Fallout: Equestria - Shattered Dreams

Chapter 1: Of Old Acquaintances

Memories are little reminders of just how badly we’ve messed up.

What can you say when you have nothing in common. No goals, no motivations. I have never been the most social of ponies, and making new acquaintances was always too complicated. ‘Smile more’ or ‘do not scowl so much’ are the sort of comments others would make before the war. During and after, it was more ‘stop stabbing him’. But I digress. If there is anything that I hate more than meeting a new pony, it would have to be renewing contact with an old one. Especially ones who are not any better at socializing than I am.
~From the Journal of Nevermore

I walk down the streets of Manehatten, my hooves clipping off the hard pavement, kicking debris and snow into the air behind me. It had been many years since I had last been here, yet I still remembered the path, remembered this place. I look towards the covered sky, snow falling down in gentle sheets, sticking to my hat, my coat, my mane. I remember the snow in Manehatten, not as it is now, but rather how it was then. The lights in the air, the bustle of the city... companions I once had walking around me, talking to each other, joking, having fun to break the grim realities of our day to day. I remember that day, I was looking at the shops, remembering the stores in Trottingham, debating a new hat, when a snowball struck me squarely on the back of the head. The Skyrates stopped, all of them falling to dead silence as I slowly turned my head to see who had done the deed. To the pony, they stepped back to reveal the culprit. To the pony, they pointed to the Captain, even as he wordlessly dropped another snowball from open hoof.

With the speed and natural grace of my kind, I whirled, my winter coat flapping at the sudden movement. Skilfully, I gathered the snow before me, then lashed out, completing the graceful spin with my rear leg launching the hardened ball of snow at his face. He took it, either unable to dodge or unwilling to face my wrath if he avoided it... or perhaps to try to bring some levity, even as the armored dress under my cloak settled back down, the knives tucked away clinking in their hidden sheathes. I watch him as he falls, almostly overly dramatically, like a bad actor for a sappy drama. Yet, despite my turn and my almost arrogant sneer, the corner of my mouth turned up, only for an instant, into a smile.

But what are memories? It is still cold, quiet, and empty. The snow burying the dead, the ruins, the wreckage, yet despite the beauty and serenity, there is nothing but death, decay, and rot hidden below the surface. I shake my head to clear it, banishing the morose thoughts from my mind. This was not a time to be distracted, not a time to reminisce. After all, even though the area is shrouded in an almost lethal silence, I am not so foalish as to believe that it is safe. Several factions had taken up positions over the blasted ruins, and I never affiliated with any of them. Then again, most ponies despise ghouls for what we are, and my particular variety of ghoul made it... more complicated. Being a Canterlot ghoul made my very existence a danger to those around me, coupled with my lack of charm or desire for company. By the same token, however, those aware of my type would be wary of a direct fight. Spying a Ministry of Magic poster, I drift over to it, carefully looking for graffiti or excessive damage. Worn around the edges, warped by the moisture, yet still... relatively intact. Excellent. I eye the mare on the poster critically. I had never spoken to her, even though I had seen her in the flesh before the world ended. Polite, proper, friendly and smart beyond most of her peers. Even if I did not like her myself, I was forced to at least respect her, even if her incessant friendship prattle was enough to drive one mad. With care, I peel it off the wall before rolling it up and gently placing it into my bag. Another link to my past, a memory that few these days can claim. I don’t know why I still collect these, always looking for a cleaner, better copy of the posters to adorn my walls. Yet here I am, rolling up a poster with Twilight’s smiling face on it to plaster onto my walls later.

I stop suddenly, twitching my ear as I fade backwards towards one of the shadows between the walls, my eye gleaming past a rent in the mask I wear on my face. Voices I don’t recognize and hooves slowly pounding down the asphalt road approach me. I imagine that I can smell them, before I can see them. Raiders by marks and by equipment. Armor pounded out of whatever scrap they could manage to find. A scowl crosses my face even as I consider myself fortunate. Nopony to protect this time, no charges under my care. I may despise raiders, and what they stand for, yet even I know that I cannot possibly remove them all by myself. No, there was no need to fight. No reason to end lives in a futile attempt to make a change to the blasted Wasteland. After all, I am just one pony, and hardly a paragon at that. Opening my wings with all the noise of a hushed whisper, I rise up into the night sky, leaving the raiders to their business, even as I attend to mine. A broken tower lies before me, a section not accessible to the ground below. It is not much, worn, battered, and shattered from the effects of a megaspell over a century ago, yet... it has a roof, walls, and more importantly, it was mine.

The Loft, so different yet so akin to others of its kind, locations I had hidden in any place I intended to stay a while, full of Old World relics, books, posters, and other possessions I had no desire to carry around with myself on a daily basis. The stallion from before had died retrieving relics from one of my Lofts. It was a location just like this one, but located further south near the ruins of Fillydelphia. I was surprised they had found it, surprised they had bypassed or deactivated the mines I had scattered to discourage visitors. Furthermore, I was surprised they had found a way into the area, since it was supposed to have been cut off from the ground bound. How lucky they must have felt, finding a stockpile of Old World technology, guns, and caps. How unlucky were they when they invaded my home the day I had finally returned to it.

I landed amidst them like a vengeful wraith, clad in shadow, my breath hissing ominously behind my mask. The leader had tried to argue with me, claiming that they had found all of this, and by rights it was theirs. The unspoken yet implied threat looming, that there were five of them, and only one of me. I had debated letting them go, if they left the items, yet the location wouldn’t be secure if any others knew about it. My decision was made for me as the leader reached for her pistols, telekinetic magic lighting up with a flash. It ended just as quickly, a knife burying itself into one of her pretty lavender eyes. The look on her face, of terror and surprise, is one that had etched its way into my mind through countless battles, through endless wars, and through constant death. The knowledge in her eyes that her young life was about to be stripped from her still burns into my mind. Yet, for all my long years, for my decades of combat, ponies can yet still surprise me. The large stallion, clad in the patched remains of an Equestrian uniform, charged me, screaming for the others to run. I tell myself, that if this was during the war I would have avoided him. That age, condition, and weariness have worn me down, dulled my reflexes from where they were at the peak of the war. Perhaps I only tell myself this to salve my pride.

He bears me off the ledge they had built, into the waiting darkness, into the cruel grip of gravity. He knows how far down it goes, just as I know I built my loft on the 23rd floor of the shattered hotel. The stallion grips onto me tightly, clamping my wings against the side of my body as I try to wriggle free, try to escape his death grasp. I honestly don’t know if a fall of this distance would kill me, and death by falling is not something one of the skyborn usually consider. I twist and pull, fighting to break free of his monstrous strength, even as he clamps down even harder. A swift knife into his side, coupled with a solid kick are enough to finally break me free. Even as my wings flared open to arrest my descent, I hear the splat of the solid pony hitting the more solid ground. Still, he did what he intended to do, delaying me while the others fled, though perhaps he hoped to finish me. But now I had targets to hunt. And I am nothing if not relentless.

I shake the memories from my mind, realized I had zoned out again, my mind wandering to what was, rather than what is. Careless and sloppy, and one day perhaps I will pay for reminiscing. My hoof drifts over the words carefully written on the wall with my flowing script. “The Loft”. Shaking my head, and snorting derisively, I let the mask drop from my face, the heavy rubber sloshing to the ground as the water held inside absorbed the Pink Cloud I exhale. Thin wisps of pink curl past my muzzle, my breathing shallow to avoid gasing my temporary home. After checking to make sure there were no surprises hidden away and putting my new poster up, I find my way towards the thin blankets and rolls forming a makeshift bed. Dropping my bags to the ground carefully, I close my eyes, surrendering to the quiet embrace of troubled sleep, haunted by memories and dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~

I stand on the front of the airship, the Flickerjack. The wind blows through my mane, cold and harsh as we plow through another cloud bank. Though I’ve worn them countless times, my armored dress and the knives stashed in it weigh heavily on me. Not for their weight, designed as they are to minimize the impact to my agility, but rather the burden they impose on my heart. I am Nevermore, the dour, the stoic. Yet here, in the dead of the night, alone by myself, I can think of the doubts and fears that I hide from all the others. None know anything but the facade of the mare obsessed with the war, with the killing, with the death. A facade even to myself. I do not allow myself to think of such things normally, but in the quiet, in the stillness, these thoughts invade my mind like a poison eating away at my mind. Those thoughts born in blood and death, of both my friends and my foes. This war was destroying me, even as I fought to destroy others. I knew that we were right, that our cause was just, yet... is the price we’re paying too high? If it were just my destruction on the horizon, I would consider it a just price, but there’s the others here with me. The few that I dare to care about, though I mask my feelings with scorn and derision. The moon shines her light down upon me, revealing glistening down my cheeks and the corner of my eyes, revealing the tears I dare not shed while others can see, the tears I hide within myself, so that none may know the sorrows I bear, the fears that consume me. However, I am Nevermore. I will fight as I must, I will kill what I must. I will do what I must, as always.

~~~~~~~~~~

Dawn breaks, scattering light across my humble abode. I wake, abruptly shifting from sleep to readiness with the experience earned on hundreds of battlefields. Carefully, I begin to preen my feathers and comb my mane and tail, ever mindful of my appearance despite my condition. While I may be living in the hellish wastes as a cursed corpse, I do not have to look like that. One advantage of the necromatic regeneration, I suppose. My body is in much better shape than it has any right to be after all this time, though still wracked with rot and decay. Finishing, I look over at the reason I’m here right now with disdain, the book sitting by itself away from my journals, on top of a battered old radio set. I never liked using technology. I swear it has an aversion to me as well, the blasted things never working the way I wanted it too, even before the war. Thankfully, my dour disposition and tendency to hit others made it unlikely for others to pick on me more than once for my technological ineptitude.

Carefully, I pick up the worn and battered book, flipping through the coded entries before locating the one I wanted. Each page was encrypted, and each encryption was different, based on the page number and color of markings on the pages. After all, this was not a journal, but rather a log. A log of all the contact information I had maintained for ponies I’ve met throughout the Wastes. My eyes drift over the old pages, picking out the information I needed, loathe though I am to contact this particular mare. Still, there is nopony better at knowing things they have no business knowing, an insatiable curiosity, a brilliant mind, and the privilege of ready resources creating one of the Wasteland’s best information brokers, though she’d hate being called that.

I had a few dealings with her before, and her price was always the same. Knowledge and information. It didn’t matter what it was, only that it was something she didn’t already know. Thankfully, I was a walking repository of ancient knowledge, and careful enough to not reveal all I know when I have the displeasure of meeting her. If not for the knowledge I contain, I am fairly certain she would have tried to dissect me the first time we met nose to nose...

With a disgruntled sigh, I lift the radio, tuning it to the required frequency. No smoke, fire, or explosions of any sort, so that’s a good thing. My voice rasps out, cold, harsh, and full of irritation. “This is Nevermore. Requesting an exchange of information, Scribe Promise Keeper.” And that was it. She had promised all those years ago that she would listen, in case I contacted once more... how long ago was it? I stay near the radio as I start counting back the time to when I last contacted her, my concentration broken by the crackling of the radio.

“Nevermore... was it? This is Scribe Sacred Oath... what did you want with my grandmother?”

Oh.