When you hear the word “scavenger”, what is the first thing that comes to your mind?
A lone pony in the wasteland, no home, no family, looking for food or caps through an abandoned building in the hopes of surviving one more day.
A maniacal raider, breaking into a small home in the middle of nowhere, one that nopony would ever notice or care about should it happen to go silent, and ravaging it for whatever drugs or shiny objects he can find.
I am simultaneously both of those and neither of those, if that makes any sense.
The name’s Keen Eye, by the way. Unicorn, blue fur, red mane and tail, and a PipBuck I swiped from a dead body in a cavern (Those things hurt like a bitch to put on).
I suppose, at its base definition, you could call me a scavenger. But if one were to see me, and the life I live in the wastes, they would more than likely ask me:
“What the hell are you doing scavenging?”
I don’t need to look for food or water. I don’t eat much, and I can get water from my various safe houses, or just buy it somewhere.
I don’t need to look for drugs, though that’s more of a personal code. I’ve lived a long life; long enough to see plenty of ponies go out of their minds thanks to Dash, Buck, or whatever else. The only medicinal stuff I ever pick up is healing potions, Rad-away, and if I’m thirsty, the occasional soft drink.
Caps? Sure, I pick up caps, who doesn’t? You see a pile of caps lying in a box, you ain’t just gonna leave them there. Doesn’t mean I’m particularly hard for currency, though.
So, with these factors in mind, again one would ask:
“What the hell are you doing scavenging?”
To which I would simply reply:
“I dunno.”
I don’t scavenge to survive, nor do I do it to make money. I do it because I can, because it’s fun, or at least a hell of a lot more fun than sitting at home listening to the same few songs looping on the radio while staring at an old book I’ve read through five times.
Ponies say that when the Megaspells hit, and everything went dusty, the innocence and wonder of Equestria perished right along with so many other ponies.
I call those ponies pessimists.
The innocence is gone. It doesn’t take a genius to see that. But the wonder of the unknown doesn’t die so easily. If anything, an apocalypse brings about a whole new kind of wonder.
Factories and buildings become temples; shrines of a world gone by. Burrows and caves become the lost hideouts of bandits, or the dark homes of mutated monsters. Abandoned homes become exhibits based on the lives of ponies who once lived there.
When I was but a colt, I found an old burned-up newspaper on the ground once. Most of what was written inside it was the usual news/propaganda of the pre-war time, but what caught my attention was, strangely enough, the comics in the back. In particular, a strip of a young colt with a talking stuffed tiger toy, digging through his backyard for buried treasure. When his toy asked him if he found anything, all he found was some dirty plants and a couple of gross rocks. But at this find, both he and his toy were ecstatic at finding what they deemed to be fascinating items, leading the colt to proclaim that “there’s treasure everywhere!”
That one line in a newspaper comic inspired me. It was the first time I truly considered the possibility that the withered ruins of Equestria’s past might contain something of interest, at least to me personally.
I started small, using the abandoned house my parents and I settled in as a base. Armed with a kitchen knife and a beat-up BB gun, I made my first expedition into the abandoned house next door. It wasn’t exactly spectacular, but at the time, I felt like Daring Do, exploring the unknown.
In terms of opposition, the house only contained a few radroaches, which I managed to dispatch with my BB gun, only earning a few scratches for my trouble. As for the house itself, there wasn’t much to speak of. My dad had asked me to bring back any food or water I could carry, so I stuffed my saddlebag with whatever I could find. But the real highlight of the expedition was when I found the foal’s room. Scattered around were various melted toys and burned books, nothing that really caught my attention. But when I looked in the small toychest in the corner of the room, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Lying right on top of the pile of junk, sat a unicorn foal’s toy slingshot, in near-pristine condition.
That was the happiest moment of my life, made even better by the praise I received from my parents upon returning. I don’t remember if they were praising me for the slingshot or the food I brought, but praise was praise and I was overjoyed. I earned my cutie mark that same day; a magnifying glass over a small gem. Finding treasure was officially my calling in life.
It went on like this for a few years. I’d search where I could, while staying relatively close to the house, and bringing back what my parents asked for.
But when I reached age eighteen, it dawned on me that I had searched every nearby burrow and abandoned house to death. There was literally nothing left to find. I needed to branch out, to look elsewhere for treasure. I needed to truly enter the wasteland. I talked it over with my parents. Naturally, they were scared, confused, and perhaps even a little bit angry.
But in the end, I secured their reluctant blessings, promised to visit whenever I could, and struck out on my own, with only a BB gun, a knife, and a toy slingshot to my name.
That was so many years ago. I still have that old slingshot. I keep it in a glass case on display in my primary safehouse.
Over the years, I slowly, but surely made a living for myself. Wherever I thought I could, I set up a safehouse, somewhere with food, clean water, and a bed. I would take days, sometimes weeks to reinforce each one, to ensure that no raiders could breach them. In time, I had developed a network of safehouses spanning all corners of the Equestrian Wasteland. The capital area containing Canterlot and Ponyville, the Moohave Desert to the west, even the eternal road of the Long 52. I had safe havens everywhere, all centered on my primary home near New Appleloosa. (This is conveniently where Ditzy Doo’s store, Absolutely Everything, is located. I can trade any neat junk I happen to find, and that lovable ghoul gives me a great price.)
I’ve searched so many places, and intend to keep on searching until the day I die. Unique weapons, flashy clothing, or just some cool chotchky. If I see something I like, I take it, within reason, of course. I’m not a thief; I only take what clearly doesn’t belong to anypony, or at least anypony decent.
My name is Keen Eye the unicorn.
I scavenge for sport.
And the new season is just starting.
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Author’s Note: So, recently I realized something. I think the reason I botched both Pony’s Best Friend and Bad Mane Day is because I have trouble writing long running plots. Eventually, I just get tired with what’s going on. But with episodic stories, I don’t have this problem. As long as each chapter is independent of the previous, I won’t get impatient. Probably. I have ideas for more Lazy Days stories, but I wanted to take a crack at this while the inspiration was fresh in my head. I’ve been playing a lot of Fallout lately, and I’ve always wanted to try a Fallout: Equestria story, so here we are. Scavenging for fun. Each “episode” of this will take place at a different location, with a different equipment loadout, and maybe the occasional companion. Updates might be a tad sparse for a while, since the school year is coming down to the wire and the teachers have already started piling on projects (most of which I should probably be working on right now). We’ll see what happens.
If you’ve ever read a Daring Do book, you know that any good treasure hunt starts with a clue. Or some kind of talking, evil, blue, quadruped snake-panther beast. Whatever.
Now, sometimes you can find a clue just lying in the road, usually on a dead pony, and I have. Quite a few times, actually. But in addition to that, sometimes I, in the slower periods, take it upon myself to… purchase a clue, if you will.
Some might call that cheating.
I call it being proactive.
See, when a pony sells something to a store or trader, the majority of them either have no idea of the true value of those things, or just don’t care. And when they let go of their treasure leads, it’s my obligation to snatch them up.
In particular, my favorite place to sniff for clues is at Absolutely Everything in New Appleloosa. This is partially because its location, like I said before, is close to my primary safe house, but mostly because of its proprietor, Ditzy Doo.
Ah, Ditzy Doo. Lemme tell you, she’s the sweetest pony or ghoul I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. If I was a few years younger, and she wasn’t radioactive-
Ahem.
It’s just as well, I suppose. That filly she adopted, Silver Bell, needs all the love she can get, at least from the stuff I’ve heard.
But I digress.
One day, on a provisions run to New Appleloosa, I stopped by Absolutely Everything. Ditzy was behind the counter with her usual smile, with only a minor smell of decomposition radiating off of her. In the corner of the store, Silver Bell was drawing a few pictures with an old box of crayons. She gave me a small wave as I entered before returning to her art.
“Morning, Ditzy!” I greeted, trotting up to the counter. “I’d give you a hug, but I didn’t take my Rad-X this morning.” She gave a soundless giggle. She could tell I was just playing with her.
She held up the little chalkboard she carried around to communicate, and scribbled a few words down before turning it to me.
“What can I get you?”
“I need potions, shotgun shells, some RadAway, and a soft drink, if you’ve got any good stuff.” I listed off. She ducked under the counter and grabbed some things. She dropped my provisions on the counter, and grabbed a brown-colored soda from the icebox. She picked up her chalkboard again and scribbled a message.
“Somepony sold me this Sunrise if you want it.” I shook my head.
“Ugh, no thanks. Don’t particularly care for sarsaparilla.”
I can’t help it if I’m a Sparkle~Cola addict. It might be radioactive, but it comes in so many crazy flavors. You try Sparkle~Cola RAD once, and you just can’t go back.
Before she could reply, Ditzy’s face suddenly lit up and she scribbled another message.
“Speaking of Sunrise, I got something cool last week.”
“Oh?” I said, raising my eyebrow, “What might that be?” She ducked under the counter again, and came back up with a medium sized metal lunchbox with a cartoon of Pinkie Pie on it.
“A… lunchbox? I don’t mean to burst your bubble, Ditzy, but I find lunchboxes all the time.” Ditzy shook her head and scribbled.
“Look inside.”
Carefully with my magic, I lifted the latch on the front and opened the box. Inside was a fair-sized pile of caps, specifically caps from bottles of Sunrise Sarsaparilla. I scratched my head.
“I don’t get it. Someone sold you a lunchbox full of caps? Doesn’t that seem counter-productive?”
“I asked the same thing. The pony who sold these to me said he couldn’t handle the danger,” she took a moment to erase the board and scribble again, “Whatever that means.”
“How much did he sell this to you for?” I asked, still staring at the metal box in the hope that it would spontaneously become interesting.
“Well, there’s fifty caps in there, so with the cost of the metal from the lunchbox…” She tapped her chin for a second, then erased the board and scribbled down the number “60.”
Fifty caps… from Sunrise Sarsaparilla… why did that sound familiar to me?
On a whim, I grabbed one of the caps from the box with my horn and turned it over to get a better look at it. On the back of the cap was a single blue star mark.
I felt my mouth drop open.
“Ditzy! Do you know what these are?!” I shouted with a newfound sense of excitement.
“Caps?” she replied, clearly confused.
“No! Well, yes, but not just any caps!” I turned the cap around to show her the star. Ditzy studied the cap closely for a moment, and then picked up her chalkboard again.
“It’s a cap with a star on it. It’s a pretty star, but I still don’t get it,” she scribbled, shrugging.
“Ditzy, these are Sunrise blue stars! From what I’ve heard, they’re the key to some crazy treasure at the Sunrise factory over in the Moohave! The legend says you need exactly fifty! And there’s exactly fifty in this lunchbox!”
I quickly deposited the cap back into the box and locked the latch. Placing my hooves on the counter, I mustered the best bartering face I could and asked the all-important question:
“How much?”
With a tiny smile, Ditzy began doing some math on her chalkboard, then turned it around to show me her final price.
“With the box and your supplies, it comes to 250.”
My face fell a little. “How much of that was the box, and how much was my stuff?” She snickered silently.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have told me it was worth something,” she wrote with a sly grin. I sighed in defeat and started counting caps.
“Y’know, you’re lucky we’re both such nice ponies, or I might’ve gotten mad at you just now.” I chucked the caps into a little bowl on the counter, and Ditzy accepted them and pushed the box over to me, along with my provisions.
“Pleasure doing business, Keen.” I gave a weak chuckle.
“Likewise. If I find anything cool that I don’t want, I’ll bring it here.” With a quick nod to Ditzy and another wave to Silver Bell, I stepped out the door, provisions and metal meal ticket in tow.
It was time for the hard part of any expedition.
Time to do some homework.
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QUEST ADDED:
LEGEND OF THE STAR
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Entering my safe house (no, I won’t tell you where it is. That would defeat the purpose, would it not?), I dumped my provisions on the floor next to my gun rack, grabbed a Sparkle~Cola from the ice box, and sat down on my haunches at my desk.
They say in her prime days, before the war, Twilight Sparkle kept herself organized by making lists. It works, let me tell you. I never leave on an expedition without making sure I’ve got every tib and tab listed out.
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What we already know:
Sunrise Sarsaparilla was a pre-war soft drink designed to compete with Sparkle~Cola. It didn’t get as popular as Sparkle in the Capitol areas, but apparently it was (and still is) really big in the Moohave.
Before the war, to drum up sales, Sunrise started some kind of promotion. They started placing blue stars under the caps of their bottles, and told the market that if they obtained fifty of them and brought them to the headquarters in the Moohave, they could redeem some kind of amazing prize.
Ponies still search for these caps in the hopes of finding the prize, and over the years, all kinds of crazy rumors regarding the headquarters and the prize itself have sprung up. Some have said that the prize is a lifetime supply of Sunrise (which I hope isn’t the case), others have said that it’s a Celestia-damn time machine that could let somepony return to before the war (which doesn’t even make sense, considering the contest started BEFORE the war even happened).
Regardless of the insane theories, the one thing that every blue star hunter seems to agree upon is that the headquarters is guarded by somepony named “Festus.” Weird name. If this Festus is still alive, he certainly isn’t any regular old pony, the thought of which has scared off some hunters. That would explain what the pony who sold the lunchbox said to Ditzy.
What to pack:
Smith and Wesson: Smith, my combat shotgun, and Wesson, my .44 revolver. I never leave home without either of them. Sunrise bottles still show up around the Moohave, and that means somepony is still running the factory, most likely robots. I’ve learned through personal misfortune that robots are designed to be immune to magical lasers, so good ol’ fashioned lead is the way to go.
Hank: My sledgehammer, in case things get up close and personal.
Reinforced Barding: Plain old metal armor should work just fine here.
Sun shade: What? You ever been in the Moohave? It’s fucking hot out there, buddy. And I’d rather my mane not catch fire.
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With my list ready, I downed my Sparkle and suited up. Making sure everything was off and put away, I stepped out the door and secured the locks. It was time to hoof it.
Now, Equestria’s a big place, but it’s not that big a place. To trek on hoof from the Capitol Wasteland to the center of the Moohave takes about a month, though that’s only if you’re lucky. And in today’s world, not a lot of ponies are very lucky (makes you wonder why anypony bothers going to New Pegas).
Factoring in rest stops along the way and the occasional scrape with a wild animal or bandit, the whole trip took me about a month and a half. With some loaded directions from a few friendly traders on my PipBuck, finding the headquarters was too much of a hassle.
The headquarters itself, situated around the center of the Moohave, wasn’t anything spectacular from the outside, aside from the front door being shaped like a giant soda bottle. That’s one way to advertise your product, I guess; make it part of the damn building.
I was about to enter the building, when I heard the familiar click of a revolver hammer being pulled back, accompanied by the strangely more familiar statement of “freeze” from behind me.
Having a gun pointed at your butt is just one of those things you learn to expect in this business.
I turned around slowly, so as not to antagonize my aggressor, to get a better look at him. He was your usual wasteland crook: Earth pony with splotchy grey hair, greasy brown mane, sunken-in eyes, a cutie mark of some random act of violence, and a rusty revolver in his mouth.
“If you’re here for the treasure, I’m afraid this is where you’ll be stopping,” he said, clearly trying too hard to sound menacing.
“That so?” I replied, “And if I refuse, you shoot me either way, correct?”
“’Fraid so. I’ve spent too much of my life searching for those fucking caps to let somepony else just swoop in and snatch it from me.” I took a moment to consider my options, then decided to take a complete shot in the dark.
“Alright, well, if you’re gonna shoot me, I guess I’ll just resign myself to- HOLY SHIT, IT’S PRINCESS LUNA, BACK FROM THE GRAVE!” I shouted, pointing a hoof behind the crook. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t even flinch.
“You… didn’t actually expect me to fall for that did you?” he asked with a deadpan expression.
“To be honest, no, not really. The only time that ever worked was on this guy who was either drunk or high out of his mind. Or both, I don’t really remember.” The crook’s aim wavered slightly as he looked at me in curiosity.
“No kidding?” he asked out of genuine interest.
“No kidding. He turned around and started bowing his face into the dirt while shouting ‘PRAISE THE MOON! PRAISE THE MOON!’”
“Wow. I kinda want to try that now.”
We both stood in silence for a moment.
“Well,” I started, “I guess I’ll catch you later.”
“Uh, okay. Have a nice day.” The crook turned around to leave, while I quickly withdrew Wesson as I awaited the inevitable. He suddenly turned back around.
“Hey, wait a- POW” was all he could shout before I plugged him between the eyes.
“In case you’re wondering…” I blew the smoke from Wesson and holstered it. “That one, I was expecting to work. And it did.”
That story about the drunken guy was true, though. I’ll tell you about it some other time.
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The inside of the headquarters was cracked and dusty, along with the occasional splotch of orange sunlight common to the Moohave. Upon taking a few steps in, I was again startled by the greeting of “Howdy Partner!” Not one to deal with two back attacks right next to each other, I quickly levitated Smith from my saddlebag with the intent of blowing my opponent’s head off, only to see…
A robot. No, that’s a little too generous. Animatronic might be a better word. It was certainly mechanical, and it was even moving and talking, but it wasn’t the first thing I’d think of when I think of robots. It resembled a pony, at least in the same way a newspaper comic character resembles a pony. It wouldn’t be unreasonable to think it looked like somepony had stacked a sideways bowling pin on top of some tin cans.
“Welcome to the headquarters of the Sunrise Sarsaparilla company. Wrangle up a stool and listen to ol’ Festus jaw for a while.”
So this was Festus. That certainly explained how he was able to stay alive all these years: the dumb thing was never alive to begin with.
The machine continued speaking, with slight distortions in its voice, probably from the years of rust and neglect.
“If you and ol’ Festus are old pals, say a command now. Otherwise say ‘pleased to meetcha’ and we’ll get acquainted.” I shrugged and stashed Smith, carefully trotting up to the decrepit thing.
“Uh… pleased to meetcha?” Festus whirred for a moment to process my “command.”
“New in town, partner? Well, let ol’ Festus give you the lay of the land.”
I’m not exaggerating, by the way. He always referred to himself as ol’ Festus. Never just Festus.
“If you’re here to redeem your Sunrise Sarsaparilla Stars, dump em’ into the slot in the barrel below and I’ll count em’ up.”
That sounded like my stop, but I figured I should at least humor the poor thing and let him finish speaking.
“If you don’t know what Sunrise Sarsaparilla Stars are and think ol’ Festus is just shooting his mouth off, say ‘Star info.’ If you’re here to challenge ol’ Festus to a game of lucky horseshoes, say ‘I feel lucky.’”
So far, nothing too interesting. I obviously knew what the stars were already, and wasn’t really in the mood for playing cards with a machine.
“Lastly, if you’re here about the health advisory that was released to the public recently, say ‘silly ol’ advisory.’”
That caught my attention. A health advisory on the dangers of Sunrise, while not exactly treasure, did certainly strike me as something of value. I pressed the record button on my PipBuck and held it up to Festus.
“Silly ol’ advisory.” I commanded.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. What did you say?” I faltered for a second, and then cleared my throat.
“Silly ol’ advisory.” I commanded again, slightly louder.
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. What did you say?”
“CLEAN THE FUCKING RUST OUT OF YOUR EARS! SILLY. OL’. ADVISORY!” I shouted, losing my temper for a moment.
“Excessive ingestion of Sarsaparilla can lead to deleterious effects including, but not limited to: kidney damage, nausea, digital numbness, anxiety, loss of visual acuity, dizziness, occasional nosebleeds, joint inflammation, tooth decay, sore throat, bronchitis, organ rupture and halitosis.”
Whoa. If I didn’t like Sunrise before then, I was terrified of it after hearing that. I stopped recording and considered making a tape of it later. Who knows, somepony, like a doctor or something, might pay big caps for this kind of information.
Anyway, it was time to get down to brass tacks. I levitated the lunchbox from my saddlebag and dumped its contents into the slot under Festus. Again, he whirred for a moment, until his metal hat suddenly shot up and spun around on a small metal rod before landing back on his head.
“Wahoo, you did it partner! Bully for you! Ol’ Festus knew you could do it. I suppose you’ll be wanting that prize now.”
“Damn right, I do…” I mumbled.
“Well then, hold onto your hat, because it’s a doozy. Not many ponies have heard the true story behind Sunrise Sarsaparilla. It’s a right honor.”
“Wait, what?” I stammered.
“And now, without further ado, your prize – The Legend of the Star…”
“WAIT, WHAT?”
I’ll save you all of Festus’ annoying little mannerisms and just give you the clean version. A saloon owner one day decided to make a new type of soft drink. He asked his usual customers what flavor they would want it to be, but were no help. But, a stranger at the end of the bar suggested he make a sarsaparilla flavored drink, and would give his family's recipe to the saloon owner if he got to sample a bottle to make sure the recipe was being followed to the letter. The saloon owner agreed, thinking it would make him rich. The stranger then left to meet him the next day at sundown. The next day, the saloon owner was told by the sheriff that the stranger was killed by bandits on the side of the town road. Cursing his luck, the saloon owner closed his store early that day, just as the sun began to set. But after he locked the doors, he found a bottle with a note under it sealed with blue wax in the shape of a star. Opening it, he found out that it was a recipe of a sarsaparilla-flavored drink. After sampling the contents of the bottle, and finding it "singularly delicious" (whatever that means), he began selling Sunrise Sarsaparilla.
Needless to say, I was a tad… unhappy.
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QUEST FAILED:
LEGEND OF THE STAR
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“Is this some kind of fucking joke?” I asked after Festus finished his story. Surprisingly, he actually seemed to register my little outburst as a command.
“The Sunrise Sarsaparilla Company has received a number of complaints regarding the prize awarded for handing in Sunrise Sarsaparilla Stars. Therefore, we have seen fit to provide another prize that we feel will placate the most discriminating customer. Just head through the double doors and follow the hallway to your left to the very end. An attendant will be there to present your prize, directly. We at the Sunrise Sarsaparilla Company would once again like to thank you for your patronage.” With that last statement, Festus suddenly collapsed into the small booth he was situated in, having finally served his purpose.
“Oh. Uh, alright then. Thanks.” I said to the dead machine, somewhat embarrassed at losing my temper.
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QUEST ADDED:
A VALUABLE LESSON
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My PipBuck updated itself with the location of the prize room. At the same time, however, various red blips appeared on my EFS, and I could hear the sound Protectrots rattling off their safety protocols nearby.
In case you’ve never seen one, a Protectrot is a combat robot guard created by RobRonco, although I use the term combat somewhat loosely. It basically looks like a metal pony with trends on its feet, and a big, lighthouse shaped bulb where its head and neck should be, out of which it fires magical lasers. Long as they don’t get a good shot on you with the lasers, Protectrots are fairly easy to deal with.
I pulled Smith out of my saddlebag again and started to follow my compass marker. The hallway to the left that Festus had directed me to was completely caved in, so that wasn’t happening. Instead, I made my way down the right hallway, passing a few deactivated Protectrots along the way. I entered into a large office room with the ceiling caved in, the debris forming a convenient ramp up to the second floor.
At the top was another empty hallway, although I could hear the soft groan of robotic treads nearby. Through a door to my right was a large room full of boxes and conveyor belts. Confirming my earlier suspicions, there was a single Mr. Friendly worker robot at the bottom of the stairs putting caps on bottles. For no particular reason, I descended the stairs and greeted the robot.
“How’s it going?” The robot turned to me.
“Production is going according to schedule, master.” The robot stated.
“That’s… great. Well, I’ll let you get back to work then.”
“WAIT A SECOND,” the robot stopped me. “You’re not master! Intruder alert!”
Fun fact: All Mr. Friendly robots, regardless of purpose, are equipped with flamethrowers. Luna-knows why.
Sidestepping the plume of fire, I gave the disgruntled worker his severance check in the form of a mouthful of buckshot from Smith.
BOOM!
The poor thing collapsed to the ground with its ocular sensors blown off. I had a feeling that even though this was the only worker I had seen in this room, there were probably others still lurking around the factory.
Not eager to get my tail burnt off, I scrambled back up the stairs and continued to follow my compass marker. I was briefly stopped by a Protectrot, who managed to catch me in the left hind leg with a laser shot. I ignored the painful burn and dispatched it once again with Smith.
Soon, my compass marker led me to a large hole in the floor, leading back to the first floor and, hopefully, my prize. I jumped down, gave my burnt leg a moment to recover, and then hobbled down the hallway. At the end, just as Festus had said, were a large set of double doors, both of which were marked with traces of just being opened after a long time.
Shelves upon shelves of boxes lined the room, each one filled with small plastic stars.
That figured. Send kids off to buy your soda, and then reward them with a cheap hunk of plastic. Still, the badges were kind of neat, and I’m sure the kids back at New Appleloosa would like them, so I levitated a couple of crates worth into my saddlebags and took one for myself. I was about to leave, when I noticed a rather overpowering smell of decomposition in the room. Not sure how I initially missed that; the smell of dead things isn’t exactly the sort of thing one overlooks.
At the back of the room lay a dead raider pony, one of the badges clumsily pinned to his armor. He was certainly decomposing, but most of his facial features were still recognizable, meaning he hadn’t been there for very long.
At his hooves, I noticed an audio log. I picked it up and loaded it into my PipBuck for playback.
I guess this is it. Not much air left now. Minutes, maybe. And this is all I have to show for it. I guess the joke's on me. Prolly shouldn't have killed... all those ponies, Prolly shoulda stayed at home... and taken care of my ma. She... always used to say ponies who... murder and steal... die bad in the end. Said they...
Well. That’s unfortunate. Made me glad I happened to get lucky in finding the lunchbox, instead of having to go around killing ponies for bottle caps with little stars on them. Near his other hoof, I spotted a magical laser pistol. I have a few at home, so I would’ve left it, but it looked like it had been modded in a few ways. Namely, it had been altered to discharge multiple energy cells at once in a concentrated stream.
Nothing cooler than unique weapons. I levitated it into my saddlebag and let my PipBuck organize everything. For some reason, it assigned the laser pistol the name “Pew Pew.”
My PipBuck has a weird sense of humor.
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QUEST COMPLETED:
A VALUABLE LESSON
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So, in the end, I think I’d file that little journey under “giant waste of time.” The badge was neat and all, but I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it around, so I just placed it on my trophy shelf back home and stored Pew Pew in my laser gun locker.
I brought the rest of the badges back to Absolutely Everything. I gave one to little Silver Bell, who loved it, and I told her to pass them around to the other foals, or anypony else who wanted one.
As for that disclaimer, I made a tape of it, gave it to a local doctor, and told him to circulate it around any of his friends and colleagues. Hopefully, if anypony shows those symptoms, the doctor can ask if they’ve been drinking a lot of Sunrise.
Speaking of Sunrise, this whole experience left a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. Maybe I should lay off the soda for a while…
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Author’s Note: I’ll admit, after waiting all this time, you’re probably a little disappointed that the first real chapter is just a quest from Fallout: New Vegas. I feel you, really I do. But fret not. In the time since the first chapter, I’ve come up with 18, count em’, 18 new story ideas. Eight draw from the show and its fandom, eight come from the Fallout games, one that contains a reference that pretty much no one will get, and one that is just a gigantic joke. I’m also officially out of school and at the start of summer break, so hopefully you’ll be hearing a lot more from me real soon.
