Fallout Equestria: Slavers and Saints

  I'm gonna take a shot in the dark and assume none of y'all reading have ever been hanging trepidatiously over a machine designed to be hot enough to melt metal. It is an unlikely occurrence, albeit less so for slaves.

  But, here I was, at the mercy of a mercenary with a reputation for racism, sexism, and general sadism. She was an insane griffon, I was a male pony and a slave. You see the problem? And, according to this psycho, I'd disobeyed an order.

  "Disobeying an order" was really just slaver speak for 'fuck you', and everybody in Filly knew it, but we're slaves, so we don't stand up for ourselves if we appreciate any of the following items: our sanity, our genitals not being paste, our ability to talk, and our life.

  I had been allowed to keep most of the items, but the griffon, affectionately named "Bitchbeak" by my slave compatriots, had decided death was a reasonable punishment for me existing.

  I've always been smart, and I really, really, reeeeally hoped I could talk my way out of being melted in a blast furnace. Becoming slag was low on my list of what classifies as a good time.

  "Listen! If you kill me, Stern'll get pissed. I've done jackshit!" I screamed at her, the heat from the furnace already grabbing at my hind legs. It was hotter than hot.

  "Fuckin' stuff it, scab or I'll cut your balls off before I kill you. You didn't do anything wrong, huh?" She then shot herself in the left talon. As I said: Fucking. Psycho. "You fucking shot me, scab. I think that counts."

  Shit. Well, time for straw grasping.

  "Please, don't kill me! I'll do anything! I'll . . . I'll fight in the pit!"

  She stared for a second, then burst out laughing.

  "You- you want to fight in the pit? You'd be better off in the blast furnace, but the pit?! That sounds fucking hilarious. Alright scab. I'll let you live, at least till the next event. Then I get to see your pathetic pony ass get torn straight off while you bleed. And don't talk to me like that again or you lose your tongue and your balls. Scab" she spat out the last part.

   Well, I was alive, which is considerably better than being melted into steel. I might die in the pit, but I'd take what I could get.

-

  The next event was in a few days, and I needed to rest after the ordeal with Bitchbeak.

  Three hours of sleep and then back to work. I could almost consider the pit a break, as I just wanted freedom, and I was currently scavenging leftover uranium, a job, needless to say, almost guaranteed to kill you before it gets you freedom.

  I had worked there for two weeks, and was already suffering some bad radiation poisoning. My coat was shedding, and my skin starting to flake and peel. I wasn't far from becoming a ghoul. I would love to get outta here before then, and the pit might just give me a good shot at it. I'd never killed, but it didn't seem difficult when somepony was trying to kill you.

  I lied in a bunk that smelled unclean in all possible ways. Slave quarters were never nice, but I've been around, and Fillydelphia is likely the worst conditions of all of them. That's slavery for ya'.

  A pony walked in behind me and flopped onto another mattress.

  "Ain'tcha 'sposed ta be dead er some such?" It was Eyeglass, a grime covered teal buck with an accent thick enough to cut through. He was also nice, which was rarer than sunshine in Fillydelphia. I should also mention he was gelded, and a Pegasus with a broken wing that would likely never heal without proper care. You can't get proper care anywhere in Filly. Yeah, yeah, he was quite the character.

  "Soon, Glass, soon. Fighting in the pit in a few days." I said, joking somewhat.

  "Welp, guess I gotta teach ya how not ta die." He didn't look happy with the idea of me in the pit.

  "Think that counts as disobeying an order. Bitchbeak told me I had to die. Can't just not follow orders, after all." We both chuckled at that.

  "Jokin' aside now Chord, I should prob'ly tell ya some basic info an' know-how on the pit. Ya ever been?"

  I should mention, my name is Dissonant Chord, but that's a mouthful, so most just call me Chord. I played guitar before I was a slave, and so, you know, musical talent = musical cutie mark = musical name or whatever.

  Dissonant chord means a chord that sounds bad. I never got the reason it was dissonant. Maybe I'll become a raider bard, someday. Name would make sense then. But enough nonsense about my name.

"Ever been to Pit? No, I'm not big on bloodsports." I told Glass.

  "Well, then why'dya sign up fer the pit?" He asked, irritated.

  "Bitchbeak threatened to drop me into a fuckin' blast furnace that's why."

  "Huh. Well, that's not surprising, the bitch she is." He said. It was, sad to say, not uncommon for Bitchbeak to go berserk on the nearest slave buck.

  "Yeah. Anyway, what tips you got for the pit?"

-

  The next few days were a mix of backbreaking metallurgy, dangerous uranium mining, and anxious waiting. I slept less than usual, two hours instead of three, and practiced fighting with Glass. The slavers didn't care, as they probably thought we were just fighting over food scraps.

  When the time came, I felt as ready as I could feel.

  The Pit was an arena. Two teams. Last teams with ponies wins. Winner of a round fights a new opponent. You fight until you die. There are six ponies on each team. You go in unarmed but pressure plates all over the place activate large barrels above the arena, filled with weapons and everything from wasps to just radioactive sludge. If you win, you're free.

  I got the feeling I wasn't going to win. I knew I just being overly nervous. I'd fought animals before, and I knew magic. Well, some magic. I doubted basic telekinesis and a voice amplification spell would save me in a fight, but hey, here's to hoping.

I was number 3, the median competitor on my team. Nobody around me looked tough, just slaves who volunteered, hoping to get free, a lot like me.

The announcer started speaking, but I fazed him out. I was scared, very scared, but I had the feeling I might survive. I needed to focus.

The first pony on our side was a violet mare, the first pony on theirs an orange mare. Our team won.

The violet mare was a damn good fighter. She was a unicorn, and she used a spell whenever she bucked that amplified the force. She was a skilled fighter, and I hoped she could take out most of them.

However, she survived only three rounds, all ending in less than a minute. I zoned out until the fourth match, but then payed close attention.

The arena was scattered with various weapons and a liberal helping of glowing green sludge. The mare stood in a battle stance, a large spear in her magic's hold.

The announcer gave an intro to her opponent that I didn't listen to very intently. He was called "The Bloodletter" by most, a name that was horribly tacky and horribly cliche. He was a unicorn with a glistening magenta coat and a white mane cut into a Mohawk. His cutie mark was a dagger dripping blood. Hell of a talent. I thought to myself.

As the round started he charged into the mare, blood in his eyes. He grazed her flank with a sword as she rolled to avoid a direct hit. Bloodletter picked up three swords with magic as the mare attempted to skewer him with the spear. He shot all three swords, and the spear, straight at the mare's neck, and her eyes widened as her head was thrown off her body.

Bloodletter let out a scream of rage.

The second pony on our was a young olive mare. She looked terrified, and I could see her shaking as she stepped into the arena.

It was over in an instant. Bloodletter gave a quick swipe with two of the swords, and the mare's head rolled away. That left me to fight against the behemoth. Shit.

Luckily, I had what might be considered a plan. But it was a serious stretch. I would die if it didn't work, I might not die if it did. I sighed, and stepped into the pit.

Bloodletter swung the spear at me, and I barely had time to roll away, landing  in a puddle of sludge.

I needed to act fast, so I quickly charged forward, eyeing the floor of the arena. Yes! I said to myself when I found a pressure plate. I jumped and landed hard on the plate.

A barrel above my head opened releasing the green sludge and . . . Needles. I didn't move off the plate as the sludge rained down on me. That was definitely radiation. I prayed this would work. I felt flesh warp and rot as the sludge slowly killed me. I was ghoulifying. That . . . was in the plan. I said it was stretch. What wasn't in the plan was a needle that hit me in the back of my neck.

You see, there are four popular street chems around only really in Fillydelphia. Rift, Slag, Gator, and Blast. Rift jacks up the metabolism and causes an effect that makes time feel slower. It also caused cardiac arrest 30% of the time.

Slag was like dash, except it wasn't made from Brahmin dung. It was fermented pony feces cut with industrial chemicals. A cheap and quick high that'll cause your lungs to break in a few hours of sustained exposure.

Gator is a med-x derivative brought over from Stalliongrad. It's cut with industrial chemicals most often, and causes addicts to die in weeks.

Finally, Blast, sometimes called Shellshock, is a drug that makes you really strong, and really fucking angry. It's stampede, dash, hydra, and alcohol of choice cooked, cut with industrial chemicals, and put in a syringe. I've seen a guard on Blast beat a slave to paste in seconds.

I was on Blast. I was a fucking god.

To accompany the high from the chems, my newly ghoulified body was still soaking in radiation. I'd learned that ghouls with sustained exposure became stronger. That was the plan. Blast really, really helped.

I felt the drug and the rads coursing through me. I was glowing, green light shining from my eyes. I let out a feral scream, grabbed a sword jutting out of the ground, and charged.

Bloodletter held just a moment of hesitation, and I took the moment to strike, pouncing on him, throwing him on his back. I had inequity strength, and the anger to boot. I raised the blade to Bloodletter's neck, and activated the voice amplification spell.

"Those . . . That live by the sword," I started, slowly sliding the blade just beneath Bloodletter's neck. My voice was deep, with a resonant echo similar to a dozen ponies speaking at once. "Die . . . By the sword."

Bloodletter's neck rolled into the sludge. His body did not follow.

I raised my forehooves into the air, taking in the cheering crowd. I lifted a Blast, and shot it into my arm, a mad grin on my face.

The next pony was a scrawny green buck that went down with a single blow to the neck, and after him was an old looking pale mare with bright scarlet eyes.

She pulled a dagger from somewhere and got my flank as I past her. I growled and charged straight at her. Then I noticed she had a pipbuck.

I'd seen the wrist worn computers before, but never on slaves. My Blast addled mind had only one thought: Want.

I let a crooked grin form as I lifted a spear, and sent through the mare's chest. She looked at me, horrified. As I stood in the blood of the fallen. The blast wore off, and I almost collapsed, the radiation being all that kept me going. I realized what I had done. I was a ghoul. I had killed two likely innocent ponies. I had won though. I survived.

Their all in the pit by choice. I said to myself as the crowd cheered. This was horrible, the whole thing.

I sighed, lowered my head, and trotted to the gate.