Dead Rising: Lens of West

Heroes were neither forged nor born. The term “hero” was simply a common title among those who did something good for their society. Technically, heroes were not limited to war veterans, innovative engineers, and scientists who blast people into outer space. Even those who were remembered to be evil to the majority of the world’s people could be considered heroes to certain people; one decent example would have been Hitler, who was considered a hero to Germany until some touchy things happened.

Frank West was not a hero the world needed, but rather, a hero who was just sort of wanted. Even after his fame died, people wanted “Good Ol’ Frank” to clarify secrets that the government hid from its own people. He may had become corrupted by his glory, but some people still considered him to be a hero and wanted him to do something for them.

And that was exactly the reason why the term “hero” was not what it made itself out to be.

Heroes were not necessarily good people. Frank himself may have had a time where he felt determined to save others, but such thoughts merely appeared because he knew it was what anyone wanted to do. Then fame got to him, and everything people remembered him for vanished with amazing speed. If such people who could become corrupt were considered the greatest heroes of all time, then one would be justified to fear for what the next generation of “heroes” could possibly do.

He no longer wanted to be considered a hero for anything. Rather, he just wanted to make some money and put down certain secrets that could potentially destroy everyone.

The photojournalist opened his eyes, finding himself laying still with his back against the ground. The bright skies were covered with puffy clouds, and the wind that had once brushed past him became nonexistent.

“Ugh…”

Lifting his body up from the dirt ground, Frank West shook his head and reached out for his pockets. Much to his own surprise, his sunglasses remained perfectly okay even after he flew through some weird portal that threw him around. He decided not to question what fate allowed him to keep or not keep. Instead, he observed his surroundings.

Less trees, he thought with amusement. That’s already a good sign.

The man dusted his dirty suit before standing on his two feet. With one hand holding onto his camera, Frank looked around. There were certainly less trees in the area he now stood in, and he could see things better thanks to the presence of a sun. Unfortunately, there were no paths to guide him anymore.

And finally, wildlife had made its appearance! There was a lone, small horse staring at him with wide eyes and a dumbly open mouth. The horse-

Actually, it was not a horse. It seemed more like a pony than anything, considering how small it was.

A pale-blonde hor- pony with a strange pink mane stared at him, remaining deathly still. Frank raised an eyebrow.

…Hm. Maybe I should try horseback riding and take advantage of these situations, he thought to himself, the weirder side of his survival skills emerging yet again. He had done plenty of weird things even at Willamette, though he admittedly used some strange attacks against some zombies at Fortune City when the time did not call for them. Ever since his first Outbreak experience, Frank West learned how to utilize every single ounce of his creativity to fight even without weapons. He activated fireworks, stole guns, and even used golf balls to survive at both Colorado and Nevada.

Heck, he even used a tricycle to plow through waves of zombies at one point. He really did love it when he earned the chance to replace his tricycle with an actual motorcycle, however, as it not only stopped survivors from doubting his sanity, but it just made him look better.

The photojournalist also tried his hand at wrestling with the zombies. Thanks to some explosive results, he had used the wrestling moves quite often until the strange gas-zombies appeared at Fortune City.

Clearing his throat, Frank shooed away the four-legged creature from him, still holding onto his camera with one hand. The pony remained still, however.

…

A bit irked at the fact that there was a strangely colored mammal staring at him, Frank shooed the creature away with more strength put into his hand motion. When the pony did not move from him, he rolled his eyes as he started walking towards the mammal.

“Do I need to play you a Song of Time or something? What’re you, Epona?”

Frank shook his head, stopping in front of the pink-and-yellow thing as he shooed with both of his hands this time. “C’mon. I have a bad memory with horses chewing at my camera.”

The young mammal seemed a bit frightened, for it proceeded to back away from Frank when he took several steps towards it. In fact, its face looked quite emotional. It… It looked…

Frank remained still as he watched the horse make an expression that resembled that of horror.

“…”

“…”

It took him a few seconds to finally smirk.

“…Actually,” he said as he stopped shooing the pink-and-yellow thing away, “that face looks freakin’ hilarious. Lemme snap a picture.”

Now that he thought about it, there were no pink-and-yellow horses, but who the heck was he to know all of the animals on Earth? What was he, a zoologist? Heck no. But he was a photojournalist- a freelance photojournalist- and taking pictures of interesting things was his thing.

Raising his camera with two hands, the man snapped a picture.

Click!

Click!

The noise the camera made seemed to stir the pony up from its shock, as it soon backed away from him even further. Seeing that as a sign of his little playtime ending, Frank let go of his camera, letting it hang around his neck as he muttered to himself,

“Looks like it’s gonna stop horsing around my business… which is a good thing, considering how I’m gonna try figuring my location out.”

Turning away from the creature, Frank began to walk blindly into a group of trees without a single crap given about what just happened. As he walked, however, he heard a soft voice.

A very soft voice.

“…? Huh?”

The photojournalist turned around.

The only thing that stood before him was a pale-yellow hors- pony.

…Oooooooooookay then, the dark-haired man thought as he turned away from the creature to start walking again. I hate you too, Mother Nature.

“…Who…”

This time, Frank surely heard a voice. The man whipped around, his mind fully awoken from its once lazy state. Someone was there for sure. Maybe he was at someone else’s property? That actually made sense, especially if that someone was really rich. And if he was on a rich person’s property, then that could explain why there was a pink-and-yellow pony. Perhaps the pony belonged to that rich person’s daughter or androgynous son or something.

He personally just wished that there was someone around to make some form of contact with him.

“Hello?” The freelancer called out, slowly taking a few steps towards the creature as he glanced around his surroundings. “Is anyone there?”

No response. A few trees rustled against each other.

“…If I’m intruding in any of your property,” he continued with a loud voice, “then I’ll apologize! We can talk this out.”

His eyes failed to catch any notable figures popping out of the trees around him. Now that he thought about it, there were more trees at the direction he initially planned on heading towards.

“Who are you?”

He heard it again.

A voice.

A voice capable of speech.

“What was that?” Frank asked out loud, turning around in an attempt to search for the soft voice’s owner. “I can’t hear you!”

“Who are you?”

The photojournalist turned to the creature’s direction.

He swore he heard something come from its direction.

Where…?

“W-Who are you?”

Frank froze.

He swore he saw something really odd.

He… saw the pony’s mouth open and synchronize perfectly with a person’s voice.

How could one teach a mammal how to mimic the movements of a person’s mouth?

What was…?

“M-My name is… Fluttershy,” the pale-blonde pony said with a timid tone. "Who are... you?"

Frank West screamed with a pitch higher than a castrated Justin Bieber’s pitch.