Fallout: Equestria - Unpaid Debts

Fallout: Equestria

Unpaid Debts

Prologue

Dominoes

         The worst part about the whole thing was how easily it could've all been prevented. Yeah, the long, torturous chain of pure stupidity that set the whole domino chain of circumstances to come together in just the right way to cause the whole thing, and the fact that most of that stupidity that caused it was either my damned family’s fault or -  actually, mostly mine was unfortunate. But it was just how easily, by only recognizing the domino chain I had fallen into, by just taking one look at that Celestia-damned stallion's face, by following my instincts for once in my life, by just persuading - not even persuading, asking - Sand Grain to give me a wall to watch instead of letting myself do the same thing I always do every night - gamble every cap away (which turned out to be the first domino in the chain) - I could still be at that old run-down restaurant we called home, with Pot Shot, Countertop, and old Proud Trot. I’d keep stock, head out to shoot the local wildlife when Pot Shot couldn't, spending time with County when things at the front of the place were slow, help take care of Proud Trot with the others… Those were good days.

       Why, exactly, we helped Proud Trot around was supposedly because she was allegedly one of the oldest mares in town, but in all honesty, if you ask me, she ain't even that old. She could do things easily - all by herself! – if, that is, she was in the mood. Hell, she'd run down to the front counter if someone had an old trading card of some old pre-war hoofball player she didn't already have in her collection and negotiate with 'im for hours. I don't see what Proud Trot... Mom saw in them. I suppose everyone needs something to help them endure the daily grind, especially after the war. Bless that lazy mare's heart.

   That whole collection mysteriously disappeared a little while before the whole thing started. I stole it when she was out talking to Sand Grain about something. I have no idea what they were discussing or why - they weren't on the best of terms. Probably on account of Proud Trot's laziness, now that I think of it. Sold the collection to an eccentric mare who looked like she'd seen Celestia herself, exclaiming something about treasure. Got paid more than enough in caps for me to gamble all day every day for weeks. I’d never see that mare again. That was the second domino.

Mom died a few days afterwards. Something broke inside and she died in her sleep. An extraordinarily lucky fate. The third domino.

The caps lasted three days.

       I know we should’ve been used to death by then. By Tartarus, I even shot a few raiders last time they attacked the town – my town, Quarton. And Pot Shot? He’d probably done the same thing daily. But this time was… different. Proud Trot seemed invincible, despite our supposedly wisened minds, as she had since the day she gave birth to us. When we were young, and even later in our lives, she’d tell us about how she’d roam the land as a caravan guard in her earlier days, about all the characters she’d met and things she’d done. This one time, she’d told us about how she and two other guards managed to defend their caravan from a gigantic contingent of raiders, and how she was the only guard who survived the fighting. Yes, I know I ought to know better, especially in this sort of world, and I know my siblings ought to too. But if you spin a yarn like that, and grab us young foals right by the hearts and minds and pull us into the wondrous comic-book-esque life of Proud Trot, the mare who finished a fight against a whole pack of raiders alone and won, no matter how much bullshit you stuffed in there you can’t help but believe she was immortal. I idolized her. We idolized her. And then she just drops dead, like that. Gone. And yet, despite being the one who stole from her in her twilight hours, perhaps being the one who caused her to die by taking from her perhaps her last lifeline… I just felt empty.

     I don’t recall ever being in true grief, actually. I feel callous emptiness. Once Proud Trot died it felt like there was nothing in me. Like there was a hole in there, as clichéd as it may sound. Did I feel guilt? Of course I did. I don’t think the part of me where Mom was will be truly filled again because of it. But not sadness. That all went to Pot Shot and Countertop. Pot Shot took refuge in his gun and his drugs and Countertop in her booze and her cancer sticks. We kept the restaurant going, our Caravaneer Café, which we kept up for years, but from then on things began to slip to the abyss. The fourth domino.

This was a bit more than a month before the whole thing started.

     The first issue we all had were our mutual addictions. While we all had our issues beforehand, Mom’s death worsened things badly. At the beginning of the month after Proud Trot died, the Caravaneer’s cache held about a thousand caps. Within a week the cache held a fraction of that. Pot Shot took a large share to spend on Dash and weapons modifications, and Countertop booze and an alcohol-driven “investment” into a passing caravan which we would never see again. But most of the fault lay on me and my gambling habits. Every free night I’d go to Bootleg’s bar and play whatever everyone else was playing, and every free night I’d make at least two other ponies very happy indeed.

       The second, and far more important issue, were the Drakes. For all our lives, we never ran into any trouble with them, despite the regular shakedowns on other businesses in town. Mom apparently managed to ward them off via some sort of past personal connection. No Mom meant no protection. A week after she had died the first wave of them came, brandishing the entire damned stock of the town armory, demanding protection money. Countertop attempted to explain our lack of caps and got a club to the face for her trouble. She’d never see quite right out of her right eye again.

       That was the point when we realized the situation was really starting to get dire. Pot Shot simply ceased seeing Countertop and I, hissing at us if we so much as moved near his door, as he devolved to gunning and taking Rage, while Countertop seemed eternally forlorn and desolate, lost in a utopia in her own mind. We hardly had any caps, and thanks to Pot Shot’s increasing mental instability, hardly any stock. Customers started to dry up, apparently because of increased raider activity down the road from town, scaring off the caravans. Fucking raiders. And then Sand Grain came knocking demanding taxes we didn't have, either. So, with all that on my mind, despite being poor and in turmoil, I went to the bar I go to every night for a last ditch game of cards. That’s when I saw him.

     The first thing that struck me was just how lank he was. He looked at least marginally taller than everyone else in the bar, a trait he made up for by being as thin - and most likely as breakable - as a twig. His hair was greasy and unkempt, his face dirtied, and yet he still carried himself like he ruled the entire Territory. He seemed to curl his face eternally in a smug smirk. He was nothing more than a douchebag. I hate douchebags.

          I wasn’t the one who opened conversation. I want to make that perfectly clear. I would’ve just stayed put, playing cards and losing the last caps I had if he hadn’t opened the floodgates. I wanted nothing to with the stallion. At least, I thought I did, before he came up to me. That was the one split second I did want something to do with him.

“You, blue eyed mare.”

I turned to him. “What?

             “I heard you might be in some trouble with the Drakes.” He motioned for me to come over, and obligingly I trotted over to an empty seat right at the bar, wooden and homely, a relic from the pre-war age, like the entire town. “I feel that I might be able to help.”

              I raised an eyebrow. In hindsight he obviously had a certain criminal air around him… and he didn’t even hide it. I was an idiot before then, of course I was. This is where it starts to get easily noticeable. If I had not been desperate, or tired, or just so disgruntled about being pulled out of the game I wanted to end the conversation as quickly as I could, I would have ended it right there. Instead I asked “How?”

             “Listen,” he began, adopting a serious, business-like tone. “I can offer you a little loan. A thousand caps, no questions, no terms. All I ask is that you pay me back, right here, in this bar, in a month, along with… say, two hundred caps interest. It’s more than enough to pay off the swine for, say, a month. And you run a restaurant here, right? You can make the whole thing back easily.” The stallion grinned. “A drink, maybe?”

                   I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t drink,” I said. The stallion shrugged and ordered some whiskey while I mulled over the offer. It was plainly impossible to pay back, at least in the restaurant’s current state. My siblings were too far gone, the restaurant too deserted. On the other hoof… Raiders can’t stick around a desolate road forever. They’d be gone within the week! Sure, there were still my siblings, but I could handle the restaurant’s major functions. I can hunt and chat up clientele fine, maybe even cook if I tried. Besides, the situation was desperate. I’d rather be indebted than in the ground, as demeaning as it is, and as big my pride is. “How’d you know, anyways?”

                  “Rumors spread quickly in towns like this,” the stallion said, wiping his mouth. He can’t even drink booze neatly and he carries himself like a king. I nodded. “But the issue at hand isn’t how I found out, it’s what you’ll do about it, blue-eyes.”

I agreed to his offer. The fifth domino.

                   I spent the rest of the month trying to handle the restaurant. The Drakes? Paid off. Taxes? Paid in full. The food? Hunted and readied. Countertop helped however she could, but Pot Shot did barely anything. He was turning more and more psychotic every day. Nothing could be done about it but keep on running. Life goes on. Overall, though, things were going on well in the restaurant... except for how there were no customers. None at all, except the occasional local. Even though the raiders had settled down once again as they tend to do when no prospects of sadistic kicks come by, apparently the caravan companies decided their alternative routes, the ones which avoided the Quarton road, were quicker or safer or closer to the brothels or what have you.

                   Whatever the reason the caravan companies decided to kill the town, the stools and tables were empty and thanks to extortion payments and addiction the money reserves too. Time was quickly running out. I had no money. I still remained calm. I hadn’t seen the stallion around town lately, surely he was gone. Maybe he even forgot! Someone with his kind of cash - at least, the kind of cash I thought he had - wouldn’t mind being a thousand caps short… right? The weeks passed by. The final week was similar to all the others. I pushed the debt payments to the back of my mind, like it wouldn’t happen for years. Restaurant management in the day and gambling at night. The payment day had come and gone soon enough, and the stallion had forgot. At least, I thought so. The final domino. I hadn’t seen him since I took the loan. No one came by Quarton anymore, not since the caravans stopped coming. The day after payment day arrived. I came home after some gambling and slumped into my bed in the room I spent my whole life in. The domino chain began to tumble down.

My name is Turquoise.

It was late at night.

I had unpaid debts.

I was about to be kidnapped.