Fallout Equestria: Cult of Ludocrom

by Harry Clopper

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Comedy, Adventure, Crossover
Length: 1168

Nihilists, Demons, Giant Robots, a pony named Scum Money, and a whole lot of spite.

I got bored and decided to write this. It stars a Mercantile Stable Security Officer and an Afro-ridden Raider with a flamethrower. There’s giant robots. And Demons. Because I can.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-07-07 20:12:45 UTC

Bunch of Horses In A Metal Tube

Nihilism- the rejection of all religious and moral principles, often in the belief that life is meaningless.

Mercenary- (of a person or their behavior) primarily concerned with making money at the expense of ethics.

Nirvana- a state of perfect happiness; an ideal or idyllic place.

Sometimes I would stare at the wall and pretend it was another color. When that got old, I would stare at the ceiling lights until my eyes were tie-dye nightmares of ever shifting color. Other times I would try to figure out the inner machinations of the shit-tier SMG that S-Sec Officers were forced to carry. Sergeants were permitted shotguns. Recruits were issued pistols. Civilians were a secondary thought. The Chief packed a laser rifle.

“Scum, its time for work.”

I loved my job. We were a massive stable with a whopping 44,000 population. Food was rationed to an extreme. Water was a commodity distributed only to those the Overmare deemed important. Lower clearance denizens have been rioting and attempting to sabotage the stable for the sake of their families. Upper levels have been flooded with biological waste, spent plasma, and weird run-off from the power plants. Suffice to say, the lowly cretins have been cut-off from all supplies both medical and nutritional.

“Rules of engagement?”

“Civilians are expendable. As always.”

“Gentlecolts, the Lesser’s have managed to piss off the Overmare in a new exciting way, she’s dead. And with her death, we are no longer required to keep the impure filth that is the Lower Clearance Civilians alive. Our orders, as of now, are to purge to lower levels of the vaults and disengage the the Stable Door’s locks. We’re leaving this hell-hole and finding a new home somewhere in the outside. Even if we’re the only ponies out there, we will survive.”

The party kicks off with the level-5 blast locks on the Atrium’s entrance disengaging and a torrent of zip-guns firing down range at us. Sometimes there’s reason to have faith in the cannibalized armor as the improvised projectiles bounced harmlessly off of our vests and helmets. Before us in patchwork barding and plating, hiding behind improvised weapons and shields built from the recycling systems of the stable were the scarred faces of the Lower Clearance Civilians of Stable 73. Ponies who had suffered birth defects and mutations due them being uncooperative when it came to Stable Protocols. And so we must kill them.

Screams. Fear. Endorphins. Blood. Lead. Heat. Stomping. Running. Filth. Hate. All this started about 5 years ago when the Chief of Engineering slaughtered her kid and used it’s fluids for writing a rather obscene manifesto about some sort of galactic holocaust. Since then, all of the engineering staff went dick-on-skull-insane and started acts these acts of terrorism. From that point on, our jobs as Stable Security became about protecting the lives of those who were unaffected by this mania. Unfortunately, the ponies who were sane, also felt sympathy for the psychotic murderers. They would smuggle food and supplies to the maniacs. This resulted in them being cut-off. They revolted. We condemned them to the lower sects which had become a toxic hell from the dismantled recycling systems and life-support mechanisms. Fortunately, the upper-levels had their own independent systems, but those were a few more months from failing.

The tumored faces of the LCC’s were falling to our superior fire power and might. But they had a trick up their sleeve. On the bottom floor of the stable was a weapon. A mechanized walker from the Great War. We had hoped that the LCC’s were too busy polishing their knives and eating each other to find it. But when the unicorn to my right was reduced to a cloud of blood and bone, we knew they had found it and got it operational. STEEL BEAST: Bulwark was the designation the EAF gave it. We were issued the weapon to use in the event that were invaded by an outside force. It was massive. About the size of a minotaur and covered in armor. The bipedal urban tank towered above the gnarled faces of the LCC forces. A large concussive canon on its side loaded another round into its chamber. This was our target. We had to either disable the mechanized terror or recapture it for our own use.

A pegasus flew up from our ranks, armed with a RPG. Judging by its chrome finish and blue aura, it was a MNP round that would temporarily sap the war-machine’s core. However brief a window that gave us, was the amount of time we had to storm the line. A bubble of magical static pulsated and crackled as the machine knelt. We rushed in. The smell could knock a buzzard off of a carrion pile. The smell of shit and blood was miasmic. The only solace came from caved in skulls and trampled bodies of the diseased inferiors. The machine rumbled back to life as I was only halfway up the hull. It was a struggle to keep scaling the behemoth.

The concussive canon roared as it tore a hole in our remaining regiment. The cockpit was within reach, magical manipulation on my part allowed for a recruit to breach and stab the pilot. The machine was ours.

“...Anyways, thats how we turned the tides of the battle. After that, it was a cakewalk to purify the stable. The kicker was that it turned out that the Chief of Security was actually the one who framed the old CoE. Funny stuff really.”

“Dude, thats fucked up.”

“Oh hush, Corn. You decapitated a mare because she failed to give a proper blow job.”

“Hey! The art of fellatio is one of the oldest remaining! And I refuse to have it ruined by experimental amateurs who practice on their dogs!”

Ah Corn Dog. The most unfortunately named Raider. Technically he’s a filthy, mud-pony, bastard who I should’ve put out of my misery… But then I would be without company. That, and he’s got a bomb collar around my neck. The kinky shit-stain. Though I have to give him props, he and his party neutralized the Bulwark in a matter of seconds. We tore everyone but him apart in equal time. And then he spared me from the wrath of his flame-thrower. Besides seeing my comrades burned alive, totally worth it! Plus, I can finally live out my nightmare of being a dirtbag slave/mercenary. REALITY! TOTALLY FAIR!

That aside, we had become friends over the past couple of weeks. Granted, he refuses to remove the collar, but who can blame him? I’d totally slit his throat the second he did. I am not trust worthy. You know what? I deserve this. Especially the sweet amount of moolah I make working with this jackass. Still don’t see why bottle caps became the currency, but whatever. Money is money. Its why I was named ‘Scum Money’ to begin with. Heheh, my mother was a whore.