Fallout Equestria: Slavers and Saints

by viper203

Rating: mature
Tags: Adventure, Crossover, Dark
Length: 6007

A slave from Fillydelphia is given freedom after fighting in "The Pit", and embarks, along with an ex-caravan guard, a merchant, and a history-obsessed bookworm, on a journey to save the past and the future.

A slave named Chord gains freedom from Fillydelphia after winning a fight in the pit. He finds a caravan, and befriends two ponies, named Collard Green and Diamond Heart. Collard's contract with the caravan company she works for has worn off, so she returning the settlement she grew up in. Chord and Diamond decide to follow, to make sure she arrives safely. They later find a historian obsessed with the Prewar city of Baltimare, and he joins their group.

This is the story of a buck whose choices could save a city's history, and possibly it's future too.

This fan fiction is based off of Kkat's Fallout: Equestria. It's a good read and gives what may be necessary backstory for this story.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-06-23 05:54:00 UTC

Prologue

  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.

Chapter 1: Out of the Frying Pan

I sat down hard on the cement outside the arena. I had won the pit. Well, a radiation and Blast fueled me had won the pit. I didn’t  know what to feel. I was free, free from Red Eye, free from Bitchbeak, free from 19 hours a day of uranium mining and metallurgy. I had new problems, however. I was a ghoul, and the meaning and importance of that was just starting to set in. I was so used to radiation killing me slowly, but now . . . I sighed, and stared at my rotted, necrotic hooves.

There was blood on those hooves. Bloodletter deserved what he got, but the others? They died quickly, I reminded myself. I shook my head, and moved through the street, slaves turning their heads to stare at me. I, in a drug-induced rage, had beat bloodletter. According to the whispers I overheard, that was a big deal. I wondered what Glass would think.

Glass. I had forgotten about him. I needed to free him. I was free, per the Pit’s rules, and I had a few hours to get gone from the city, then immunity wears off. I needed to ask around, find a way to free Glass. I looked around, and signed, stepping up to the least aggressive-looking slaver I could see, and was about to start when she held up a hoof and started talking.

“Listen, you’re free. That don’t mean we like you, and it don’t mean we want you. You got high on Shellshock, congrats. Too bad a buck who’s only a good fighter while strung out is worth jackshit to Red Eye. And most ponies here aren’t exactly fond of ghouls. So, I’ll be polite about it once.You say goodbye to your ‘friends’, then take whatever meager rags and food scraps you have, and beat it.  Got it, scab?” She didn’t look angry, just annoyed. I nodded, gulped, and turned to walk to the slave pen.

-

I flopped onto the mattress and sighed. I had no belongings, except a torn crimson bandana. I had gotten it off a dead slave who collapsed in the mines. No one tried to wake him up, as we all knew it was a lost cause. I took the bandana from under the mattress and tied it around my neck. Glass wasn’t there, unfortunately. He was the only pony who helped me while in Filly, now that I thought about. He was too nice for his own good, or it felt that way at least. I was glad I had met him. I didn’t have anything to write a note with, so he wouldn’t know where I was going, or what I would do. Truthfully, neither did I.

So, I lifted myself up and trotted slowly out of the city. The endlessly churning machine of Fillydelphia moved around me. Slaver worked and died under the oppressive glance of their masters, the heat and smog tearing at their lungs, all while the mastermind of the operation, the elusive Red Eye, spoke nonsense about helping the world, helping the future. I was leaving the place where most unfortunate souls did not. I had gotten lucky and survived the Pit. I had rotted flesh and three dead ponies to show for it.

I needed a place to go, to get supplies. Red Eye didn’t own all of Fillydelphia, and the expansive suburbs to the southeast seemed a good place to find supplies. I walked to the large cement sculpture that had once been a highway, but was now the east Fillydelphia exit, called the Snake Pit by some slaves, for its winding and serpentine appearance.. I walked through the massive metal gates erected by Red Eye’s army. A sniper aimed a shot at me, but stopped when he saw who I was. All the guards were given my appearance and a warning to not shoot or attempt to capture till the day was done. I had several hours to leave the city, and then I was at the wasteland’s mercy.

-

Speaking of the wasteland’s mercy, the ever present cloud layer rumbled as I trotted through the maze of houses, and a thick rain came down. Naturally, I looked for shelter. Most of the houses in this area were missing walls and roofs. I shivered and sped up, trying to find a suitable shelter.

The first building that caught my eye was a large library. A sculpture of a scrawny buck reading stood in front of the shattered glass doors. A large flowerbed stood drowned and withered in a circle around the statue, and dead grass formed a small sitting area around the sculpture. A bronze plaque under the sculpture read “‘And though the writer’s words may have most kind intent, the body of the pages are tinged with malcontent. And so the speaker's speech is skipped with nary a complaint, to most graves on most days, but those made slavers from saints.’ -Murky Bysshe Shelley”. Who the hell was Murky Bysshe Shelley? I shuddered from the cold, and hurried inside, the large bronze letters above the door informing me it was the “Tubmane Memorial Library”. I paid little attention to the title, the door slamming behind me.

The main room was massive, with a smooth marble floor and a stone pillars. It looked like it cost a fortune to build, but the sturdy construction wasn’t just for show, but durability as well. A mare’s skeleton greeted me at the front desk, slouched over a terminal. A poster on the wall showed a lavender mare I believed was twilight sparkle, with the caption “READ.”

Past the main desk, stretched a maze of towering bookshelves. I let out a low whistle. The sheer scale of this library was mind-boggling, they must have had thousands of books. Most of the books were in good condition, surprisingly. I felt like it was a good idea to stay here till the storm passed. So I trotted around looking for a good book.

I found a skeleton first. The bones looked like they were newer than the others I had seen , and a I thought it must have been someone from Filly. This is mainly because they were wearing slave’s barding, and had a bag full of Slag and Blast. The skeleton was likely some slave junkie who died eating the blue-green Slag rocks like candy. I sighed, and took the bag, dumping out the Slag, but keeping the Blast. As detrimental as they were long-term, the chem did wonder in battles.

I looked around more for a book before find two I liked. The books were the collected works of one “Edgar Talon Poe”, and of “Murky Bysshe Shelley” who I presumed the plaque outside was referring to. I opened Shelley’s book and slowly read the forward.

“Murky Bysshe Shelley was an extraordinary poet, and an Equestrian hero, responsible for the freeing of over 300 slaves from Zebra hold. His works have tendered the hearts of foals and soldiers alike, and they will continue to do so, for as long as there are ponies willing to read. The Equestrian Society for Literature hopes to forever save Shelley’s work safe, and still holds the original copies of all of his poems in the Baltimare Literature Museum.

In honor of Murky Bysshe Shelley, Hero, Poet, and Great Soul.”

-

Shelley was a good poet, and I fell asleep reading through a sonnet titled Ozymanedias. When I awoke, the rain had passed, leaving a smell of ozone in the air, that had seeped into the library through the broken windows and open door. I coughed and slowly lifted my head, then the rest of my body. I grabbed the bag of psycho, and the two books, and headed towards the door. Passing the front desk, I turned to the mare’s skeleton there, and levitated out the books.

“Sorry, but these might be a bit late.” I said, chuckling. That was an insanely morbid joke, and I almost felt bad about making it. I sighed at the dead mare, and stepped back to the door, ambient daylight filtering through clouds. Another gloomy day in the wasteland, the bitter side of my brain sighed. Hey, we’re not in Filly anymore. That counts for something. The cheery side piped up. Sure, but Glass is still there. We left him. And so the internal argument continued relentlessly as I trotted through the ruins.

I eventually made it out of the maze of suburban ruin, and found myself on an endless stretch of pre war highway that cut through the suburb and shot around the outside of the city before joining the other roads at the Snake Pit. The asphalt was bleached a pale grey, and gravel lay strewn throughout the road, along with blackened shells that were likely once sky chariots.

I soon took out the book about “Edgar Talon Poe”, who was apparently a griffon writer who lived in Baltimare, and had a monument there honoring him. Wait, Shelley lived in Baltimare before the war as well. Guess it was a nice place for writing. I flipped around the book, looking for a story to interest me, before settling upon a story named “The Casque of Amanetillado”, a chilling tale about a mare murdering a friend by chaining them up in a wine cellar and putting up a brick wall around them, sealing them in.

I leafed through some more of Poe’s story; a poem about a black phoenix haunting a buck whose wife had died, or a story of a colt who plans to murder an old buck, but guilt drives the colt mad not long after committing the act. These and more filled the browning pages of the book. Poe was a terrifying writer, and each story sent chills down my spine. I had no idea how far I’d gone, but at least a couple hours had past, and I felt a bit sluggish.

It was then, tiredly trotting through the endless stretch of asphalt, I saw the caravan. The large train of brahmin, and the guards accompanying appeared, at a glance, very well armed. They’d have to be, this close to Fillydelphia. Slaving runs came by occasionally. I looked at my own rags, and knew I looked like an escaped slave. I really hoped this caravan held only good ponies. I trotted down the hill I on to the highway overpass the caravan was moving quickly through.

“Hey guys! Don’t shoot, I’m friendly!” I shouted out the guards, who were giving me a puzzled look. The guards were wearing thick metal armor, and each had twin assault rifle holstered in battle saddles. An earth pony mare who stood slightly taller than the rest, with a greasy black coat and a broccoli green mane and tail, stepped towards me and loudly asked:

“You an escaped slave?” She had a worried look on her face. I smiled at her and shrugged.

“Something like that. You ain’t in that market, are you?” I asked nervously. The caravan hadn’t halted for our conversation, so I trotted briskly to catch up, continuing my conversation with the guard mare,

“No, slavery’s dirty buisness if you ask me. We’re just doing a supply . You look like you don’t where you’re goin’. If you can pull our weight, you can travel with us.” She smirked at me. I had no plans, and she was right, I didn’t know where I going. I sighed and shrugged. Catching a completely innocent look of her flank, I saw it was a . . . It was a . . .  stalk of lettuce and a rifle crossed. Huh.

“I got nothing planned. Sure, I’ll join the caravan. Name’s Chord.”

“Collard Green. And ‘fore you ask, the name’s for the mark, not the mane. Make that joke and I’ll make sure you don’t make it again.

“Sheesh, Collard. Chill out.” An ivory mare with a fuschia mane and a quirky accent spoke up from in front of us. “He didn’t say nothin ‘bout it. Sorry, Chord, she’s a bit touchy about her mane.”

“Duly noted. And you would be?” I asked the unicorn mare, who wasn’t wearing guard armor, but instead a large cloth barding with dozens of pockets. She must have been one of the merchants for the caravan.

“Name’s Diamond Heart. Not often we see ponies from Filly, even on this route.”

“Well, you’re stuck with me.” I chuckled.

“We could just shoot ya’.” Collard piped up. I looked at her trying to determine if she was joking. She held a damn good poker face. I frowned at her and sighed.

“Okaaaay then. Diamond, where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?” I inquired, turning to the merchant mare. She was stifling a giggle, which made me think Collard was joking. She coughed, and quickly regained her composure.

“I’m a- I’m from a island to the east. Most ponies call it Tales.” She said flatly. “I think it had a sister island called Heads ‘fore the war, but it flooded an’ sank. Collard won’t tell me a word of it, but I think she’s from some settlement to the southeast.”

“Huh. Sounds like an interesting place.” I put a hoof to my chin, and decided to voice a question that had been bugging me. “Say Diamond, what is the caravan running, and where to?”

“Oh, nothin’ much. We’re just runnin’ some rad-x and radaway, takin’ it to a settlement in Manehattan called Arbu. Nice little town. They eat a lot of radigator, and the meds help them stomach it. Radigator's delicious, and I think you should try some while we're there. We’re . . . heading to Tenpony after that, but they don’t take kindly to ghouls, sorry to say.”

“Huh.” I muttered. Well, there it was, the crushing reality. I was a ghoul, so a select few hated me. Not much different from being a slave though, and this way I never had to worry about radiation. Hell, an idiot might consider myself lucky. An idiot like the kind who dumps radiation on himself to win a fight? Hush, brain.

“You say ‘huh’ a lot, ya know that?” Diamond asked jokingly. I smiled and playfully responded:

“Huh, I guess so. Huh” She laughed, and I think Collard broke into a very slight smirk.

A pale beige unicorn buck in thick leather armor with a sandy white mane stepped up to Collard.

“Uh, miss Green? I have a bad feeling about this stretch of road. Think DJ Pon3 said it was a popular spot for raiders. Maybe we should send some guards ahead, scout the cliffs ‘round the road?” He had serious concern in his voice.

“You worry too much Rust. If it bothers you that much though, tell Magnum and Aces to scout ahead.”

“Very well, ma’am.” The buck said politely, before ducking back. He was lucky he moved too, because a bullet rang out and smacked into the ground where he was.

“He’s too smart for his own good.” Collard muttered before shouting “Raiders! Everypony, to arms!” To arms? what was she, a sea captain? I galloped forward to Diamond, who was desperately trying to untie two hunting rifles from a sling over her back. She finally got them free, and I quickly levitated one up to me.

I searched the low cliffs around the area for a sniper, but noticed instead a half dozen ponies in raider garb, holed up behind a turned over train car not far from the road. A guard mare next to me grunted, and took aim. She was met with the same sniper shots that narrowly missed Rust. She wasn’t nearly as lucky, and the left side of her face was splayed apart by the shot, a guttural and animal scream let out as she collapsed.

“Shit! Magnum!” I heard Collard shout. I realized I had an advantage against the raiers. An advantage in the form a syringe wrapped in red tape. I smirked, and without thinking, stabbed the needle into my arm. A sensation swept through me, and I felt my muscles twitch, rage filling my mind and blurring my vision.

Fuck yeah, time to kill shit.

“I’m charging the fuckers!” I screamed to Collard, and I swear I heard her mutter “Fuckin’ Idiot” under her breath. I ran straight at the raiders. I zigzagged to avoid sniper fire, but halfway to the train car I was still struck on the side of the flank, the shot grazing. It was barely noticeable under the psychotic rage of Blast. I neared, and saw a raider firing a small caliber pistol at me. I felt shots hit my chest, and one grazed my heart. If not for the hydra in the Blast, I’d be dead. I felt my innards healing as the chems flushed through my systems.

“Fucking Zombies!” The raider shouted. I aimed the rifle at him, and a swift shot the jaw silenced him as he gagged and squirmed on the ground, clutching at his throat. I jumped over him, and straight onto a raider mare, who I turned and bucked in the chest, a resounding crack proving the kick’s success. She clutched her breast before collapsing.

2 down, 4 to go. I grinned at the remaining raiders. One of them, shaking, raised a pistol to me. I telepathically grabbed the dead mare’s weapon, a large lead pipe, and pushed it hard into the bridle grip for the pistol, slamming it into the raider’s jaw. He let out a large choke, and sputtered, trying to spit out the gun. I brought the pie around, and it hit the back of his skull, dropping him instantly. I aimed a few more rifle shots, and killed two more, leaving just one.

He stared at me, terrified. I cocked my head, and trotted up to him. He had a shovel, which he held telepathically. I aimed a shot and blew off his horn. He let out a morbid scream of utter and absolute agony. I stepped to him.

“Hello.” I said, patiently.

“Fuckin’ Zombie! Just kill me!” He wailed.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, such language. Guess I do have to kill you though." I raised the shovel he had to his neck, the veins squirming around the blade. “Sorry.” I said in a singsong tone, shoving the blade up into his neck, splitting his jaw and cutting through his head. He stopped screaming and dropped, but a quiet moaning persisted. I turned and saw the raider who I had attacked first, clutching at the hole in his jaw, struggling to breathe. I sighed, and stepped up to his frail form. Silently, I raised a hoof, and brought it down on his skull, the contents spattering out.

It was then the high wore off. I was no long the Blast god who could kill anyone and anything. No, I was just a stupid ghoul with a half dozens bullets in him. I coughed, blood drooling out, and collapsed. The last thing I heard was Collard once again mutter “Fuckin’ Idiot”.

-

Everything hurt. Everything. I felt a hollow, dull pain in my chest cavity, and the wound on my flank stung under the bandages. The rotten ghoul flesh that formed my crimson coat felt painful everywhere, and I could feel my stringy white mane coming out in tufts.

My eyes groggily slid open, taking in the surroundings. I was in a ruined shop, the front window blown out. I was lying in a puddle of water I was certain was radioactive. Collard sit in a small wooden chair across the room.

“Collard? Where are we?” I managed to slur together.

“Weeell, after your ludacris rampage on the raiders, you passed out from trauma. I must say, you’re the ballsiest, stupidest bastard I’ve ever met. What the hell was that?”

“That” I started slowly, “is what happens when you take Blast.”

“Well, it was damned impressive, whatever drug you were on. I’d say it was a tad cruel, but they were raiders. Speaking of, for beating those sons of bitches, Diamond says that if you stay with the caravan till it gets to Arbu, you can wait there while we go to Tenpony. We’ll give you a tenth of the caps. Deal?”

“Yeah. . . Listen, mind if I look around?”

“No, just be careful not to wake anypony. I’m watching guard, so tell anything suspicious you see.”

“Will do.”

I stood up slowly, and trotted to the back of the store. The room was a large storage closet. I looked for anything useful, but found only bits and pieces of scrap metal and electronics. I wondered what the shop was pre-war. I shrugged to myself, and stepped through the back entrance into a small concrete patio with a huge metal can.

I had seen the cylinders before, they were personal atomic shelters. From what I’d seen, they didn’t work. I trotted up to the cylinder and a skeletal hoof sticking out the door, jamming it open. I hit the “open” button on the side, and the door slid away, reveal three pony skeletons, all huddled in the tube. I shook my head at the sight, before noticing something very peculiar about one of the bodies. It wore a device on its wrist, one I had seen before. Redeye wore one of them. It was a pipbuck. I let out a low whistle at the machine, slowly slid it off the skeleton's foreleg.

I didn’t care much for them, but I hoped Collard would accept the gift. I trotted into the shop to see Collard staring blankly at a wall. She swiveled her neck to me when I entered.

“Hey Collard. Found this outback. Thought you might like it.” I smiled gently at her, and levitated the pipbuck over.

“Oh, nice. Thank you, Chord.” She beamed at me. I just chuckled.

“You did save my life.” I said gratefully.

“Technically, Ace saved your life. How ‘bout a trade. You play guitar?” My ears perked at that. Guitar?

“Yeah. You got one?” I inquired cautiously.

“Yep. Acoustic. Wanna trade?” She smirked at me.

“Hell yes.” I hadn’t had a guitar in years. They don’t exactly let slaves engage in artistic interest. You would never find sheet music or a sketchbook in Fillydelphia. That was behind me now. I smiled to myself.

“Thanks for letting me join the caravan, Collard.” I said gently. She just smiled.

“Thanks for coming along, Chord. And . . . Thanks for not joking about my hair.”

“Well, hair that green is no laughing matter.”

“Damnit.” She said, lowering her head.

“You walked into it.” I reasoned. It was really green.

“Yeah, yeah.”

-

Footnote: level up!

Perk added: havin' a blast: you can handle your stuff when it comes to Blast. Effects 25% stronger, and withdrawal 25% weaker, but these only take effect if addicted.

Quest perk: Radical!: you've been exposed to lifetimes worth of radiation in mere seconds, turning you into a ferocious zomb- into a ghoul. Radiation heals you when you're low on health, but you better be prepared for prejudice. -5 to speech, -10 to barter, and unique conversation choices.