

“Wait… r-really?” Parish said, barely catching it.

“Yes, really. And as an added bonus, you can have to tools you need to maintenance it too. I doubt anyone wants those.” He took them out, and put them into his hoof, and with the tools encapsulated inside, gave him a hoofshake. “Good doing business with you. I sincerely wish you well.”

“All right! I’ll, I’ll see you around, Bart!”

He was already giddy. This was going to be good.

Fallout Equestria: Burn Bright, Burn Blue; Chapter 2

Wasting no time, Parish immediately set out to find a spot to work. He was able to clear out space next to a faded red train car. He checked to make sure there weren’t any suspicious looking ponies around. It wasn’t likely that he’d be mugged here, in Talon territory, but it paid to be careful out in the ravaged wastes. It often meant the difference between bitter continued existence and an untimely death.

Satisfied with the location, he immediately dropped to his haunches, and carefully set out the tools he would need, and the PipBuck. It was an intriguing device. From what he had heard throughout his travels, the device could take care of inventory management, injury assessment and medical administration, navigation and automapping, and even offered combat assistance spells. Rumor had it that it could be rigged to cause a small but powerful megaspell explosion, but he wasn’t so sure about that.

Turning it over in his hooves, he noticed it still had a few splotches of Bottle Opener’s blood on it. Using a handkerchief, he carefully wiped what he could off. It would make little difference in the long run, considering the dust and grime that permeated the wastes inevitably got on everything and everypony indiscriminately, but for the moment, it helped him deal with equipping the device that had not long ago been in use by one of his companions.

Undoing the small screws and other fastenings, he held up his left foreleg, and laid the device on it, and began to carefully screw the first set of screws back in, securing it. With some effort, he had it fastened in no time. Like buttoning the cuffs of dress shirts unaided, it proved awkward, but Parish was used to relying on himself, and he managed. He shook it to test the strength of the fastening. The vice was surprisingly secure for a relatively large device. It felt clunky on his hoof, and the extra weight bothered him, but he supposed he would have to get used to it. He had always wanted one…

Gathering his tools, he sat up, and prodded at the PipBoy buttons. It powered on. An image of a pony popped up, along with a message about imminent user death. He shook his hoof, and the screen refreshed. Now it complained about minor radiation poisoning and smoke intake levels. Oh great, not this thing too, he thought.

Parish cycled over to the “DATA” section, and opened up a map of the area. To his surprise, it displayed an incredibly accurate map of his immediate surroundings. But that wasn’t what he was looking for. He pressed a button, and a larger map popped up, along with locations that he had never heard of. Pre-war data, he figured. But the map was strangely populated, with many areas marked in some places, and very few in others. It looked like most of the locations centered around caravan routes. It must have only populated the map with areas that Bottle Cap had been, he realized. Yet, part of the map Parish was certain wasn’t part of any trade route he had visited. It branched off to a location called “Stable 6”.

Strange. He’d heard of these stable things before, but hadn’t cared enough to remember what exactly they were for. Figuring it was something he could worry about later, he decided to figure out where he was going to go.

He hadn’t really thought too terribly much about this, either. Most of his adult life he had made his living off of caravan guard contracting. It always seemed like a safe job, in so much that if anything happened, he would have other ponies to get him out of a bind.

Alone, he figured he’d be as good as dead, and would probably get lost besides… but with this… there was slim chance of him getting lost, and with the combat agumentation provided by the PipBuck, he was sure he could hold his own.

And the prospect of scavenging had always appealed to him. He’d heard all the stories of insane amounts of caps earned from scavenging hauls… much more than any caravan contract paid. Sure, most things of value had been picked clean from the wastes long ago, but now and then items of value still came up. And with his skillset… he was confident he would be able to find something. If through unconventional means. Then, he’d be one step closer to having it easy. Not having to worry about caps… Just taking it easy someplace… Maybe here. Or New Appleloosa. Or this Tenpony tower he kept hearing about… Yeah… that could be good. Little chance of dying where those pompous ponies lived…

He looked at his map. Where would he start? He hadn’t the slightest idea, so he closed his eyes, and started turning the knobs for the waypoint marker coordinates at random. The machine set his marker there, although he had no idea where “there” was in the dull green void.

“Huh. S-sem-seems like good a place as any t-to start… Okay.”

Before he left the Junction, he was sure to stock up on supplies. Food, water, healing potions, bandages, ammo… He even got another 10mm pistol to use for parts. Whenever he wasn’t blowing stuff up, he was using that, so he figured he would need it.

Setting the marker on his new PipBuck, he set out. Occasionally, he would scratch at a strange itch on his left foreleg, but would touch the new device, and realize the cause of the itch. He still had some adjusting to do…

The road before Parish was rippled and warped, almost screaming out for a good repaving after over 200 years of abuse, a cry that would go unanswered, likely until it disintegrated. As often was the case, the road bore no traffic. The unnaturally yellow sky opened above, and a single deep red pony walked on the sickly road, stopping to shudder with his left leg every now and then.

Parish continued on that road for some time, his hooves making a scuffing sound on the brittle pavement as he went. It was more comfortable to walk on than dirt, but its terrible condition made it hard to traverse at times. At times he would have to awkwardly tread it, as parts of the road had shriveled away, revealing the dirt foundation under it.

He took a look at his PipBuck. It directed him to stay on the road for some time, before turning off of it and heading into the wilderness proper.

After covering a decent distance, he stopped to survey the area. Before him, the road strung forward. In the distance, he could see a highway entrance which ended abruptly, the rest of it having fallen down long ago. His PipBuck directed him up in that direction. Sighing, he conceded that he’d have to make his way around the wreckage below.

Beside the highway, there was a monorail, also in shambles, as a section of it had fallen away, just like the highway. But it resumed its length not far across. On the fallen section was the corpse of the monorail train, the front half of it utterly shattered, bits of metal splintered in all directions, partially blackened by an explosion after the impact, he figured.

His mind began to imagine the fateful day… an assortment of ponies in a traincar, some sitting, others holding onto hoofholds above, blankly staring everywhere but eachother. Then, a terribly bright light, leaving an afterimage in the eyes. Then another. And another. Sound became meaningless amongst the noise of the destruction, before becoming indesernable altogether. Then, the traincar suddenly jolts forward and to the side at an odd angle. Suddenly, a pull downward, and the ponies within feel a vague sense of freefall. They look about eachother, fearing their fates, and looking for comfort. Instead, a great many oranges, and reds, colors like late fall leaves erupt from the forward most train section, hungrily snatching forward, flames licking outward in all directions, and out of the train.

As the haunting images drained from his brain, Parish came back to reality with a start. He cursed his overactive imagination. He always had these… theories of prewar events… and he was powerless but to imagine them, flesh them out in his head. Why did they always come to him? What was so interesting about ponies who died countless years ago, whose lives had long since ceased to matter? Wasn’t life in the wastes straining enough for him to worry about these 200 year old ghosts? But he knew why. He shook it from his mind. For now.

He still had ground to cover before he wanted to make camp. The maze of wreckage led the way forward, albeit slowly. It was monotonous sure, but he didn’t care. He made his way forward even faster than before. The effort it required to navigate the ruined landscape would keep it off of pointless imagings, and so he went.

It was a few hours after nightfall when he decided to stop and break camp. Overhead, the half moon shone brilliantly, not obscured by dark clouds, as it often was. It nearly demanded inspection in the sky. Parish held that off for a little while longer. He made camp next to a pile of rubble, pushing his various supplies up against it so it looked like part of the pile. He did not make a fire, as he was fairly sure there were active raiders in this area, and the last thing he needed was a surprise raider bedtime story. It would probably involve chains, blood… and drugs.

He reclined on the pile, and removed a can from his bags. Canned oats, it said. Cracking open the can, he tasted it. It tasted suspiciously like salt. Looks better than it tastes, he decided. Dinner done, he began to doze off once he was satisfied with the placement of his gear, and making sure his weapons were placed so that he could draw them easily, but they wouldn’t be immediately visible to any attackers.