Author's Note
While this chapter, as a prequel, is at least in part about the origins of what happens in the actual story, it also contains violent, graphic rape.
If you are triggered easily, or even not-so-easily, you want to skip to the next part or leave the page. I mean it - get out. This chapter is not for you.
Still reading? May the Sisters have mercy on you.
This chapter pre-read by Professor Plum.
Catch
"Wakey wakey, bitch." I've always been a light sleeper, but this time the warning isn't enough. I open my eyes just in time for a hoof to slam into my face. The world seems to fill with twinkling little lights, and my first coherent thought is "Fuck, raiders."
I roll over, away from whoever hit me, and feel around the floor. Some hovering weapon is pointed in my direction, but the glowing aura of magic around it - and the horn of its user - would make a perfect target in the darkness, if I could find my pistol. Instead, I bump into another hoof - not my own, too worn and cracked to be my mate's. By reflex, rather than thought, I turn and lash out with both hind legs as it withdraws; through a wave of dizziness, I feel my right hoof graze something. The left misses completely, though, and a heavy weight comes down on top of me. My mind struggles, through a waking fog, to realize that I overextended myself with the kick. I try to buck off the weight and get my legs back under me, but whoever's on my back is too strong, or maybe too heavy, or both.
"Got her," a voice grunts above me. A few flailing punches do me no good; from where I am, I might as well be trying to smack him with a stuffed toy. That doesn't stop him from filling my vision with stars, once more, with a far more effective blow to the muzzle. "Just give up. Easier on ya."
"Jusppphh--" I start to reply, giving another futile kick, when I'm interrupted by the barrel of a pistol - my pistol, I was familiar with its unique, coppery-oily taste thanks to my mate's odd preferences in the sack - sliding into my mouth. Fuck, I'd taken my attention off the unicorn.
"Don't move," he says, giving the gun between my teeth an extra shove for emphasis. So they're not kind enough to kill me first. A thousand images of the horrible things I'll have to endure - torture, cannibalism, and worse - flash through my mind, and my throat involuntarily releases a whimper.
"Goddesses save me," I mumble, as best I can.
"Sure, whatever you say. Bear, collar her." The unicorn's aura transforms, over my head; it becomes a glimmering orb, illuminating in magenta hues the ruined shanty I'd hidden myself in for the night. In the dim light, I can make out a few details: The "F" somepony special had carved into the grip of my weapon with a nail; the unicorn's tan coat and dark brown leather armor, clashing with the pink-purple of his magic; drab olive hooves, securing a strip of leather around my neck with a metallic click. It's too tight, but I can still breathe, so I don't dare complain. It could be worse is, at least, better than nothing for staying alive when held at gun-point. Not comforting, but useful.
A heavy chain is attached to the collar, and as the pistol finally levitates away from my mouth, I begin to understand. These aren't raiders - I'm not about to be eaten alive, or tortured to death for fun. It's even worse: they're slavers. The one on top of me finally gets up, and I scramble to my hooves, not that there's anywhere I can go. My... leash isn't long; I can barely get out of his reach without choking myself.
"Let's go, Trip Wire," Bear grumbles. He and the unicorn set off again, jerking me off-balance and dragging me through the dirt when I'm not quick enough to follow. It doesn't even slow the massive stallion down, and he seems completely indifferent to both my struggles for footing and Trip's confusing babble about making mines from caps. But despite the darkness and lack of much of a fight, we don't get very far before ponies start hollering in the brush all around.
"Soup's on, everypony!" a crazed mare cries out nearby. Definitely raiders. The slavers barely have time to stop, Trip levitating my pistol from a strap on his armor, before the a flare lands between them, lighting the area. Screaming, drugged-out lunatics descend on us, and I manage to get up just in time for some crazy pony to break a stick across my face. It really doesn't hurt very much - the wood was apparently rotten - but when I rear up and slam both forehooves into his muzzle, he doesn't even try to dodge. Instead, he starts to laugh maniacally, stabbing at me with the splintered end of what might've once been a pool cue. I manage to back out of his attacks, muttering that I wish I had some Buck. He just stands there, staring at me as if in a trance and trying to poke at me from out of range, until Bear bumps into him as he's pushed back by two other attackers. The raider turns around and joins that fray with a gleeful howl.
My chain is lying in the dirt, and I take that as my cue to not stick around. I pick it up in my teeth and run, and while I end up falling into a (fortunately, empty) animal burrow, that seems as good a place as any to hide - I can just barely get my whole body concealed beneath the crumbling, dusty "ceiling." I wait, as the sound of the brawl and my own pistol's report gets closer. Just as I'm about to run for another hiding spot, though, it finally stops. There's a moment's silence before I hear the victors nearby.
"Think that's it, Trip." Better them than the raiders... I guess. "They should'a run."
"Yes, yes. Check the bodies for spare chems, or anything else useful. I'll go find our capture."
"Yeah, whatever." There is a click nearby, and something starts to beep at me. Fuck! Deploying mines is how you kill or cripple somepony, not - nevermind! There's no time to stop and think - I bolt from my little hidey-hole, only for the beeping to continue, almost seeming to come from all around me!
Of course. It's just my luck that I'd run from a slaver straight into a minefield. Actually, it is pretty typical - but I don't have time to reflect on that, not while I'm dodging to the left and right, trying to avoid losing a limb to a sudden explosion. Then, the wind is knocked out of me as a heavy hit from the left sends me sprawling in the dirt, with the unicorn slaver on top of me.
"Just so's you know, that collar's rigged with a couple explosive charges," he says, sounding casual despite his heaving sides and the cuts littering his face and shoulders. I freeze as the realization hits me: it wasn't mines. It was my neck. "If you try to run away again, I'll press this button, and your head's gonna blow up."
"Well... shit." A chill runs through my body, and I shudder. I feel... deflated. Fuck. All I'd known about collars before was that they're used by slavers to mark and help control property; the plan had just been to run, and take it off later.
...fuck.
I startle when a powerful kick just below the horn disrupts his light spell and knocks him clean off of me, though I can't get back up, halted immediately by Bear straddling me. His attention, though, is on the unicorn.
"Trip." He punches his fallen companion in the head again, causing what was no doubt an attempt at magical retaliation to fizzle out. Trapped between the larger stallion's legs, I can only watch the scene unfold. "Remember how ya keep taking my share and saying earth ponies is too dumb to get food?"
"W-what? That - that was a joke, Bear! I never took--" He is cut off by his own scream when another blow causes a cracking sound that makes me cringe. "I'll give back everything, okay?! I'll pay you back double as soon as we get ba--" Another thump, another scream, and the broken shards of his horn are left behind when he pulls his face out of the dirt again, his irises forming pinpricks of color around his shrinking pupils. "Don't kill me! Please!!"
Crunch. I have to shut my eyes when Bear's hoof comes away covered in blood and... worse. Trip Wire's begging is reduced to an incoherent gurgle, but his attacker doesn't finish the job, instead taking my leash again and helping me up. Leaving him like this, to die in hours or be found by raiders... I shudder. I can't help but want to put the unicorn out of his misery, but there's little I can do other than look away and try to curb my imagination, closing my eyes and ears against his pitiable, whimpering attempts to form words and beg for mercy.
"Wow, ya really are a first capture. Bit of advice, do as you're told and life'll be longer and a lot easier for ya." Keeping a tight hold on my chain, Bear quickly frisks his dying companion, taking my pistol and some sort of toy with a button on it. It must be the one I was threatened with, if he thinks it's important.
"Huh?" I reply, after a moment's delay. Wow, I sound like an idiot. Then again, I kind of feel like one, too. I should've found somewhere else to sleep, or not over-extended myself fighting back, or known the collar was explosive - I should've known to do something different.
"Whatever. Just walk ahead, don't make my job hard, and I'll treat ya okay." I shudder again, and we start walking. At least it's quiet now - no large predators seem to be around, there are no more raiders, and apparently, no covered pits, mines, or other traps to run into. It gives me time to collect myself, and put Trip Wire out of my mind. When my thoughts settle, my first instinct is to ask what the slavers did to my mate, but no. I remember - he said he was going off to talk business with rough friends I shouldn't be around. I'm going to miss him...
The trail passes without further incident, and it's only an hour - at most - before we reach what is apparently his camp. He pulls me to a stop and yells ahead, past a low barricade - probably to keep them from being startled and shooting. Makes sense, with how hostile this area has been.
"Got us the package!" There's stirring from one of the makeshift shelters, and another hefty stallion is outlined against their dim central fire.
"Get fucked, you mutant fuzzball!" he shouts.
"In your dreams, cuntwagon!" my captor yells back, without missing a beat. What kind of pony uses that as a pass-phrase?
"Bring her here, then."
"You heard him," Bear says, giving my flank a less-than-gentle nudge. We move again, and I get a smack across the face - again - when I balk at entering the firelight. I don't want to see what I know, by reputation, is coming. I know I'll be shown off, maybe even put on display. I know a lot worse things will happen. I know I don't have a choice, but putting off the inevitable, even for a few moments, is what keeps me from trying to attack my captor until he just presses his stupid button and explodes my stupid head.
Finally, I'm standing by the fire pit. I can feel my ears practically pinned to my skull as I stare at the ground. I can't meet anypony's eyes, but I know at least three stallions are awake now, standing around me; I can practically feel their eyes under my tail, which involuntarily pulls itself more tightly between my legs.
"Wow, he actually came through for once," one of them says. "Dropped off the package where he said, when he said, and in good condition to boot. Where's Trip Wire?"
But I had been hiding! Nopony knew where I was!
"Raiders got him," Bear lies. He'll probably just hit me before I can say anything important, and I don't exactly benefit even if I do, so I stay quiet, at least until my tail lights up with magic as somepony tries to pull it out from under me. "Hey, back off! Ya know the pony on delivery gets first dibs. Package's mine tonight."
The magical tugging stops, but I was right. I'm going to... well, I'm going to have to do, what I have to do. I whimper involuntarily. Maybe... maybe if I pretend they're my Flint, it'll be okay - or at least easier.
"Yeah, right. We got no such deal. Nothing saying we can't share, anyway - you can open a package at both ends, you know. Tried it on a box of those snack cakes. Nothing bad happened." Maybe it won't be easier, not when I'm being compared to two hundred year old food. But maybe there's nothing that makes it easy. If that's true, well, at least I made it this long. I try to tell myself that at least I was lucky enough to have avoided it for twenty years, but it doesn't really help, and just hoping "nothing bad happens" is foalish.
"I don't care about your snack cake fetish, asshole. Tartarus, I'll give ya two of them to drop your claim. Just shut up and lemme take my turn."
"I have a name!" I blurt. "And it's not Package, it's--"
"Fuck off." Somepony's hoof lands in my face - is that three times now, or four? - and I reel away, struggling to keep my balance. I fall, barely avoiding the fire as whoever hit me continues, "Talk when someone talks to you. You get what name you're given."
"But--" I'm abruptly flat on my side, as a counter in the back of my mind declares this to be facepunch number eight.
"I said shut up, Fuck Off." I open my mouth, see an oversized hoof raised threateningly above me, and shut it again. "Smart."
"Careful, kid! You know we don't get good caps if her face is broke." Something pokes my tongue, and I spit with what little force I can conjure. A tooth slides down my chin, riding the current along a trickle of blood.
"Whatever," the one standing over me says. I struggle to get up, but my legs won't work together quite right, and my mind and mouth feel full of fuzz. Everything spins when I try to so much as raise my head an inch, and I finally give up, trying to recover by letting my body rest in the dirt.
"Gotta call her something a buyer'll appreciate, though. No-one'll pay for Package or Fuck Off."
I stop paying attention, trying to focus on thinking and breathing - not on how much my head hurts, or ponies talking about me as nothing more than meat. I just end up reflecting on how things happened. How I could've kicked more accurately - if I can land both my back hooves, I can knock out almost anypony, or at least wind them. How I could've run further when the raiders attacked, gotten out of range, maybe even removed my collar. How I could've--
"Sit up, Star." So they named me for my cutie mark? Original... but I don't say anything as I roll onto my legs, sitting as comfortably I can while the world spins at a bizarrely-tilted angle. I swallow hard to avoid throwing up, although the dizziness fades quickly enough that I only have to do so twice. Then, my vision is filled with stallion. Bear stands over me again, but this time, he's staring me in the face with his stinking, now-protruding...
I think I might throw up anyway.
"Ya bite, and you're useless. Useless means I make ya wish I'd blow off your head. Got it?" I whimper, remembering what he did to Trip Wire. So much for promises of being nice, but I suppose I didn't expect any better. I glance to the sides for any way out of this, but all I see is a few leering faces. They all want this to happen. "Do your job, already."
I guess this is it, then - and he's going to make me do it. I shiver again as another chill runs through me. I can't do this. I have to do this. My mouth refuses to open, even when I beg it to keep me from being shot or worse. Finally, I have to close my eyes. I have to imagine Flint.
The salty, unwashed rod that rams into my mouth tastes nothing like him. I open my eyes automatically when I try instinctively try to spit him out, and he just pushes himself in harder, deeper, until I gag - and he keeps going. I try to cough it out, but my gag reflex kicks in again, trying over and over to force him away. When I start to pull my head back, a heavy hoof forces me back into place, and I'm stuck, gagging and trying my best not to throw up or bite the rubbery skin and foul taste of his dick.
"Ffff--" he starts, groaning in pleasure above me. "Fuck yeah. That thing ya told me about making them gag on it is awesome."
"You owe me thirty caps." Fuck, I'm just a bet now - a coughing, gagging, choking bet. My belly knots up, and a tear tickles my face on its way under my jaw and down my neck.
"Aww, she's crying!" somepony says, his tone mocking. "Someone pass the tissues!"
"She is? Lemme look! That's hot shit!"
"That's just wrong."
"You like foals."
"Whatever."
I can feel the rod in my throat twitch and harden even further, the flared tip swelling and cutting off my air. Gagging and choking at the same time, I struggle to free myself, though I'm completely overpowered. I quickly become desperate to breathe, barely noticing the spasms of his orgasm as he rocks his hips against my muzzle and his under-sized sack slaps my chin.
"Yeah! Fight it like ya want it, bitch! F-fuck!" After a few more moments, he finally pulls back out and just... walks away. I lie where I'm left, coughing semen into the dirt while I try to catch my breath. It's not as bad as it could've been, or at least, that's what I try to convince myself of. Nothing really comes to mind when I try to picture what "worse" might be.
"Get fucked, ya mutant fuzzball!"
"In your dreams, cuntwagon!"
The new voice isn't familiar. It can't be. It isn't possible.
"Sheesh. Two hundred year old beans will really give you the shits." No. No no no no--
"What the fuck is your skeezy ass doing back here?"
"Collecting on our bargain." No! The thought is accompanied by another violent cough, and another glob of white ick spatters itself against the ground.
"You already been paid."
"Nah, I mean the other bargain."
"Ugh, fine... whatever. Just do it and get lost."
The handsome face of Flint Trigger appears in the firelight, and I shut my eyes far too late for denial. I can practically feel him standing in front of me.
"Hey, honey. I'm home." There's none of the gentleness I knew in his voice. I have to look up at him. I have to ask him.
"Flint?" A pathetic, teary whimper. Please tell me this is a joke. Please tell me I'm having a nightmare, and it's time to wake up. Please tell me anything but this. You can't seriously be with them. You can't. Please...
"Been waiting a long time to see you like this." The wasteland falls out from under me, and each vehemently bitter word tightens around my heart, piercing it like a griffon's talons. "I was going to be gentle, at first. You're so insipidly nice, though. So insistent on me being good. I hated playing the 'good guy' for so long. You disgust me."
"B-but--" I'm cut off by a sob, right before he hits me across the face. Nine...
"Shut up. I'm sick of you talking so much and putting out so little." He paces for a moment, before circling around behind me, his voice becoming sultry - and threatening. "You know what I've really wanted from you, all this time?"
"What?" I mumble, numbly. He tugs my tail out from between my legs.
"Get up, cunt." I whimper again while I stand, my legs trembling. I know what's coming.
"I've always wanted to fuck your ass." Or I don't. I have no time to do anything but scream when his member forces its way through my anus without warning. Grunting, he continues to push inward, forcing from my mind all thought of sobbing from anything but sheer physical pain.
He pulls back, giving me a moment of hope - but only a moment. His rod pierces me again... and then again, and again. My insides feel like they're on fire, and I clench involuntarily, trying to keep him out, but that just makes his penetration even worse. I scream again - it feels like something tore, and my entire lower body spasms in pain as I reflexively try to kick him off me, though I'm restrained by his sheer weight and power, and he continues more easily. He's using my blood for lubricant.
"I want you to beg me to stop," Flint growls. Then he bites into my left ear, pulling my head back by that thin, sensitive flesh alone. It almost distracts me from the searing agony in my rear - almost. It's still far, far too much, and words come freely before I even will them, though they are interrupted constantly by my own sobbing and cries of pain.
"P-please! Please stop! I can't take any more! I need--I don't--oh Celestia you broke my ass! Please! It hurts too much! Please, I'll do anything! Anything!" I try to continue, but the world starts to blur and lose its coherence. My body won't do anything I tell it to, but sensations make themselves clear occasionally - fire, fullness, random sounds and voices.
The next thing I understand is a bottle clenched between my teeth, my mouth full of liquid. The taste is familiar - a healing potion. I swallow, and the pain from behind starts to ease. Voices begin to make sense again.
"We can work this out! I can get you two more like her!" This one is Flint's. He's panicking.
"Six years. It took ya six years and twenty tries to get us just one, and then ya just about ruin her. Don't believe ya."
"Wait, no, please! I can--" I look up just in time to see Bear shoot Flint in the face. Time freezes. Bits of fur, bone, and gore are trapped mid-flight as they evacuate the back of his head.
... but I loved him...
The thought is completely absurd, but I can't let it go. I never wanted him dead - not now, not before, and not when it felt like he was tearing my hindquarters apart. Not even the knowledge that he must have told the slavers where I was staying can make me hate him, despite my trying. I want to loathe him, and I can't feel anything more than a desperate desire to have him hold me again, for him to stroke my mane and back and tell me it's all okay again.
Everything shuts down as motion returns to the world. I can hardly think or feel, and the dead yellow stallion who flops onto the dirt next to me is a stranger. Even my body feels numb, and I lose track of time; I can't count the number of times my body is used (I think everypony has taken a few turns), or how many orders I obey automatically. Idly, I ask myself if this is what it feels like to be a robot. If it is... I've taken apart a few functioning but decrepit robots, myself. Ignoring the cock lodged in my throat and my inability to breathe, I wonder if I could be stripped down and and my parts sold for scrap, too. Get five caps for my whole hoof, another ten in total for the broken pieces of a leg...
"Colts." The calm but dismissive tone does more to startle me than any of the bawdy laughter or loud, lewd remarks I've been subjected to. I cough, further dotting the ground with semen, as the rod in my throat pops out hastily.
"Boss," several of the stallions say at once, a nervous edge in their voices. I look up to see a gray mare staring at me. Her mane is a tad more cared-for than I had come to expect, but it's her metal body armor that really sets her apart from the slavers around me; most of them look like they don't have the caps or materials for repair, but her barding is - besides a few scuffs and one bullet hole - nearly pristine.
"Hmph. You, blindfold this one and guard outside my tent - the rest of you, get back to work. It's almost light." Immediately, the camp begins to bustle with activity. And wow, she actually has a tent, set up against a nearby cliff face. The other structures around me are mere lean-tos, set up with sticks or tools and roofed with scrap metal. Set apart from the crude, rusting metal is her sizeable leather shelter, weather-worn but still sturdy. That's the last I see before thick layers of leather and cloth are wrapped over my eyes, then knotted into my mane at the back of my head.
"You're a first-timer." It's not a question, but I know I'm supposed to answer, and nod. She takes a step back and punches me straight in the mouth. While I cringe and try to wipe off the blood from my re-busted lip, she responds without the slightest change in tone, or even the acknowledgement that anything happened. "You will speak when spoken to."
"Okay," I manage to stammer. Another punch.
"You will address me as 'Mistress.' Do not test me, filly." I start walking when she tugs on my leash, following its movement and her hoofsteps as best I can. The message of the blindfold becomes apparent, and for once I don't miss it - there is no choice but trust and obedience, but at least these will give me a degree of safety.
"Yes Mistress." I gulp, sure that I'll be hit for saying it wrong somehow again, but the only response is a grunt. Still, a grunt and no punch is a good start.
"Good. This is what most owners will require. I am doing you a favor by not selling you into life stupid, you understand?" I nod before thinking, and get another smack in the face. Fuck! I just want ponies to stop hitting me!
"Yes, Mistress."
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.
