FALLOUT: EQUESTRIA - THE LAST STRAW
War never changes. Love also never changes.
I still remember the smell of her hair. After all these years, that's the thing I miss the most. That hay-and-cotton-candy smell. I fear I may someday forget even that, but they say that the sense of smell is the one closest linked to memory, so maybe I've got a good chance of holding on to that dear memory for at least another hundred years.
She wasn't always this way – this sad pile of bones sitting here beside me. Once upon a time, her smile could light up a room, or a continent. Once upon a time, she was the living embodiment of laughter. I worry sometimes that ponies, should they ever get it together – should they ever rebuild - will look back at what became of her, and know only Pinkie Pie, Ministry Mare, the Face That Was Always Watching. Forever.
The thought keeps me up at night. That wasn't the real Pinkie. That was just the face of war.
The real Pinkie Pie would do anything in the whole world to bring a smile to just one face. The real Pinkie Pie would throw you a party, even if you were a grumpy gus, a bully, and a thief, in the bright hope that you might change your attitude. The real Pinkie would laugh in the face of danger, and sing a cheerful song no matter what.
Sometimes I think about what the history books will say about her, should ponies ever get to a point where history books are a thing again. I can picture it now - some smug, sweater-wearing, know-it-all academic writing about the camps, and the propaganda, and giant Pinkie balloons, and the horrorshow that Fillydelphia became. I can see him proclaiming from on high that that was Pinkie Pie - that that was the sum of her accomplishments.
He doesn't even exist yet, and I'd still kill that son of a bitch if I could! Leap right up into his fucking nostril and stab him in the brain.
Pinkie Pie was no monster. She was the brightest, sweetest soul anypony could ever hope to know. The real Pinkie Pie picked me up. Gave me a purpose. And a name - a name! How many straws do you know that have a name?
I am Fernando, Bendy Straw, and I owe that to her. I owe everything to her. It's a debt I will repay if it's the last thing I do.
In this very room is an audio recording – a message from Pinkie to her friend Twilight Sparkle. Before Pinkie died, she realized what I had known all along – that she had failed – that she had strayed too far from whom she'd wanted to be - that the burdens of war had taken her over from the inside, and made a puppet of her. Because once it's been fed, war will always figure out how to get its way.
I remember when Pinkie made that audio recording - the courage it took to turn around like that, and admit that she was wrong. I cheered when it happened, because weakened though she may have been - desperate and alone she may have felt, Pinkie was finally herself again. The Pinkie Pie that I knew. Frail. Loving. Daring even then to be hopeful, despite her guilt and her dread. I knew the end was coming, but it was still a hope I could not help but share.
I was right here when she died, sitting with her in that big puffy mane of hers, watching her cry, yearning to tell her that she wasn't alone. But straw words are sounds that ponies cannot hear. I still wonder if I got through to her. Her very last breath passed through a tiny shadow of a smile. She was waiting on Twilight. Pinkie Pie had realized that, after all that she'd done, it was still not too late to change. That's the Pinkie Pie the world needs to see. That's the message the world needs to hear! That trapped in the heart of every villain is a lost child who wants to be free.
The recording proves that, and by some miracle, it seems to have survived the apocalypse. So I stand guard. Every second of every single day. If I can get just one miracle more, the recording will be found before the storage medium disintegrates.
I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I've been practicing in my mind – what to do should a pony ever come.
Straws can't move, of course. Straws can scream, but not in a way that any pony can hear. But still I have been practicing - trying to figure out if I can catch the smallest breeze – to learn to twitch just a teeny tiny little bit. If I can only grab their attention when they come, even in the eensiest way, then maybe, just maybe, I can point them toward the recording. Perhaps then they'll see, and they'll learn, and they'll dig deeper and find the Pinkie Pie behind the posters and decrees.
* * *
Someday a mare will come. I saw it in a dream once. She will come, and when she does, I'll be ready for her. We'll show the world the Pinkie Pie that I knew. The one who taught me to laugh, who taught me to hope - that perfect mare who gave me a soul. That sweet, bubbly frantic angel whose lips I never even got to touch.
The Mare will come. I can feel it. I know that someday, she will come, and when she does, I will be ready.
For now, I just stand guard, and practice, and hold on to the memory of that sweet hay-and-cotton-candy smell that always lingered in her mane.
Author's Note
More Hooves of Fate coming soon, I promise!
