Freedom

I don't know how long I've been here, but only because I try not to think about it. There's a lot I try not to think about, and as long as I succeed, my non-life is pretty comfortable. Relatively speaking, of course. Things happen that I have to not think about, but it's better than being out in the Waste. The best anypony can expect out there is a quick shot in the head; else they die in agony of hunger, thirst, or infected wounds.

Even for a slave, I know I'm lucky. My head's still on because I don't blab, and Master's friends talk a lot when they realize I am a discrete mare, so I know how things are, up in Fillydelphia. I know about the Pit. I know Red-Eye is buying a lot of ponies for heavy work that kills in nasty ways, and Master could profit by exchanging me for a sack of Red-Eye's caps. I do bring in more in labor and over time than just a single sale, but with more money all at once, he could make stronger investments - I'm worth more than he bought me for, now, simply because the demand for able bodies has gone up.

I have to think of myself this way. If I don't understand that I am an investment, a purchased service, or both, I will do something wrong by Master eventually. If I really and fully displease him so, I will be sold. If I am sold, I will probably end up in Fillydelphia. So I stay, and work, and try to be a good girl.

At least, that's what I do when I'm actually doing my routine morning chores, instead of being lost in thought. Master reminds me with a hard hoof to the ribs.

"Quit staring into space, and get back to your fucking job." The words, not a hoof or spell, bring a stinging burn to my cheeks. He never actually hits me there, though. I think he likes my face - well, actually, I know it. He's told me so over a pillow more than once.

"Sorry, Master." I've learned not to mumble or use any reserved tone. I'm not a filly - I don't hold a grudge against what I must do. It is simple, as I try to be, and matter-of-fact. I admit I screwed up, I try to appease him, and I acknowledge his authority, in two simple words. So begins the usual dance.

"You say that, and you keep doing it. You think I'm stupid?"

"No, Master. This collar says you're smart and I'm not." Technically, that is a lie. My collar came with my purchase, and the time I was traded before that. I've worn it ever since... whatever happened. I try not to remember anything from before I was a slave. Even if he realizes I'd have to be dumb to believe that, though, it implies the right thing. He's touchy about his intelligence, and if I make myself look less than brilliant, he gets to feel good about himself - and I get to feel a hint of safety. It's win-win, so long as I'm careful.

"Don't fuck with me, Star." He had re-named me when he bought me, though he wasn't the first to choose this. The inspiration was my cutie mark - still visible under a scarred H on each flank, my previous owner's brand. It's a plain, white, five-pointed star, and I have to catch myself before thinking ill of him for it. Thinking leads to saying, and saying leads to -

"I'll blow your fucking head off if you even try to fuck with me." He's not pointing a gun at me. The object held up in an aura of soft pink magic is a remote detonator. The threat is clear enough - my collar is rigged with explosives. If he ever presses that one little red button, my head and upper neck will nearly liquefy from the shaped charges. I saw it happen once, two owners ago. Familiarity with his threats doesn't keep me from swallowing hard, trying to get the remembered taste of spattered gore out of my mouth. A young stallion and I had tried to run; we didn't know the collars were set to go off if we left a certain "safe" range. If I'd been just a few steps faster...

"Crystal clear, Master. Don't fuck with you, ever." I force my face, and tone, into a sultry smirk that I know he can't resist. "Unless that's not the kind of fuck you mean."

"Ugh. Get away from me, you dumb nympho. I've got things to do, and more importantly, I know where that cunt of yours has been." He gives me a hard shove, and I catch myself in time to display my 'goods' against the crumbling wall. I didn't have to do that, of course; the game concluded the moment he called me that. I can see in his eyes - and where they're going on my body - that he's already thinking about sex, not punishment. A little overkill on safety never hurts me, though, and it is kind of fun.

Ten or so minutes later, he's finished, and sends me back to work. I'm happy enough dulling my mind with the monotony. Of course, part of my routine is keeping myself clean for guests; I take a pail of likely-tainted water and a few minutes by the old drain in the basement to take care of that, and I'm back on course for the day.

I'm in the front room, cleaning up broken bottles, used syringes, and urine from some sort of party last night - I never remember them, and it's just as well; usually, my last memory is most of the chems being used on me - when the shooting starts. I don't bother to notify Master; he has ears, and it sounds like the entire village is under attack, so there's no way he could miss it. Besides, he's standing next to me, aiming his rifle out the barred window-frame, within seconds. I turn to the stairs as he starts cursing and shooting; I'm supposed to hide, but I don't get far before the door, and a few feet of wall around it, caves in. My side stings as dozens of fragments of plaster, brick, and shrapnel embed themselves in my flesh, but I've had worse.

"Everypony get down!" a voice roars through the cloud of dust and debris, and I do - I have no idea how to really fight, so my best chance is to cower and look as un-threatening as possible.

"We had a deal!" Master yells back, firing another shot through the busted door frame. He'd taken his share of the blast as well; his coat is more scarlet than tan now. There's a breeze, and the dust starts to clear, revealing three large stallions as they approach. In front, a unicorn with a set of power hooves is levitating a collar like my own; to the side, an earth pony is keeping Master pinned down with bursts from his near-ruined assault rifle. In back is the source of the blast, an even larger stallion toting twin saddle-mounted missile launchers. The saddle is leaning precariously to one side; one tube must still be loaded.

"Goddesses save me," I whisper to myself. They're all wearing the insignia of Red-Eye's slavers.

"Yeah, and the boss changed his mind," the unicorn yells back. He's standing in the doorway now; the one with the assault rifle has stopped firing, though I can still hear fighting somewhere nearby. "Don't give me that look, it ain't my fault y'all can't stop us from taking the caps and doing whatever we want."

"You're dishonorable fucking cowards," Master says with a snort.

"Honor? In the Wasteland? Gimme a break. You sound like a Stable foal." The other slavers start to chuckle, and the collar floats towards my owner, but I don't have any illusions that his captivity means anything good for me. I silently pray to Celestia, to Luna, to anypony who will listen, that he doesn't give in. "Now, be a good boy, put this on your neck, and there don't have to be any more troub-"

Crack. A red spot appears between the unicorn's eyes, and at the same moment, globs of brain and bone fragments blast out the back of his head. He blinks stupidly, then his body crashes to the floor. Master's voice is cold and deadly, a tone I've only heard once - right before he shot dead a couple of dumb stallions who were trying to steal me.

"Who else wants to try?" He tries to cover the sound of his reloading by talking, but if I can hear it, so can the slavers.

"Idiot," Assault Rifle mutters, and gives Missile Launcher a nod. The larger one fires at the wall where Master is taking cover. There's another blast, and I scream as fragments of plaster, brick, and the only pony standing between me and Fillydelphia fly everywhere. The two remaining slavers finally seem to notice me.

"You. Blue." The smaller pony waves his gun at me, and I cringe. "Yeah, you, with the collar. Get up."

I struggle back onto my hooves, my knees weakened by fear and the shock of the explosions. As I do, I feel as though I am already dead; what little color the Wasteland has drains away before my eyes. Fillydelphia has killed me, and I'm not even there yet.

"Give me that." I blink in confusion, then look where the gun is pointing. At my hooves, scarred from the explosion but still intact, is Master's detonator. I stare at it. A slave who holds her own detonator is essentially free, isn't she? Here and now, I don't see how that could be true. I pick it up, examining the way it lies on the flat of my hoof.

"Good girl. Now bring it here." I've spent so long afraid of this little thing. I try to imagine giving it to Red-Eye's goons, but I can't. In the back of my head, though, I remember a previous owner's voice. She tells me, for the twentieth time, that a pony who's a slave for too long can't survive on her own anymore, and has learned to be dependent. It's true, for me. I can't fight, and I don't remember how to salvage, or find food and water in hard places. Those have always come from my owners.

"I said, bring it here!" I close my eyes, and brace myself.

"No." The word rolls off my tongue almost naturally; I'd thought it would be harder. It tastes like death and victory. I open my eyes to see Assault Rifle stepping towards me over the rubble, his weapon pointed directly at my face. It's almost like he expects me to believe a slaver would shoot a pony he can easily overpower.

"Don't make this hard, bitch. You have nowhere to run. Just give me the detonator." I know I can't do that. Orders are orders, but this time, I have a moment of freedom. This time, I have a choice - a way out of Fillydelphia's horrors. I set the little device down on the floor again. Calm settles over me, and for once, I feel at peace.

"Celestia, Luna, have mercy on my soul," I say softly. Assault Rifle yells something at me and tries to shoot my hoof away, but I'm just fast enough. His bullets, misdirected by the worn barrel of his gun, chip at the plaster on the walls. My weight comes down on the button.