Introduction
When I was little, my mother used to talk me to sleep.
Personally, I consider it a part of how I was raised – hearing about her daily activities, the highlights of her week, the endeavors she'd sought out in earlier years. Sometimes it seemed like she could go on forever. Topics ranged from purses she’d spotted to elderly patients at the clinic. But every once in a while, she would tell me a story.
These were the moments I looked forward to the most when I would crawl into bed as a filly. As she laid me down she used to say, "Now love, tonight I'm going to tell you a special story...” She would sit on the side of my bed, smiling, and tuck me in. While she situated herself, I would lay still with my hooves crossed, a sort of adrenaline boost kicking in from the excitement as I eagerly awaited another chapter in a chronicle of the past. She told wild tales of ponies going on adventures and prophecies coming true. And at the end of each night, she would conclude with an annoyingly predictable cliffhanger. However, I still begged her for more, to which she replied each time, "Forbearance, young one. It's a virtue." (Of course, I never understood the word until I was older.)
Now, despite the valuable lessons that I (and many other ponies) learned through age, the stories my mother told were the ones that shaped my ideologies the most. They were the ones that gave me hope. And it was this same hope that would carry me on into the final moments before I slept. The world seemed like such a magical place after she would leave me to my imaginings.
Sometimes though, rather than dozing off, I would think to myself, ‘Are they real?’ The stories seemed like old myths, meant to do nothing more than what my mother was doing: putting a foal to sleep. But did the ponies in the stories really do all that she'd said they'd done? The Wasteland was a better place now. Ponies didn't still have to run about, rescuing captives and saving the world… or, at least not to my knowledge they didn't. Slavery had rules, had regulations, had principles. In fact, for a while, they started to just call it "Equestria" again. Ponies could go out to picnics in the middle of the day and didn't have to worry about fighting for their lives, and if they did, at least it wasn't against others of our own kind. The roads weren't crawling with Raiders, and scavenging was really only a popular hobby. So, the ponies in the stories must have done something. But granted, no matter what anypony called it, it was still a wasteland. There were still horrors out there that no one should ever have to see. The secrets were just better guarded back then.
It was for this reason that, in my youthful ignorance, I was unable to answer my questions about the stories my mother told. And yet still I wondered. Still, I stayed up half the night trying to imagine a place where every day was a struggle for life and death. The idea of it fascinated me, and in a sick, twisted, and naively innocent way, I wished I could have lived in that world. There's a cliché saying about caution in wishes that I really wish I'd heard sooner.
The ponies my mother spoke about in the stories, you've probably heard of. Hardly anyone grew up not knowing about them, after all of the change they'd brought to the world. Ponies like the virtuous LittlePip, the infamous Blackjack, or maybe even a few others who had followed in their image back when Equestria needed the horsepower. You do know the ones. The ponies who'd led our little Wasteland to its golden age.
Their names are in history books...
It doesn’t matter anymore though. The changes they’d brought, the sacrifices they’d all made… it was all in vain.
Because things changed… and not for the better. And soon enough, we were back to where we'd all started... a hellhole, where Raiders ran free and justice was nowhere to be found. Where were our heroes then? Where were the ponies that helped shaped this world into a better place when the Collapse tore us all apart? Where was anypony who could pick up the pieces again?
I'm sure I'll get to explain what happened later. After all, the details are trivial, and as always, purely our own. But for now, it's my turn for the spotlight. Because this is my story, my fight for survival in a world that should have killed me, my light in the darkness.
My name is Everdawn Sunrise, or just “Sunny”.
I am a survivor of the Equestrian Wasteland.
And this is my legacy.
Fallout Equestria: Last Legacy
Prologue: Blind Beginnings
I woke to the smell of ashes.
My face was half-buried in the hard, cracked ground as one of my eyes fluttered open. The wind blew the exposed part of my mane to and fro as a dry taste filled my mouth. My legs ached, exhaustion nearly overwhelming as I lifted my head up. My vision swam, no one thing being in any sort of focus. As I got to my hooves, a few of my joints popped in response, most of the sand falling from my fur. I struggled to maintain balance for what seemed like a good five minutes. My muscles were sore and reluctant to work.
Without warning, different parts of my body protested in pain. The most notable of the sensations was in my face. I lifted a leg up, lightly prodding at my cheek. It stung, and after seeing a bit of blood on the tip of my hoof, my leg jerked back.
Sand still clung to much of my fur as I looked around. I suddenly became aware of the bombarding heat waves from the fires around me. Partnered with the sweltering blaze of the sun, my skin surged in response. How long had I been lying here? How had I survived? None of the questions I wanted to ask had any sort of answer. Not yet, at least. I knew only one thing for certain: I had to find shelter, and fast. In the Wastes, more ponies died from the heat than any of the other horrible deaths.
Home sweet home.
My eyes finally tuned into my surroundings, all of the other senses now seeming dulled as the scorched land around me came into perspective. Parts and pieces of the crash were littered about, the landscape now filled with bits of smoking scrap metal slowly sinking into the sand. The desert always seemed to absorb things, like it was taking them back after a time of having them borrowed. Items, bodies, politics, you name it; eventually, it's all whisked away under the tides of an endless, rocky ocean. Perhaps that was the true beauty of this barren shitstain on the world after all.
My throat was certainly drier than I'd have liked. My lips were chapped beyond belief, and my teeth felt weak. To add to the injury, my insides were exhausted, as if my organs had been overworked. Paired with the daunting task of breathing, everything seemed heavier now. All in all, my body was not going to be filling out any demanding work until I could get some proper water and rest. Another wave of heat hit me, and it was decided right there and then. I needed to head out.
Y'know, for survival 'n' stuff.
I began walking, slowly at first. My concentration was now entirely devoted to keeping my balance as I put one hoof in front of the other, tracing marks in the sand after each step. Left and right I began to see more and more bits and pieces of train cars scattered about. The rusted metal that jutted out from the ground was unmistakable. The thought crossed my mind to set up camp under one of the wider beams of iron, or at least search for supplies. It was quickly dismissed as I realized that I'd probably attracted more attention than I wanted to already. After all, a freight train wreckage didn't exactly scream "nothing to see here!"
Not to mention that, at first glance, one could only guess at the time it would take for the Raiders to show up, and I certainly didn't want to stick around for when they did.
By now, walking had started to feel natural again, and bearing down on my hooves gradually got less painful. I looked ahead as I noticed a straight line cutting through the sand. It was a set of tracks, no doubt the same ones the train had been set on. After following them with a long gaze, my head drooped low, a sigh escaping my lips (a tad bit exaggerated, I might admit).
"What in Tartarus have you gotten yourself into," I asked. For a moment I debated myself on the matter. I knew where the iron bars and wooden planks would lead me, but did I really want to go there? And risk facing those who had put me here in the first place? My eyes darted up to the sun, high in the sky, as a breeze pushed forward in the direction of the tracks. "No real choice, I suppose."
And with that, I trekked onward, into the desert, under the oppressive heat of the sun, with only a shred of hope for finding my way home...
Or at least something close to it.
