Fallout Equestria: Psychosis

Today was not a good day for a man named Jim D. Black.

First off, he had woken up on the wrong side of his tiny coffin apartment with a crick in his neck. In his attempts to remove it, he’d bruised his thigh, cut the palm of his hand, and managed to put first degree burns on all of his toes. He’d settled on occasionally rolling his head around, and that relieved some of the pain, but throughout the day he’d still have to deal with discomfort around his neck. That wasn’t fun when you had a neural jack, multiple synthetic muscle strands to support a cybernetic arm, and a completely metallic spine and skull. Damn Corp Wars...

Second, the waitress didn’t get his order right. This wouldn’t have been a problem, seeing as he had a steady supply of gray-market stimulants he could have injected at any time, but he much preferred the bitter bite of distilled beans that had been crushed up into a fine powder, and he liked that warm. So when he’d ordered his coffee, found out it had been cold, and chugged it down, he was even more surprised to find out it had been decaf. In the end, he injected a dubiously-legal stim and got over it. He’d learned the ways of the honey badger a long time ago, whatever that was.

Third, the weather. The Boston-Atlanta Sprawl was known for its (highly acidic) rain, seeing as it was on the east coast of the United States and spewed out industrial fumes all day, but today it was even worse. Not because of hurricane force winds or a meter of rain being poured onto his head, but a miserable overcast sky and a drizzle so light he could barely feel it. That was worse to him than any monsoon or tornado, seeing as he was generally an upbeat guy.

Fourth, he was being cornered by a bunch of Manticore mercs, the most ruthless kind of mercenaries in the Sprawl. This… was a problem that couldn’t be explained in a couple sentences.

Jim was one of those few people who held the honor of being called a Street Samurai. People who were on the fuzzy side of morality and the law, took jobs from Zaibatsu corporations, and killed for money. An almost legendary Street Samurai, in fact, often being paid upwards of a quarter million ameros even for a simple hit. With the money he had stored in Swiss bank accounts, he could’ve retired years ago, replaced his cybernetics with organic clones that worked just as well, and put his entire life behind him while snorting coke off the backs of hookers.

But he was in it for the thrills. Not for the killing, not for the bringing people to ruin, not even for the money he got, but simply for the act of causing chaos. It was the best high in his books, better than any amphetamine or hallucinogen in his eyes. Every hour he was running across the rooftops of buildings, evading the corrupt police patrols, and causing havoc was another hour he considered fulfilled. If he ever gave up his life and settled into a cushy corporate deskjob, he’d have considered that a fate worse than death.

So yes, he was what could be called a modern supercriminal; nigh-untraceable, nigh-untouchable, nigh-uncatchable.

When he got hired by some Zaibatsu corporation calling itself by some crazy eastern European name, he didn’t care. When he was told to get a super secret project from some lab studying quantum mechanics or some shit, he didn’t care. He just entered the airvent, found the room the project was in, watched one of the tests, broke in, and grabbed what he was told to grab; a weird-ass metal case, some hard drives, and the neural chip of one of the lead scientists. That last one was pretty messy.

What he didn’t expect was the large group of mech-aug Manticore mercs coming down on his ass like the wrath of god. The second that scientist’s lifesigns went out, they barged into the room, gave it a ballistic makeover, and tried to find whoever did it.

Unfortunately for Jim, they did.

Now, he was running across the slick streets with a dozen of the most heavily armed dakka-lovin’ mercs on his tail. Bright neon burned streaks into his cold eyes, startled citizens wearing plastic raincoats darted out of his way, and identical AI-assisted cars honked their disapproval.

He spotted a shadowed alleyway he could turn into. Then he glanced over his shoulder.

The largest motherfucker Jim had ever seen was running straight towards him, and he was closing the twenty meter distance between them incredibly quick. How the hell running in a suit of armor that heavy was possible without a power suit, he’d never know.

He did know that he’d need to hit that man in the knee to bring him down quick, because the armor everywhere else was too thick. It was against his ingrained instincts to go for center of mass, but pragmatism, a century old medical textbook, and circumstances were forcing him to think on the fly.

When the giant man suddenly appeared in front of Jim with no sound other than the crushing of pavement and screaming civilians, Jim did something he’d look back on and laugh about:

Punched the giant man in the face with his cybernetic right arm, thanking Newton and SarifCorp all the way, and crunching the Manticore’s faceplate and knocking him flat on his ass.

Escape! screamed his mind, but the mercs were nearly on him by then. He grabbed the Manticore’s plasma rifle’s two power cells, and jinked into the alleyway, hoping to God it wasn’t a dead end.

It was.

No other options readily apparent, he turned the nearest dumpster around to block most of the narrow alley, propped the metal backpack he’d stolen on the green-painted steel alloy, aimed the plasma gun at it, and waited.

Half a second later, six Manticore’s turned the corner, rifles immediately at the ready. They didn’t fire when they saw Jim just about ready to destroy the billion ‘mero object they were hired to protect.

“Stop!” he screamed, activating the voice changer in his throat, “You make one move, I break this piece of shit!”

That gave them pause.

“Put your guns on the ground, your hands above your heads, and step out of the alleyway. Anyone who doesn’t comply gets to see this nice piece of tech turn into a pile of slag, got it?”

A pregnant pause. Everyone dropped their guns, too afraid Jim would actually destroy it. Behind his faceplate, Jim grinned.

“Suckers!” he said, turning the barrel of the machine gun to the mercs and squeezing down the trigger. Three of them went down, their momentary screams of pain drowned out by the constant ZZZRR of Jim’s plasma gun.

When the other three grabbed their guns, he’d already emptied the power cell. Cursing, and with no time to reload, he dropped behind the dumpster with only a dozen bullets screaming past his head.

Jim looked around. The concrete wall in front of him was too high to climb, even with the  power suit he’d gotten from Drebin. There wasn’t a convenient fire escape, and if there was, he’d get shot as soon as he tried to get up it. A thought crossed his mind to simply toss a molotov and get out, but last time he checked every Manticore mercenary had some sort of fire-retardant on them at all times, along with a somewhat fireproof suit. That plan was a bust.

He glanced at the Obrez on his hips. Heavily modified Lee-Enfields, rechambered for 5.56x45mm, the stocks cut off, pistol grips installed, and barrels cut down to an almost pistol-length eight inches. A semi-automatic action had replaced the original action, but it was slow and clunky. Great for CQC, and they looked damn cool, but they weren't great for much else. To use them, he'd need to get the first shot off. With the lead being flung at him, he doubted he’d be able to squeeze even two shots off before getting iced.

His gaze landed on the plasma gun -how the hell did mercenaries get plasma guns?!- in his hands. He knew how to reload a rifle, but the same problem with the Obrez presented itself; expose himself to fire, get shot at. It was a problem usually solved by having someone else go and get shot, but he was running it solo. He peeked his head out the side and saw that twelve more Manticores had joined them.

The dumpster probably wouldn’t hold for much longer. He gave it thirty seconds, at the most. Boston-Atlanta police took five minutes to respond, but he doubted they could take down Manticore mercs. Last he heard, most of the cops were bent, and most Manticore mercs cared less for human life than a bad case of malaria.

So how do I get out of this situation now…

Kick the dumpster? Nah, the power suit wasn’t that strong. Take potshots? He’d need some sort of optical fiber camera to get a look at his enemy, and that was a resource he didn’t have. Bluff surrender? No, Manticores weren’t merciful, and by the letter of the law they were allowed to execute him on the spot.

Jim glanced at the graffiti covered door to his right. Then he grinned, reached for his vibro-knife, activated it, and turned the lock into bits of chewed up steel.

Still on his back, he kicked the door open with the butt of the rifle, rolled in, and looked around. He cursed when he saw the cowering people inside.

“Get out while you still can! Those are Manticores outside, and they don’t care if you’re caught in the crossfire!”

They were halfhearted words, in Jim’s opinion, but they worked well enough to get the people to scatter. He never much liked collateral damage. When they were gone, he put the machine gun over his shoulder, ran over to the stairwell, kicked the door down, and started running, blood pumping in his ears all the while.

Barely two minutes and a blocked off stairwell later, he was on the roof of the building, looking at the gray skyscrapers surrounding him. Nothing to jump on to, nowhere to run, and he doubted he’d survive a fall onto the hood of one of those cars down there.

He was well and truly trappe- the backpack!

Not caring that there was a mercenary group hot on his heels, he set about opening the case. It was easy, as a vibro-knife could cut through steel like butter, but when he opened it he had a sudden realization.

He had no idea how the hell he was supposed to operate it, and with mercenaries just around the corner, he didn’t care how he was supposed to do it. All he had gleaned from his eavesdropping was that the green button meant go, and the haptic keypad was for entering coordinates.

“Stop right there!” someone yelled. Jim didn’t listen. Instead, he glanced over the edge of the hundred meter building, punched in a bunch of random numbers, flipped the merc’s leader the bird, and jumped off the edge.

When the leader got to the edge, he didn’t see a red splat on the ground.

Jim groaned in pain, silently cursing his mechanical eyes, their damnable booting sequence, and the pounding railroad-spike-through-the-head kind of headache.

Everything in his body felt wrong. His feet seemed to be stuck with the muscles extended and burnt toes curled in. Neither of his hands responded, both -metal and flesh- seeming to want to stay balled up into fists. All of his internal organs seemed jumbled up, heart behind lungs, lungs pushed against the sides of an overly expanded chest. Even his skeleton felt wrong, spine straightened out, shoulders on the front of his chest, legs twisted ninety degrees, and a skull feeling far too large with eyes that seemed like dinner plates.

The only things that felt right… maybe his penis, and that was it.

He waited. The tinny beeping wasn’t doing his headache any good.

Then a tiny shock went through his neck, signifying his CyberHub had activated.

[Booting SarifCorp CyberHub Mk3.]

[Booted]

[Loading SarifCorp CyberOS V2.0.1]

[Loaded]

He coughed. An electric jolt went through his all-wrong body. A little yellow list appeared in the inky blackness in front of him, listing out warnings about illegal modifications and calibration.

[Warning: Illegal modifications detected. Report to nearest SarifCorp station at your nearest convenience.]

[Warning: SarifCorp Hercules Mk3 Prosthetic Arm has become uncalibrated.]

[Warning: SarifCorp Eagle Mk5 Prosthetic Eyes have become uncalibrated]

[Warning: SarifCorp Lung Capacity/Filter Implant Mk3 has become uncalibrated.]

[Warning: SarifCorp Heartbeat Regulator Implant Mk4 has become uncalibrated.]

Jim blinked, suddenly seeing the world through a wide-angle lens. Muddled colors of blacks, browns, and whites mixed together to become a nauseating hue. A blob of something red near his face seemed so far away, while a sphere of yellow in the corner of his eye nearly blinded him.

[Initiating calibration of SarifCorp Eagle Mk5 Prosthetic Eyes in 5…]

[4…]

[3…]

[2…]

[1…]

[Calibrating]

And then the world came into focus.

He was surprised; the room in front of him looked like the inside of a shantytown clinic. It probably was, going by the downtrodden, dusty appearance of it all. Strangely enough, there were only three other beds he could see; a personal effort, perhaps? He’d pat them on the back for their initiative.

His eyes drifted, coming to rest on a large black screen held up by a rolling tripod. The cracked screen showed a blue line, constantly shooting up or crashing down, each action punctuated by an arrhythmic beep. Soon enough, it settled into a steady beep-beep, matching his own heart.

That’s a heart rate machine, stupid.

Jim would have facepalmed, if he could have mustered the energy to move. He was used to the Heartbeat Regulator automatically connecting to a haptic computer that the doctor had, not something that old. Curious, he traced the cord coming from one end of the machine to his fur-covered chest.

If his insides could’ve twisted up anymore, they would’ve.

His chest, while still crisscrossed with strands of synthetic muscle, wasn’t bare. No, it was the exact opposite of bare; it was covered with short, bristly fur the shade of dark red that he’d call “rust”.

He twisted his head, getting a better look at the rest of his body.

“What the fuck,” he whispered, though it came out more as a sharp “whuddafuhk.”

It was surreal. It was crazy. It was insane and he knew it, but he’d been turned into a goat- no, some kind of horse, there weren’t cloven hooves, and was that a tail?

Almost involuntarily, the dark orange mass of long, messy hair swished. Yes, that was a tail. It was most definitely a tail. A very tail-y tail. Not the “creep follower” tail, an honest-to-God HORSE’S TAIL!

And it was connected to his body. An anatomically-impossibly colored horse’s tail was connected to his body.

His body that had been turned into that of a horse.

He gripped his head, but stopped when his hand -it was not a hoof!- hit something; something hard and jutting out of his forehead.

Jim twisted his eyes, trying to get a look at it. When he did, a cold wave of pure what-the-fuck washed over him.

There was a unicorn horn. Jutting out of his head. A horn with an almost invisible monofilament wire wrapped around it. A horn that was a point cone with a spiral going up it. A unicorn horn.

Was this a dream? No, he wouldn’t be lucid. He never dreamed lucidly. Was he in a Dream Catcher? That was a possibility- but that just recorded dreams, it didn’t let you have lucid dreams! Drugs were out of the question; the pancreatic implant would have metabolized them into something that wouldn’t get him high.

He saw a mirror on the wall, just opposite his bed.

Yes, that was a horse-no, a unicorn- in the mirror. A unicorn with big, shiny eyes and a monofilament wire running down its horn and the side of its face and oh God WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO HIM!

A panicked scream escaped his throat, turned into a warbling electronic tone by the still-active voice changer. Jim rolled out of bed, hitting his head hard on the floor but not letting that get in the way of his hysteria-induced thrashing. The heart monitor hit the floor.

“What the hell!” a woman yelled.

Jim stopped, turned to the voice, and felt his eyes get even wider.

Yes, that was another horse. A horse with a bubblegum pink coat, a mane that was on the border between light red and hot pink. Plus eyes that were blue and VERY MUCH HUMAN, because fuck logic.