Fallout: Equestria - Unpaid Debts

by Tarquin

Rating: mature
Tags: Crossover, Dark, Gore, Original Character, Adventure
Length: 8906

Two hundred years following the Great War, a mare named Turquoise fails to repay her loans and is forced on adventures across the Territory - adventures no one wanted to start in the first place, least of all homesick Turquoise.

It is two hundred years after the end of the Great War.

The pre-war Whinnysota Territory, which had already suffered from years of being on the front lines of the war, bore some of the worst damage from the apocalypse. Now known simply as the Territory, anarchy and lawlessness prevail despite the efforts of independent towns, factions, and above all, the rapidly-declining yet once-powerful Territorial Commonwealth. Organized gangs, raiders, and wildlife rule over the Territory from the desolate villages to the ruined capital city of Buckley, and no one has lived to tell of what lurks in what were once the trenches which held Equestria's valiant defenders.

Turquoise, a hard-working mare fallen on hard times in the trading town of Quarton, is forced to borrow caps from a shady, mysterious stallion. What would ensue after she fails to repay the loan would force her into adventures across the dessicated wasteland no one wanted to start - least of all Turquoise, who wished only to return home.

This is her story, and that of those who, by chance, were sucked into the same maelstrom.

Published 2014-04-21 03:40:05 UTC
Last updated 2014-05-04 01:02:53 UTC

Prologue - Dominoes

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.

Chapter One - Instinct

Chapter OneInstinct“I just want to go home.”

The first thing I remembered when I came to was a jolt, a muffled swear, and nothing but darkness when I opened my eyes. The air on my face was hot and stifling. I felt something rest on the tip of my snout and ears and cheeks and wherever - something soft but abrasive, some sort of fabric, maybe. I tried to reach up to remove whatever it was. Nothing moved.

Hooves’re tied.

I groaned softly. I wasn’t in pain or anything, just a bit of discomfort. It was just frustration. I felt no fear or apprehension or anything. My tied hooves and the fabric on my face - or, maybe around my head were just an annoyance, nothing to worry about, just something that’s making it a bit difficult to take a nap.

Celestia, the fuck did I do last night…

I groaned again, louder this time as I tried to wriggle around. Seemed like I was on my back. I rolled to the left. Hit something cold,  hard, and straight. To the right. Something soft, something warm. Something… that seemed to grunt. I blinked - not that it did anything. I just got a clearer sight of nothing.

Agh… I’m not usually this kinky.

I tried to buck behind me. Turned out my hind hooves were bound, too, but I still managed to hit something, at the cost of a bit of chafing. Another cold, hard, straight… thing. Only one more direction to try. I tried to hop behind me, bumping my head against a similar cold, hard, straight thing. I yelped softly in a mix of pain and surprise, but quickly got ahold of myself again. I got my bearings, that’s good. Bearings are good. Bearings are my friend.

I shut my eyes, and sighed, heating up the air under the fabric by a few degrees. I thought for a long time, trying to recount the events of the previous night. It passed like any other night in the previous month, at least it seemed so to me - useless siblings, useless (i.e. nonexistent) customers, and a nice game of cards at the end of the-

Cards. That must’ve been it. The cards. I must have made some sort of bet and lost and now I’m in with some asshole after shenanigans were had the night before. Ah, Turk, you tricky bitch, you! I actually chuckled under the fabric as I reflected on the possibility.

I could feel the incredulous gaze of the warm fleshy thing to my left through the fabric. I began to sweat and promptly shut the chuckling up.

At least, I was shut up with another jolt. Now that I knew my immediate surroundings I could concentrate on other clues that could help me figure out where in Tartarus I was. Such as, for example, the two swearing ponies somewhere to my right and above me.

“Agh, fuck these roads! Fuck, Beartrap, can’t you let me enjoy the ride?”

“Well, what the fuck do you want? Maybe file a complaint with the shits who built the road? Oh, wait, you know what happened to them? They’re dead! They’re all fucking dead!”

“Shut up and trot. If any of the poor bastards in the back fall out you’re gonna be the one I blame.”

First one I heard, which I’ll call Whiney for sake of identification, seemed to be a mare. Second one I heard, which, despite hearing his name, I’ll call Asshole for sake of humiliating him, seemed to be a stallion. From what I heard from those two, I could gather a few things. Firstly, we were on a road. Secondly, we were in a cart, or at least, some kind of vehicle. Thirdly, the “poor bastards” were us, us being at least me and flesh lump to my left, and most likely others.

It seemed I didn’t have as much fun last night as I thought.

I started to mull over the previous night’s events again. I didn’t bet anything compromising on cards, at least for more than a night, apparently - that’s out. I wouldn’t bet anything that would cause something like this in a usual game, and considering I don’t usually drink, that’s out. Quarton could’ve gotten raided - but if that was the case, the alarms and shouting and gunfire would’ve woken me up, and even if it didn’t I’d either be dead or already be in a raider cage considering how close the usual camp-out spots are. That’s out. The only remaining explanation would be that I got kidnapped - most likely because of my debts.

The thought seemed to open the floodgates for a host of emotion. I started to sweat. I didn’t even consider how I got spirited away without being woken - debts, loans, payback, collateral all started to flood my mind, until they all coalesced from relatively calm and collected reasonable thought first to intense realization, then to apprehension, and finally to panic outright.

Panic does crazy things to ponies. It’s a primal emotion, a basic survival instinct. It makes you do crazy things in situations where it’d either be useless or make the whole thing worse. It really does. That’s why right on that cart, probably filled with a few other unfortunates, with the only ponies at liberty to engage in free movement and free action being Whiney and Asshole up front, and most likely moving through the middle of absolute wasteland, I started to buck and flounder and squeal and scream and bang my head against the cart and just have a hissy fit then and there, crying for my useless siblings or Mom or Sand Grain or even a Commonwealth patrol for Celestia’s sake to come and save me or coddle me and call me a brave little filly or something that could at least calm me down enough so I could think straight.

It was embarrassing, really. Very embarrassing. I couldn’t even face the music when the time came to repay my debts with a brave face. Instead I panicked and cried and wailed and acted like a newborn, born into a world of pain and fear I should have known I was already getting into, one I should have known I was already in. It was pure humiliation.

“Oh, fuck, one woke up…” Whiney (I think) grumbled. I heard some shifting of weight up in front.

I’ll get hurt soon.

It was nice to know that at least some inner regions of my mind were still calm, even if they were stating the obvious. But even though the mare was coming, I still wailed helplessly. There was no way out, and even if there was, I was too hysterical to notice it. By Tartarus, I wasn’t sure which would be better - continue to wail and beaten by a slaver, or shut up and be forced to keep innate instincts never meant to be contained contained. In the latter scenario I’d be insane in a few hours at best. In the former, well, at least I’d get some of it out, and surely the slavers would shut me up. Hopefully, at least. It would be better than enduring the shame.

It wasn’t my choice to make. I heard some more shifting in the front of the vehicle, and I could feel something above me - maybe it was breathing, a shadow blocking the sun. If you ask me, though,  it was just instinct working its magic.

“Shut up and let me relax.”

I felt something smack across the fabric - across my face - for a split second before I went out.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

        I inhaled. I was either alive or in some sort of afterlife, at least. That was good, though I wasn’t sure which one of the two were superior. I exhaled. I went through the cycle of inhaling and exhaling for a while, just lying there. I didn’t even take note of where I was laying or the air around me or anything else - I just wanted to lay there and let the fact that I was still alive grasp me and wash away all doubt… And, in all honesty, I was scared to find out where I was. I could’ve still been in the cart, or… I didn’t want to think of any possible options other than the cart. At least I knew the cart, as much as I could considering where I was. But considering how it was incredibly unlikely I’d be back home, I was almost certainly on new ground, and it would be unfriendly new ground.

       Behind my eyelids, fate lay.

       It was a fate I didn’t want to confront. But I had to. I was scared out of my wits, but I had to. If I didn’t, I was already dead. If I did, I could, maybe, find a way to ward the inevitable off. So I opened my eyes, overruling my instincts, hoping it wouldn’t work against me.

        I opened my eyes, and was promptly blinded by light. I grunted in pain and tried to lift my hoof to block it. I couldn’t, though I could at least bend my legs a bit. Damned shackles. Well, being able to bend my legs is better than nothing, I supposed, and at least I wasn’t blindfolded or hooded or anything. I had to settle with looking straight down to avoid the light.

        The first thing I noticed was that I couldn’t lower my head all the way. Something was chafing my neck, blocking my chin. I tried to look around both ways. More chafing. A collar.

Shit.

        The second thing I noticed was the metal floor. It was dull and dirty, littered with dust and waste and old papers and all sorts of undesirable things. The metal had hardly any shine to it, likely due to the janitor doing a shoddy job of keeping that place - wherever I was - clean. I squinted my eyes at one of the papers within eyeshot to see if I could find something - anything - that could make sense of my situation. All I could read was this:

“Shooting competition this… Show off your skills… entire Stable!”

Double shit.

       A Stable. A Celestia-damned Stable. I couldn’t have been taken to some normal place. Like a cave or an abandoned military facility or some highway patrol station. It had to be a Stable, a fortress with walls you couldn’t even climb over. Everything bad just had to start in a Stable… No.

       No, no, no. All the Stables in the Territory had to be sealed, and the ones that weren’t - well, no one would want to set up shop in those. Maybe it was… some sort of office on the surface! They - whoever built these things - had offices before the war… right? Right?

        To this day I’m still amazed by my abilities in the field of denial.

        I looked up, and looked around at my surroundings. Dull metal everywhere, lit by some nice, warm artificial light from the ceiling. A wide, metal door lay across from me, right next to a big, long, window which revealed only the same arrangement of dull blues, yellows, and greys in the corridor outside there was in the room.

Triple shit.

Yep, I was in a Stable of some sort. I’d have to give my captors credit - they chose their hideout well. Stables did survive the apocalypse, after all, and they’d probably survive someone trying to escape. Really, quite a smart, beneficial move on their part, even though I could never understand why someone would want to voluntarily live in one of those metal holes - at least, beyond the point those things were useful.

Of course, it was hardly beneficial for me.

I don’t precisely know why, but the moment I confirmed where I was, and how screwed I am, I started to feel emotion well inside me and take over my mind.  This wasn’t the panic I felt in the cart while I was being pulled away from all I had ever known, though. This was something different. This one, this emotion, was anger. I gritted my teeth, and looked down. Those bastards, they took me away from everything, everything I ever known, slapping me in a slave collar with no semblance of mercy or compassion - or, by Celestia, even honor. They didn’t even have the common courtesy to wake me up and say “Good evening, Miss, you’re a lazy bastard who owes money, and we’re taking you in! Please get in the back of the cart!” Yes, yes, in hindsight, I know, they’re slavers, and they’re not known for honorable conduct. But I’d like to see someone attempt to explain that to me while I, newly enslaved, desperate, and driven by rage, shifted through every single possible excuse to direct my emotion at them.

I tried to charge for the door, rage in my eyes and in my heart and in my blood. The shackles held me back. I tried again. They remained stalwart. A third time, and they still wouldn’t budge. That didn’t stop me from trying, flailing, doing anything to get at the unknown beyond that put me here. I started to scream at the door, tears in my eyes, trying to articulate my grievances concisely and courteously.

“YOU BASTARDS FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL EVERY DAMNED ONE OF YOU! JUST WAIT! JUST FUCKING WAIT, YOU COWARDS! COWAAAARDS!”

“Stop that. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

I lay on the floor for a long time, weeping my eyes out before I turned to my left. There was a stallion - an earth pony, with a ragged black mane, ragged brown coat, and ragged green eyes. Everything about him was ragged - the dirt, the hygiene, just the general demeanor I got from him. I wouldn’t blame him, considering our scenario - He was wearing shackles and a collar - just like me. Even his cutie mark, a burnt tree, like all the other ones out there in the wastes, seemed forlorn. He looked down at me nonchalantly.

“Did you hear what I said? Stop that.”

I nodded forlornly, keeping to the floor. I forced myself to stop the crying, but I couldn’t wipe away the tears, thanks to the shackles - they kept to my face. I could feel them rolling down. He was right - two emotional breakdowns in a day (I think). Not something I’d be proud of, not at all.

“That’s better… What’s your name?”

I blinked, and sat up. I swallowed some emotion, and nodded softly. “Ah… it’s, uh, Turquoise, sir,” I said in a shaky, tearful voice. I think I was red-faced - either from the anger of my outburst or the embarrassment of it.

The stallion chuckled. “Sir, she says! She’s on the rebound from an outburst and she still takes time for etiquette!” He seemed to outright laugh for a bit before continuing. “Name’s Deadwood. I think we’ll get along well.” He seemed to try to extend his hoof in greeting, but once he realized the distance between us and how we were both shackled he quickly retracted it.

“Turquoise,” I said with a nod. I knew I already told him my name but instinct told me to say it. Maybe it was how he finished his greeting. And besides, I was still too emotional to care. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice. He just sat back - as much as he could, given the shackles and collar - and sighed. “It’s nice to have some company again,” he said, shooting me a small, but somehow reassuring, smile.

I nodded in agreement. “It is,” I said, awkwardly returning the smile, despite the tears still drying on my face. It really was relieving to have a friendly face around, considering recent events. I haven’t seen anyone who didn’t want to enslave or otherwise harm me since Quarton… actually, to tell the truth, I haven’t seen anyone since Quarton, period. It was a little piece of solace to help me get through my less-than-excellent day. And, to make things even better, thanks to Deadwood’s company, maybe, I was finally starting to calm down from my episode. I was having quite the fun time in there!

Ironically, what followed was a long, a very long stretch of silence. It wasn’t awkward silence - by no means was it awkward silence. It was more like… anxious silence. Like we were both instinctively waiting for something to happen, something we knew would inevitably come. We both knew what it was - someone coming in to beat us or otherwise mistreat us, to remind us about our collars and where we are and how we’d never, ever go back home - or worse, someone coming in to take us away for purchase in some unknown location, where we’d be inspected, felt-up, and degraded by the worst of wasteland society, and then sold to them while they crack crude, abusive jokes about us, and, finally, on top of all that, be expected to revere them and treat them like a god for the rest of our mortal lives. No one dared to speak of that inevitable fate, or of what happened to whoever warranted the “again” in Deadwood’s last words, or even of what we did before… this. Every avenue of conversation would lead to the elephant in the room, the loathed elephant in the room, or otherwise be completely farcical, like, say, discussion of the weather or current events, both of which were the least of our worries. I think the main benefit of such company was just to have someone next to you who could give you a reassuring smile every now and again just to let you know that you were still sane.

That silence, that knowing, piercing silence - that was the worst thing about my slavery.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

        The silence continued for an eternity. There was no sound but our breathing and the hum of the Stable’s apparatus, no sights but the depressing visage of the cold metal all around us, or - even worse - each other. There was nothing I wanted to look at less than Deadwood. I liked Deadwood, at least he gave me a good first impression, but seeing him in the same shackles and collar I had been forced into reminded me of the current state of affairs. So I just stared at the metal walls, trying to daydream, trying to think about what would be happening back in Quarton right now.

        I couldn’t. I think those walls were imagination retardant. Every time I’d try, that damn light would always blind me and hurl me back into reality.

Yep, slavers have very nice taste in real estate.

I sighed and took a deep breath, and looked around the room again, taking care not to look in Deadwood’s direction. The same door, the same window, the same walls… Wait! Another door to the right! The sight of it was nearly enough to make me hop in joy. Was it a pardon from my enslavement and my debts? No, of course not. It probably wasn’t even an escape route - these stables only have one way out, anyway. But it was something new, something interesting that could refresh my mind. I didn’t have to wallow, thinking about the same door. Instead, the door let me imagine what was behind it, or what this room was back when it wasn’t a slave pen or what have you. Maybe it was a habitation! With a happy, loving couple living inside, with two happy foals reading comics and playing tag… those simple little thoughts brought a smile to my face.

By Celestia, I’ve only been here for a short while and I’m already breaking.

        I kept laying there, putting together a little life for my happy family, assigning everyone professions, hobbies, interests, friends, tailoring every single little detail of their lives like I was a god. It was a nice distraction. It was the only distraction. At first I thought it was a symptom of insanity, but now, looking back? It helped save me from insanity. Deadwood doing the same ought to be the only reason why he has any semblance of free will. So I kept at my little game, populating the Stable with smiling faces and innocent times.

        Then came a sound. A mechanical, artificial sound which grated against my ears. The sound of pistons and gears working together, of metal lifting, of something opening, a door to the unknown.

        I would hate no sound quite like I hated that one.

        I looked up. I saw three faces standing in the doorway, the one which led out into the corridor. Two of them were off in the background, mere nondescript faces to me. The face which caught my attention, the one which I immediately focused on, was front and center.

        He was a big, beefy, brutish earth pony stallion. You couldn’t help but notice that about him when you first saw him. It was stereotypical, really. You always imagine a slaver type to be big, beefy, and brutish, and that’s exactly what he was. His coat was a deep, dirty navy blue, topped with a black mane. His eyes were obscured by a pair of sunglasses, but I could tell easily by his deviant smile and where he was facing that he was looking right at me.

        He motioned at the two background ponies to go outside. “Stand watch out there… wait until I’m done.” The door whirred with that noise - that terrible noise - and closed shut, taking with it the two guards.

        The moment we had both dreaded, that we had both awaited in the midst of our anxious silence, had come.

        He trudged closer to me. My eyes widened, but I dared not move. My pupils looked over to Deadwood. He had a look of clear concern on his face, but after a moment managed to work up a half-hearted encouraging smile before turning away.

        I was not encouraged. The slaver trudged closer. His smile remained. It was filthy. It mocked me.

        “Mmm… An earth pony, eh? Very nice, very nice indeed…”

        Time had slowed down. I opted not to look at the stallion. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. It would satisfy him too much to see the fear in my eyes. I didn’t think about what he was going to do. I knew I’d find out soon enough.

        I swallowed and looked up, trying to get a measure of where the slaver stallion was without looking directly at him. He was right in front of me, with that same malicious smirk on his face. He took ahold of my chin. He jerked my head towards his face. He took off his sunglasses. His golden eyes were filled with hate. I should have tried to look away. I couldn’t.

        “What’s your name?”

        I didn’t dare answer. I heard a growl, and before I knew it, I was knocked onto the ground with a hell of a pain in my cheek. I couldn’t see anything straight. I couldn’t. It felt like the metal walls around me and the artificial light and the hooves of the slaver stallion were all swirling together, amalgamating into an indistinct mass of blue, grey, and yellow… and then it all suddenly began to thrust upwards, the swirl of colors separating into individual streaks of color. I tried to focus my vision. Once the world finally began to come into focus, I noticed I was back on my hooves, and looking right at the face of the stallion. “Let’s try that again… What’s your name?” he asked in a low growl.

        “I… It’s… It’s Turquoise.” Just saying the words felt like a blow to my gut. With my cheek still stinging, I decided that the debasement was far superior to an actual blow to my gut.

        The stallion chuckled and stroked my cheek - the one which just a few moments ago he’d beaten. I winced at the sensation, and tried to look away from his eyes. The second I tried, he forced me to look at them again. I think he was trying to be “gentle”. It wouldn’t be the first word I would use to describe his touch.

        “A pretty name for a pretty mare,” the stallion said with a nod, smiling smugly. I’d bet the asshole thought he was a regular casanova - a gentle touch here, a charming smile there, compliments all around. It would’ve worked if he were working his magic on a consenting mare, and if he weren’t failing every single one of his moves, perverting them into tools of fear. “I’ll make sure that you… enjoy your time here, don’t worry.” If it wouldn’t have ended up with me on the floor again, I would have spat at him there. If he were going to make a move - which he was - firstly, he could have at least been honest about it, and secondly, he should have gotten on with it.

        I heard a quick succession of clicks near my hooves, quickly followed by the sensation of hooves forcing my temporarily-free forehooves to the wall. I looked down into the stallion’s eyes as he held me up against to the wall, forcing me under him. They still mocked me. He licked my chest. I felt paralyzed.

My rear legs.

        I blinked, and gently tried to move my left rear leg. It budged. Again with the right. The same. The stallion moved lower down my body. By this point there was no doubt about what he was after. He was obviously the type who liked total control over his prey, without any constraints to get in the way. He thought he was strong enough for that policy to work.

        I would prove him wrong.

        I growled, and, trying to muster what strength I could, channeling all the emotions - the panic, the anger, the anxiety - I had felt ever since they, whoever they were, took me from my home and my life and all I had ever known into one single blow, bucked my hind legs straight into his crotch.

        The stallion went down with an intense, surprised groan. His hooves had let go of me. I promptly took advantage of the fact, and sprang onto the slaver. I felt adrenaline pumping through my body, a primal instinct deep inside, pushing me, turning me into nothing short of a monster. He groggily got up and tried to struggle, tried to throw me off his massive body. I refused to be thrown off, and quickly wrapped my arms around his neck and head and twisted with all my strength.

        There was a sickening snap. The stallion dropped like a brick. He didn’t get up.

        I hopped off of what was once a slaver and looked down at him. My eyes were wider than they had ever been, and my breathing was heavy. The adrenaline was still coursing through my veins, but my mind was just starting to catch up to the fact of what had just happened. I turned to Deadwood. His eyes were nearly as wide as mine. His gaze constantly jumped between me and the body, while he mouthed something like “Holy shit” or the like silently. I think, while I saw him looking at the new corpse, sweating in a mixture of what I assume to be amazement and fear, I realized the first thing about what I had just done - I had just killed a pony.

        It was justified. I knew that then and I know that now. He wasn’t just about to make a move - he was already making a move. It was a choice between him or me. But even so, even so, I had just killed a pony. I never did that before. At least, not that I know of. I might have killed a pony back in Quarton, when I was helping with defense against raiders, but then, it was different, very different. In Quarton, I barely even saw who I was shooting at. It was like shooting at ants, and not the fuck-all huge varieties we have nowadays. I mean, the pre-war kind, the tiny little things I read about in comics. Just like shooting at ants.

        But this was a different matter. I was right there. I saw his face, the whites of his eyes, his last attempts to fight back before dropping. I felt a little guilt, yeah, that instinctive feeling of doing something morally reprehensible in normal circumstances. But I knew these were not normal circumstances. It was an odd feeling. I know it wasn’t a good feeling, but I couldn’t, and still can’t, put a definite label on it - and I haven’t even began to consider how I mustered that sort of animalistic fighting ability. Maybe it was a sort of fear, a sort of fright about killing him, about the consequences and the possible outcomes and everything, or maybe about just what, exactly, made me able to kill like that. Yeah, that fits. Fear.

        Once I finished mulling over my feelings, I realized the second thing about what I had just done - I, a slave, had just killed him, a slaver, in a compound filled with at least dozens of other slavers. And I had no escape plan. Now that, that really got the fear really going in me.

        “Fuck, you killed him!” Deadwood was staring at the dead body, but now looking between it and the window, hoping no one looked in.

        “No, he’s just taking a nap- Of course I killed him!” I frantically paced back and forth before the body, trying to stay below the window, while I tried to formulate a plan, “Fuck, if you were going to fuck me, you should’ve gotten on with it! And now you’re the one who’s fucked!” I don’t know why I was talking to a dead body. Maybe because talking to the dead guy helped me focus.

        “If you’re done tough-talking the dearly departed, we have, like, twenty minutes ‘til someone comes in wondering what happened.”

        I outstretched my hoof towards Deadwood dismissively. “I know, I know, I fuckin’ know.” I took a deep breath, and started to look around the room for anything that could help us.

Alright, alright. Time to focus.

        I tugged at my collar. I gulped. It had to come off. I leaned down to the dead body, and felt it up. There had to be a key. There had to be. How else could he have made the mistake of letting me out of my shackles? And sure enough, there was.

        I grinned wider than I had ever grinned before, and quickly scrambled to use it on my collar. There was a click, and it snapped off. I reached up to feel my neck. It really was gone. I looked down at the body again. An idea emerged in my mind.

        I quickly tried to pull off the slaver’s bulky armor. I managed to slip it off handily. Just as quickly, I tried to slip the armor on me. It was oversized, loose, and reeked of whatever it is slavers do, but it would have to do. Hey, at least it made me look more intimidating, what with it broadening my shoulders and all.

        Deadwood chuckled at the sight. “Well, ain’t you the Stable Dweller?” I blinked, and looked down at the armor. Turned out it was a bastardized cross between torn up barding from what seemed to be Stable 82 (judging from the labeling on it, at least) and regular raider gear - and, it didn’t even fit me, either! I couldn’t help but chuckle along with him. “Guess I am, eh?” I leaned down, and grabbed the slaver’s sunglasses as well, sliding them onto my face - might as well go the extra mile. I looked over the exits.

        The obvious one, the one at what I’d think would be the front of the room, was a no-go. The guards at that door would be quite surprised to see some mare trot out in their comrade’s clothes. I took a deep breath, and looked down, trying to keep my inner fear under contro- The side door.

        I turned to it. For all I knew it could lead to a dead end, just some storage room or bedroom or something with no way out. If that was the case - well, I was fucked. But, if it led to another corridor, another way out, with guards who weren’t looking out for the dead body on the ground. This is where me dressed in that oversized armor comes into play - If I looked like a slaver, I could easily trot up to the entrance level of this steel tomb, exchange some pleasantries with the guards which were probably at the front, and trot out of that huge, metal gateway, and then, I’m home free. I swallowed my lingering fear and started for the door.

        Something stopped me. I looked back at Deadwood. He was looking at me with worried eyes. He probably thought we’d be skipping this place together. I hadn’t even thought of bringing company. Every other pony I brought with me increased the chances I had of getting caught. And besides, I just wanted to get home. I had no delusions of messianic goodness like the actual Stable Dweller. I didn’t aim to go around and act all holier-than-thou and help people with problems they can and should deal with themselves. This whole thing was about me and only me, and I’m not even talking narcissistically. I’d get back home, hop in bed, and chalk it all up to bad luck, and forget that the whole thing ever happened, or that the slavers were probably out for me after killing one of their own, or whatever.

The thing is, it’s a lot harder to be self-concerned like that when whoever would be hurt by that course of action is looking at you straight in the face. We all like to think when a time like that comes we can keep a cool head and calmly say “No, I apologize, but you can’t have a cookie” or something. But it takes an exceptional sort of pony to actually do that when the time comes, and… now that I think it, maybe not exceptional in the good sort of way. If I didn’t help him out, he’d almost certainly been killed in retribution for slaver-stallion’s death.

By Celestia, I hate it when my conscience gets all compassionate on me.

I sighed and trotted back to Deadwood. I searched my armor - well, slaver-stallion’s armor - for Deadwood’s key. Lucky him. He had his key on him, too. I reached down and unlocked Deadwood’s shackles. They quickly fell off with a soft clang, to Deadwood’s clear delight. I started to reach to unlock his collar, but stopped midway. Instead, I gave him the key. “Don’t unlock your collar.”

        “Why?” It was a logical question.

        “I’m the only one with slaver barding. What we’re gonna do is this: You’ll play the part of a slave being taken out to purchase. I’ll be the slaver. If anything goes wrong, you’ll have the key to your collar. Hopefully it won’t come to that.” The thought of things going wrong made me think. I reached down to check if slaver-stallion had any guns on him. There was something in his holster. I slid it out with a hoof. Looking over it, it looked like a 10mm pistol… I think. I don’t know weapon calibers. I sighed in mild relief. Regardless of the caliber, I had something to defend myself against the hordes of slavers out there if the plan fails, and that was comforting enough.

        I looked to the side door, and nodded. “We’re going. Stay close. And look sad or some shit. We need to really sell it.”

        Deadwood chuckled. “Whatever you say, Mistress!” Chuckling along with him (seems we really do get along well), I lead the stallion through the door. There had to be a way out through there. There had to be. Fate couldn’t decide to fuck me over now. The door whirred open… and for once the sound didn’t make me want to bust my own eardrums.

        I blinked and looked out into the significantly darker side room. Storage shelf, storage shelf, storage crate… door.

        A door! A door! A fucking door! I couldn’t help but grin. I’m not sure if it was because I was saved or because I was right, but either way I could’ve done a jig then and there. I ushered Deadwood in with me, and shut the door behind us.

        “I sure hope you know what you’re doing.” Deadwood’s initial jubilation after being released seemed to have subsided to worry.

 I couldn’t help but have the same sentiment. “I do too.” Nevertheless, we marched on. Another whirring of the door’s mechanics. A flash of light. I blinked. I found Deadwood and I in a corridor. I could feel the sweat rolling down my cheeks. I shook my head, wiped it off, and steadily began to trot down the corridor, trying to look as determined and self-assured as I could. I knew I was determined, I knew it, but it’s awfully hard to show it when everyone in the Stable’ll want to kill you once they find out who you are.

        We passed the corridor which led to our former dungeon. Neither of us desired to look in. We both knew the guards were still there. A single awry glance, and we would both already be dead. No talking to anyone who didn’t need to be talked to. No looking at anything that didn’t need to be looked at. We wouldn’t even breathe too loudly. Anything that seemed out of the ordinary and our blood will join the blue, yellow, and grey on the wall. Anything.

        We passed by some other dungeon spaces. I didn’t even look through the windows at the occupants, thanks to our “no looking” policy, but I could feel we were being watched, not watched by the hostile eyes of the slavers, but by the sad, longing eyes of their victims. I felt a deep pain in my gut. They probably lived normal lives just like me once upon a time. They once had families, friends, careers, lifestyles, loyalties, faiths, times of joy, times of sorrow, times of both. They were once ponies. But now they were shells, waiting, waiting for an opportunity like mine to come along. It would never come for them. They would only see the light of day in shackles. I swear, as I passed them by, I felt like… they knew. Like they knew who we were, and they were hoping, hoping that they could do what we did, that we’d try to get them out, too.

        I wouldn’t. I didn’t even want to. I wanted to just get out and go home. I had no intentions of leading a fucking slave rebellion. I couldn’t. I couldn’t be that kind of leader. I couldn’t even be a big damn hero and head straight up to the ring leader’s office and hand him his ass. I don’t have that kind of ability. No one does. Not even the Stable Dweller. Half of the things she supposedly did I swear is just drivel written by the radio jockeys to keep people interested. And even if the Stable Dweller did, in fact, eat megaspells and raider hearts for breakfast, I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the courage.

        Their fates were already sealed. But their fates were not mine, or Deadwood’s. I tried to shake off all those thoughts, those thoughts of guilt and inability and certain doom, and marched on. I had to march on.

        Before I knew it, a dimly-lit staircase was in front of us. We were finally going up.

Footnote: You remain at Level One. Maybe when you get out of the Stable, cowpony.Trait Gained: Primal Punch: You can call on instinct to deal some devastating blows! While it makes your strikes hurt a lot more (Melee and unarmed do 20% more damage), they’re hardly clean (Melee and unarmed do 60% less critical hit damage).