“Ice. Snow. Rock. More ice....
Oh right. And the DAMN WIND!
It’s never like they make it out to be in the movies. It’s like the ice age out there and even in this cave it’s cold as hell! Damnit!
The walls are littered with some psychopath’s insane preachings. Most of it’s rambling about “blessed unlife,” something having to do with the end of the Wasteland Era and the the end of nuclear blight. I’d be content with just the end of this damn freezing weather!
What I really need is something to drink. I’m gonna die, and I’d be just fine dying inebriated. Rapt in a glass of Sandy Tongue. That shit’ll have you over the edge just from the smell of it! The little I had left got “lost” by Botany just before she went missing. I swear, the next time I see that bitch, I’m gonna skin her alive, feed her corpse to hellhounds, and wear her coat as a jacket.
Not that I’ll be alive to see her again.
I kinda wanted to record something that sounded semi-important, but there isn’t much of any significance anymore. There are things I can’t say. The people looking for me aren’t stupid enough to not check my audio logs. An uncomfortable change of pace, considering the Wasteland grows exponentially in idiots by the minute. It seems all anyone cares about anymore is blood, war, and more blood.
Greed. That’s what this all is. That’s all it is. An endless fight for power. They say that war never changes. That ponies never change. And while it’s true that ponies haven’t changed in centuries, they were once good. Now, we’ve fallen back into the cold, black embrace of cruel monstrosity.
Damn, it’s cold outside....
It’s kinda funny, there hasn’t been real war in centuries. No Megaspells, no nuclear weapons. Just aggression, because as far as anyone’s concerned, that’s what gets you places. That’s what makes the world turn. Fighting. Violence is like a virus, and when it gets into the brain, it takes over. When the peace keepers become the big bad wolf and nobody’s there to keep them in check, well… it’s to nobody’s surprise when everyone follows their lead.
What made us to walk idly by as the ones we trusted to fix the world began to tear it down again? Was it fear? Did we follow them because we thought they knew best? Did we agree with them, and somewhere we just needed an authoritative reassurance that our violent nature was right?
Some part of our nature had always been violent since the Wasteland.
I guess I had more to say that I thought. The Wasteland is a hard subject to not think about when you have to suffer it every day. It keeps hammering it’s nails into your heart, pounding what you could have been. Ponies aren’t born cruel. We’re all born very peaceful, happy, spirited souls. And then they’re thrown into this hell, surrounded by death, violence, and war. Those souls are drowned in blood, their conscience washed away as they adapt. As the Wasteland tears away at them, piece by piece.
This is what we’ve become. There’s no denying the truth. The horrifying, inevitable revelation that even the worst of us realize...
We fucked up.... Again.
And this time, we haven’t been blessed with a Lightbringer. The select few that have survived from that era are already part of the Wasteland. Corrupted by the endless fog of anger and murder..
We really fucked up. And really the only question I have left to ask, before I freeze to death is... is....
Why?
Sometimes it’s hard to believe, but we were all just children, one day. Once upon a time, we were all innocent. We were all free from the terrors of the world, protected from harm by the warm glow of the sun. We could find nothing in the world to hate. To fear. To be shy from. The world was bright. Even at night, we could find safety in the fact that somebody was watching us, protecting us as we walked. That we were never alone….
Once upon a time.
Then, the time inevitably comes when reality sinks its claws into us. When we have to see past the sun and stare into the endless blackness of space. The eternal vortex that sucks the life out of us. Eventually, we must all learn that the world isn’t a place in which we can walk safely. It isn’t a place where the sparks of hope which we once felt may ignite.
It was two-hundred years ago when a group of heroes, ponies who could see through that darkness and were true enough to fight it, braved the Wasteland and, against all odds, brought the darkness to it’s knees. Equestria was reborn, but it could never be the same as it was before. Darkness lingered, as miasmas always did. Even still, those who survived from before the war, and lived to see the downfall of the wasteland, did their best to restore it, as well as those who had never even seen the dead earth in all it’s terribleness. They were as close to untainted as any could have ever dreamed to be. Those sparks of hope that had once been extinguished were relit by both the youngest and the oldest.
But an apocalypse is, and always will be, the end of the world. It is an irreversible turning point in time. All people, those who live through it, and those who live after it, are poisoned by its plague. The world was made a place between Heaven and Hell. A place where no spirit could ever be wholly virtuous. And yet, no spirit could ever be thoroughly satanic. The Wasteland brought us many steps closer to Hell. We lost the will to hold on to our virtues for the sake of doing the right thing. Inevitably. the darknes began to grow again. It found a new source to hold root, somewhere where it could have leadership and influence, and spread like a wildfire. It didn't have to be brought on by desperation, instead it could infect through force of authority.
It’s hard to just get to know somebody anymore. Either they have a reason to cut your neck, or they’re too uninterested to spare you more than a moment, if that at all. It’s not only a busy new world, it’s a dangerous one. It’s only a chance that a cloud will have a silver lining, but it’s a guarantee that every closet has a skeleton.
Anyone, everyone, has been born into a simply resurrected nation. A place where only the strongest can hope for happiness. The world was built from ashes, and therefore can only ever be as much. Those who follow were born to follow. Those who lead fought, some for their lives, to get where they are. Nobody can be expected to be generous or accepting.
This is the future. It’s a place of power and abuse of evolution. Where grand progress was predicted, we’ve destroyed ourselves.
Some say there was a time before the Wasteland. Before every step was only another pace towards death. And they may be right. Long ago, we might not have been like this. Long ago, there may have been a world where murder, madness, and war were unheard of. A time of peace, harmony, and serenity. And maybe... friendship.
Author's Note
Hopefully, thanks to some advice from Tetragrammation, this actually makes sense and doesn't suck quite as much. I'm really at a loss at how to change this for the better beyond what I've written here. I'm hoping it suffices, as my experience in writing is lacking and I hope to improve it with this.
Chapter 1 - Dirt and Roses
Why is it, I must ask, that trams never arrive on time?
Even if you managed to leave early, you will always be late. It's like some force that doesn't want you to get where you want to go. I don't understand it. I can't hope to understand it. I just know that it's never on time, and that the tram's the only way I've got.
The doors of the car creaked open on awkwardly warped rails. A far too large crowd of ponies pushed out the door, there being only one to exit through. The ground outside was damp and slightly slippery, water dripping from the higher ledges. The city must have been pelted by a storm lately, though whether it had been last night or the one before, I couldn't tell. Tall, sharply wired railing ran along the walkway, the room extending on either side into flickering warm light. Guards, all either unicorns or griffons, stood sharply, not sparing us glances as we trampled down rickety stairs to the lobby of the station.
Hoofston was in no way the most inviting of places. Someone was almost always watching you, daring you to stare back. It wasn't surprising to see fights on the sides of the street, and occasionally riots broke out for any number of reasons. Because of these, Hoofston had come to have something of a small military on hoof in the event destruction or violence got to the point the normal police couldn't handle. Usually that kind of thing happened every two or three months, so needless to say, the city had gotten used to dealing with them. Despite this, there had been cases where the forces had needed to resort to actual bullets.
It wasn't just the people who were falling apart. The city itself was dilapidated, nearly unrecognizable to what it was a hundred and fifty years ago. If you didn’t read your history books you would still probably know what it had looked like. Some buildings still flaunted pictures dating back to 100 AR (After Rebirth). Back then, ponies had gotten back on their hooves and had rebuilt the world as best they could. Sadly, over the following twenty or so years degeneracy found it’s way back into ponies’ minds through desperation and authoritative corruption. Though those in power weren't totally to blame. All ponies were a little darker since the apocalypse. Unfortunate as it was, it was undeniable.
Exiting the tram station, I leaned against the crumbled building's wall to check my case of stuff. Light, foldable saddlebags; two copies of the Wasteland Survival Guide (“Try to have a backup of all your most important items, in case one is damaged or lost” (Hooves 46)); two flashlights and a bag of batteries; a small case of pens and pencils; various basic toiletries; boots, should I need them; a coat; and a bag with about five-hundred bottle caps. I traveled a lot. I always kept a full suitcase.
My next major concern was finding a place to stay. Normally when I came by Hoofston, I would stay at the Roach Bunker, which wasn’t as bad as it sounded. They had apparently gone out of business a couple months ago, though. The lot was replaced by a shop that sold old electronics, like record players and small computers. It didn’t strike me as a very good trade, but that may have been my personal favoritism. I searched for the other hotel I was familiar with: Bed Busted. It’s name was… aptly chosen. It was one of those places kept around because the owner didn’t have money to invest in anything else and couldn’t sell the property to save his life.
I walked the few blocks to get to the building. It looked worse every time I saw it. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said the bricks were cracking under their own weight as I watched it. Actually, they probably were. Fortunately, the people who worked there made some attempt to keep it clean. One of the few things they had going for them. The furniture though, including, of course, the beds, was all broken or crooked. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to rest for two or three nights in a row. I could make an exception, though. I’d spent more time in significantly worse.
I stepped aside for a pair of large stallions exiting through the doors of the precarious building. I slipped in through the open entrance before it closed, walking up to the reception desk. There were three other ponies in the lobby, two sitting and one pacing while speaking on a headset (what was considered a headset today was not the same as what might be sold at that new antique shop. Rather, a set of machinery wired directly into someone's head. Hence why it was still called a "headset"). She was probably on some sort of business trip, as per her simplistic suit and luggage case. Her coat color underneath the attire was a deep maroon, her short, ruffled, slightly curled mane and tail a contrasting light brown. She noticed me observing her and scowled; I looked away hastily.
The receptionist was a mare who looked like she hadn't gotten more than an hour of sleep total in the past week. She looked at me blankly, her eyes lidded as if her body didn't want to bother exuding the energy to keep them open any wider. I paid her for three nights, she gave me a key and number, and that was that. I think any sort of lengthy conversation would have put her down. I took the card that was given to me and stepped into the elevator situated across from the main doors. The hotel had no thirteenth floor, a tradition that had long since worn out. That dated the building a good fifty years before the Wasteland, I figured. I looked at the walls and found a small photo of the building pinned above the desk, captioned "300 BR" (Before Rebirth). That was very, very old. Not too thrilling. I was staying on floor fourteen, room 1408. Of all the rooms, I groused to myself as I went up.
The hallway I exited into seemed like it in itself was peeling apart as much as the wallpaper that now sparsely lined it. The floor creaked in places and some of the window lattices were broken out or missing altogether. My door unlocked as I swiped my card through the slot above the handle, opening up to my room. It was... plain. Not bad, like I'd assumed. Just bland. The only thing mildly attention-grabbing was a picture that depicted a ship at sea, in what appeared to be stormy weather. It was actually well drawn, it seemed unfortunate that whoever had drawn it had left it. Maybe they were just a hobbiest. Art wasn't terribly valuable today, unless you sold to a collector or some store or restaurant that needed decorating. Small things like that weren't too widely appreciated. The room had a table lamp and digital clock placed on an aluminum desk, a monochromatic tan bed (I prefered to ignore whatever might have been stained on the comforter and pretend it was all one color), and a set of white, slightly moldy curtains. They must have not been spared from the rain for a while, as the window they were put in front of didn't actually have a window at all. I was glad it was still early in autumn and these next few days wouldn't be too cold.
Unpacking was easy, since I didn't really do it. I set my stuff down and collapsed back onto the bed, not actually planning to sleep. Six uneventful hours in a tram wore me out as much as always. I tried to remember what I'd done to pass the time, apart from looking at sand and trees and mountains and... well, not a lot else. I didn't notice closing my eyes, nor did I notice my breathing slowing down and growing heavier.
Suddenly there was a very loud noise. I rubbed my eyes, I’d fallen asleep. The clock’s alarm had gone off (had I even set that?) and was now screaming atrociously at me. I forced myself to get out of the bed, pressing the off button on the alarm and stretching. The curtains blew softly, the air was chilly, but not uncomfortably cold. The sky outside was still a gray-blue, the clock said it was eleven-twenty, though I felt it was safe to assume it was a few hours earlier than that. I rubbed my eyes again, hazily deciding what I planned to do for the morning. I could try to find easy work somewhere, after eating. I could visit somebody, if I could think of someone I actually knew here. Figuring I'd decide while out, I rummaged through my suitcase for my saddlebags, unfolding them. They were hardly even bags, more like pockets. They were thin, made of light cloth. I buckled them on at the side and left the room, checking I had the keycard before latching the door and walking down the mouldering hallway to the elevator. I pushed the button to open it and waited several moment for the metal doors to slide apart.
Inside taped to the back wall was a small piece of letter paper. Written largely were three things: "1408. 502. Now." I didn't have much doubt that the was referring to me, and I only assumed it meant I was wanted in room 502 as soon as possible. I couldn't think of a reason why I would be called on like this, and I didn't know whether my caution or curiosity would get the better of me. I had a knack for getting out of bad situations, but I also had a tendency to get into them as well. But even more so, I couldn't think of a reason for there to be trouble, the logic which evidently won over my head. I pressed the button for the fifth floor, feeling the box sharply start to descend.
The fifth floor was in much better condition than the thirteenth. It actually looked like it was tended to occasionally, the walls weren't peeling as much and had been sloppily painted. The windows weren't broken, but some were still missing altogether. Room number 502 was the first door on my left exiting the elevator. I knocked, and it opened limply, unlatched. In fact, I didn't think the door had a latch at all. I tapped the door again before peering inside. "You asked to see me? Room fourteen oh-eight?" I stepped past the door; if anyone was in they would have heard me. If they were planning to jump me, I may have just screwed myself. Walking forward into the main body of the room, I saw a luggage case that looked vaguely familiar resting in the single bed.
SLAM. The hair on my neck rose as the door was forcefully closed behind me. I spun around hastily, immediately recognizing the dark red mare as she approached me. She was no longer wearing the black suit, which had deceived a remarkably lean and muscled body underneath. She would be attractive if she wasn't about to gut me. As it happened though, she was quickly and animusly nearing where I stood
"Look," I started. "If this is about-"
"Shut it," she ordered, cutting me off. "This isn't about last night. Sit down."
Only somewhat confident I wasn't going to die in the near future, I quickly took a seat on the bed behind me. It was harder than mine, I noticed subconsciously. She sat down in a chair at the opposite wall. "I'll assume you've started wondering why I want you here since I'm not going to kill you, who I am, and why I brought you specifically.
I raised an eyebrow at that last part. "You didn't bring me, I came of my own accord." She rolled her eyes.
"I know you well enough to have known you'd come." Alright, that begged a ton more questions, but I figured it would be best not to interrupt her at the moment. There was too much going on as it was. "Anyway," she said, "you’re here because we need you alive. If you’re still here tomorrow, the next time you’re on a tram will be in a plastic body bag.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, trying not to sound hung up. I doubted this mare was keen on giving me thinking time. “Someone’s trying to kill me specifically?”
She nodded. “Yes. They know we need you so they’ve made you a target. They’ll disguise it as part of their routine Lottery, and everyone knows it’s always rigged anyway.”
I put up a hoof for her to stop for a moment, finally attempting to take the time to absorb what she had said in the last thirty seconds. Eventually I leaned forward, shaking my head. "Alright, not even going into the fact that this is all your fault, what is this Lottery? In all the times I've been here I've never heard of such a thing, nor does it exactly seem like something I want to avoid at all costs."
The red mare rolled her eyes. "That's the point of calling it a Lottery, jackass. If it was called something more foreboding there would be ponies asking about it. The Lottery is a sanctioned event where the Hoofston police force gather up as many ponies as they can in a truck and transport them to a building nopony really knows the location of. Three are selected to live, all the others are sent off to a sort of a death camp which, again, nopony knows the exact location of. It's not something you want to be stuck in the middle of."
I blinked, unsure how to proceed with what I'd been told. I took a few seconds to consider my options. Firstly, I could ask why I should trust her, but there was no guarantee she would tell me the truth, or tell me at all. Secondly, I could express my disbelief, but she would most likely ask if I wanted to take the chance of staying and her foretelling being true. Or thirdly, I could go along and take my chances with somepony who, quite frankly, I didn't have the slightest reason to believe was telling the truth. Though at the same time, if she was planning to hurt me, I couldn't think of anything that would drive her to hurt me specifically, or why she'd go to such an extensive length to get me to believe her instead of just killing me on the spot. She didn't want to hurt me, that much was apparent, I concluded. So why should she, and whoever "we" were, need my help specifically? I wasn't an expert in any field, nor did I have any history of working for any organization that could be threatening the government to drive them to such an extreme. In fact, I'd hardly worked for anyone longer than a week, and that was doing various odd jobs that they couldn't bother to do themselves. My resumé wasn't exactly overflowing.
"Why me, then?" I decided to ask. "What use do I have, specifically?"
"Because we know about you, and you've done a lot for us in the past." That was a lie.
"I've never had any affiliation with anyone," I countered. "Especially not someone who seems to be as... politically involved as you."
She shook her head. "Not that you're aware of. We really don't have the time for me to explain it now. I would have gotten you yesterday, but a certain receptionist was out like a fucking corpse, and I didn't know your room number."
"You didn't even consider, I dunno, speaking to me in the lobby?" My resolve was going, and my arguments weren't really playing out in my head well anymore. She hadn't hurt me, evidently wasn't going to. The consequence of staying, if she was telling the truth about all of this, was dying, but at the same time this "Lottery"... I'd never heard of it, nor had I been tipped off that something that major was going on. Alternatively, there was nothing I could do to help her as far as I was aware of, and so far as I could tell she might have been taking me somewhere more discreet to hurt me. I didn't exactly scream the ability to defend myself in a fight. I always talked my way out of them, never fought. Perhaps this would be a good call to reconsider my physical ineptitude, but that didn't matter right now.
"Those two ponies in the lobby were waiting for me to go after you. There were spies hiding all around the city for you, I couldn't have spoken to you in public." Alright, that was a stretch. A couple drunks, one of whom was passed out, were not government spies.
"Now," she started, "you're going to meet me at the eastern gate in an hour and a half. The victims for the Lottery are gathered anywhere between eleven and twelve. It's eight-thirty right now. I'm going to leave, then at ten you're going to leave as well. We can't be seen together. You are going to come, or there's going to be a lot more trouble for you later."
I ran what she said over in my head. "What, and you expect me to wait here for another hour and a half? I have better things to do than-." She stood up and stepped towards me, ushering me off the bed. I complied, not finishing my sentence.
"You will come at ten, or you're just stirring up more hell for yourself, and ultimately a lot of ponies. Now go back up to fourteen oh-eight and wait there to leave."
I backed towards the door. "You know, if you told me what was going on I might be slightly more convinced."
She made to close the door. "I told you, there isn't time. You'll come at ten, we'll leave the city, and I'll tell you more then. Now get out." She slammed the door in my face, it stayed closed even though it didn't latch. I stood there for a good minute, turning the conversation over in my head again and again, still coming to the conclusion that I shouldn't go with her. Of course, I had doubts, but my distrust of this mare outweighed my paranoia that she might be telling the truth.
I walked down the hall, into the elevator. I brought my hoof to the panel beside the door, pressing the button for the first floor.
Author's Note
Alrighty, I must admit that I put off starting this way for too long. I started this in Science class, so I was either REALLY bored or I finally had some inspiration. Either way, hope you enjoyed, and I plan to be able to release the next chapter in about a week. If I can't, then I'll probably put some short thing out to fill the time.These first few chapters will probably be kinda short. I'm still getting the "Writing momentum" thing, as it were. Getting into the habit of writing consistently. I can usually do about a page to two pages a day, but I put off writing for days at a time. Anyway, enough boring you. Have a nice day!
Reference notes: Blatant references to both my favorite band Rise Against and Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery." Also, there's a slightly more subtle Steven King reference in there. Also, 52 is a police code that foreshadows some backstory revealed in the next chapter. I used room 502 instead of 52 cause, well, in a tightly packed city I doubt there's enough space for a floor to have 52 rooms. Of course, I doubt such a bad building would have fourteen floors, but whatever. Jokes.
