Fallout: Equestria - Choice Millionaire

New objective: Investigate town of Davos for clues of dad.

As I entered in the note on my PipBuck module, I saw the shadow of a cog eclipsing the light of the stable behind me. The door closed with a staccato of monstrous, metallic screeches. Once it slipped back into its threshold, I was left with only my PipBuck light. I turned around and faced the point of no return, marked by the number “13” in hazard yellow paint.

My back was to a new world, one that may yet have recovered from the apocalypse that befell Equestria two centuries ago. Why else would dad have left his stable and his family for the Wasteland? He knew his talents were required out there, and the ponies outside owed their future to him. He was alive, somewhere in Davos, and I just had to follow his hoofsteps.

The resolve to see my mission through was the only force compelling my legs to march away from the stable. I followed a straight path through the cavern my stable was built into. A decayed, wooden door served as the gate into the new world. Memories of home and family left with me out that door.

I forgot any longing and fear the moment I breathed fresh air and realized how enormous the outside was. A thick cloud cover stretched to all corners of a wall–less atrium. From the autumn colors radiating from the clouds, I assumed it was nearing evening.

A few meters ahead, there was a stone cliff from which I could gain better perspective. With a new sense of resolve––curiosity, more so––I immediately broke out into a gallop and ascended the slope. Lungs filled with this lighter, unfiltered air, I stood atop the precipice and engraved the view into my mind.

A skyline of mutilated towers stood out to the east. Likely the ruins of a pre–war city. Encompassing half of the skyline beyond the city was a cloud wall black as coal, which lit up with frequent streaks of lightning. Out to the south, I spotted another city, one atop a hill. Further west were mountains high enough to pierce the cloud cover.

The earth beneath these landmarks, interestingly, appeared not ruined by balefire bombs centuries before but rather by negligence and a more recent kind of fire. It was devastated but far from dead.

Beneath the occasional whistle of wind, I heard the sound of crushed gravel––muffled but distinctly made by a pressing hoof––to my right. I glanced quickly in that direction and thought for a moment I looked into a mirror.

Staring back with terror in her eyes was a skinny mare whose mane and coat were darker hues of mine. My coat was pale pink, and her coat had tarnish; my mane was red violet, and her mane was composed of several shades of violet. Our manes were both frayed knots of hair that refused to bend to brushes. Even the eyes were of a similar shade of brown. It seemed for a moment that we were both stuck noticing the resemblance.

With how scared the outside pony was, I figured it would be in good spirit to offer a smile. Somehow, that only made the stranger shake and slowly backpedal. Before I even noticed the gun in her mouth, I began speaking to her, “Why hello there––”

––then the revolver suddenly kicked back into my teeth. Having forgotten to steady my own weapon, I took the full brunt of the recoil into my noggin. My tongue had pulled the trigger on an impulse. Now was really not the time for amateur mistakes!

But what was worse than accidentally firing my gun was accidentally drilling a hole through the Stable Dweller’s eye with the resulting shot… oh my Goddesses… I shot the Stable Dweller!

Seeing the other pony’s body stumble and fall, dead on the spot, gave me a chilling sensation as though this display foreshadowed my own impending death. It helped little that she looked so much like myself.

To think, I came all this way to start anew, and the first thing I did was kill the Wasteland’s latest heroine. Soon I would have to contend with the fury of every radio lover from Baltimare to Manehattan. Dealing with the Talon mercenaries was bad enough. All that trouble because I wanted to rob her!

After putting the revolver down, hammer uncocked (I checked), I trotted over to the corpse and looked at my own undoing. The one time I make a clean shot, it kills the mare from… Stable 13? The ‘Stable Dweller’ I shot, an earth pony, wore an armored jumpsuit labeled ‘13’ and armored saddlebags; the first broadcasts did mention a Stable 2, not a 13. So this pony was not her.

Well, that was a lucky break. Terrific. I could have earned myself an early grave.

With no one in immediate sight, I helped myself to the stable dweller’s belongings. The saddlebags, made in excellent quality with hardly a sign of age, made for a wonderful catch. She had been packing a Stable 13 water canteen, a decent pistol with five loaded magazines, and three apples. But the jewel on this dead body was the PipBuck.

PipBucks were the gamebreaker in the struggle of Wasteland life. Those bracelet terminals turned combat into a mere chore of point and click, made physical maps obsolete, and featured their own radio, radar, and geiger counter. With tools like these starting out, it was little wonder how stable ponies managed to stir up change in the status quo. And now I had one of my own.

The stable dweller parted calmly with her PipBuck. All I had to do was raise her limp foreleg and open the latches. And while I was at it, I took her jumpsuit and put some clothes on my back. I would need some sort of covering as the night rolled in, and I was not about to waste a perfectly homey jumpsuit. There was some sagging, but it was nothing a bit of weight could not fix.

Now then, what other features were on this PipBuck? Audio diaries, apparently. The late stable dweller had been talking to herself for two years now, if the dates were correct. It was better if I erased all the notes and diaries; anything to tie me back to a murdered stable pony was incriminating evidence.

And while I was doing that, I found the options on the PipBuck and changed the registered name.

User: Eiffel Riff |
User: |
User: Comet Scotia |

The final step to claiming my newfound possessions was body disposal. I trotted a few steps back the way I came. Beneath a rotting tree, I found my trusty shovel and brought it with me back to the body. With both forehooves, I rolled the late Eiffel Riff over the edge and watched her plummet twenty meters or so. She scattered a little soil on impact, but otherwise no mess was made.

A new PipBuck! Just the thoughts of what it could for me made me skip on the trail back down. I could be the mare with the big iron, using whatever S.A.T.S. was to shoot down raiders. I could know where everyone was at any time with this new radar… compass… thing. Eyes Forward Sparkle, as the PipBuck called it. And I finally had some music!

Making a grave would take me at most half an hour, which meant plenty of time to check the frequencies. It seemed only two stations were available this far out though: “Good Morning Baltimare” and the broadcasts of the benevolent, caring, considerate, and slavery–condoning Red Eye. If that crazed visionary could hog the airwaves here, then his crusaders were probably already established in this wasteland. They likely held a grudge against stable dwellers as well. So that was one more party to steer clear of.

I settled for Good Morning Baltimare.

“...which remains ongoing across Sharp’s River. So heed the words of the water merchants, folks, and stay clear of Horde territory!” The radio host was a mare, experienced and confident. With a luscious voice that mesmerizing to listen to, she had all the reason to sound so full of herself. She knew what she could obtain just by saying a few words.

“In other news, another cod caravan has been saved from raiders by the Angel of Mason Road. And as usual, he doesn’t ask for anything in return! Thank you once more, Angel, for ensuring the ponies across the republic have food on the table. That’s all for today. A good night to all of you from your host, Untold Song. And now, Lazy Day Blues…” The song took over the air, a guitar strumming to a catchy tune.

The corpse had landed at the base of an inconspicuous cove. Unfortunately, a pool of blood stained the ground, probably from Eiffel’s eye wound. I could just kick some dirt and rocks over it, though. And a grave here would hardly attract an eye. Shovel between my teeth, I marked out an area and started digging.

Twilight ended and night fell in the time it took to bury the body. I kept the shovel slung across my back and headed out into the wasteland with a new pistol in my mouth. Firmly secured.

Not far out from the cliff, I spotted a cracked highway, separating me from a series of square plots that used to be farmland. Though there was hardly a light out, I had no difficulty telling that the deserted houses I saw were relatively new. They were carved from scrap metal and wood, appearing capable of holding only a single room. Hopefully, the town at the center of these farms still had some life in it.

“…it matters very little how. Davos and Samedan are the only places left where a pony could live without wearing the yoke of some master.” A skeleton of a pre–war carriage was the only thing close to a tenable cover on the open highway, so I hopped inside and swiftly accessed the PipBuck to turn off the radio. Eyes Forward Sparkle pointed out the direction from which the voice, definitely male, had come from––out to the west, four yellow bars. I knew next to nothing about what the colors meant, but if I heard more I could discern who the party was.

“You’re just so darn poetic, aren’t you,” said another stallion. “Now I don’t claim to know the guy, but this Red Eye is definitely putting up a lot toward making a good impression. So long as Fillydelphian food keeps streaming down here, I can tolerate him. And don’t forget who we could be playing host to, instead, across the Valley.”

The first pony, the poet, grunted. He scoffed, “First you invite his food, then you’ll invite his soldiers. Not long after, he’ll invite your neck to his collars.” A multitude of hoofsteps approached the carriage and stopped short of passing by. “Hold up. There’s somebody in there.”

Oh horseapples.

“The carriage?” the other stallion asked. “Doesn’t look like it’s big enough to store a raiding party. Ain’t no other cover around either.”

“Look. Green glow in that window.” The PipBuck! I forgot to turn it off!

The poet’s partner said nothing more. Two clicks went off, and I knew then their weapons were readied, safeties off.

Spitting out my gun, I shouted to them, “Don’t shoot! I’m friendly!” I raised a hoof into view within the carriage.

The poet replied, “Prove it. Throw your gun out!”

“Yeah sure. Just let me know first who I’m throwing my only means of defense to.”

“Junk traders,” answered the other pony. “Now throw and walk out onto the road facing us.”

Here I was, hoping that a little conversation I overheard reflected rational minds. I tossed my newly acquired firearm out the window. As instructed, I made slow steps around the carriage into the sights of two unicorns in dusters. They held what looked like shotguns––or maybe rifles, I have no clue––in their magic auras.

The poet, a tannish yellow buck with a patch of brown hair at the muzzle, spoke up, “I recognize that jumpsuit… a stable dweller?”

“Like the one the DJ speaks fondly about?” the other stallion, grey and darker grey in color, muttered. “Last I heard, the DJ’s favorite was killed wreaking havoc in Appleloosa. That was a week ago, though.”

That could not be right. The DJ’s last broadcast confirmed the Stable Dweller was still kicking. I asked, “You mean, you haven’t heard anything on the radio?”

The poet shrugged. He and his partner lowered their weapons. “Her signal doesn’t reach down here anymore. The radio towers are controlled by Red Eye now.”

They really did not know… and no one would ever know so long as the DJ was off the air. The Stable Dweller has such a clean reputation right about now and no solidified identity; she could be anyone with a stable jumpsuit. Anyone. “Well, if you had been listening, you would’ve known I’m still alive,” I stated with practiced bravado. Untold Song was not the only one who could get what she wanted through words.

The poet’s eyes narrowed. “The Stable Dweller’s way too far north to just stroll on down here. Who are you really?”

“The name’s Nova. You know me as the Stable Dweller. You’ve been out a DJ for a week, and a journey by hoof is barely three days’ time.” As I looked the traders over, I saw the two brahmin trailing behind them, carrying all their goods. A normal caravan usually had four guns for security. I continued, “But if you won’t believe me, I guess I’ll just be on my way. And you two can walk this road… at night… and handle the wildlife and raiders by yourselves.”

The other stallion glanced around him, worry forming on his face. “You know, we could use another gun on our way to Samedan, preferably someone with the right skills.”

“You actually believe her, Winestock?” the poet pulled his stare onto the grey pony. Turning his eyes back and forth from the two of us, he started to grow doubtful of himself as his features eased. I had not waited a minute before the poet gave in. “Alright, Nova, you can tag along.” Winestock holstered his gun, as did his partner a moment later.

Now I had them. I was the Stable Dweller, and I commanded respect… and payment. “You’re not asking me for company… uh…”

“Graham,” the poet answered.

“…Mr. Graham. You’re asking me for a guard. And guards need to be paid.”

“Of course. 100 caps,” said Winestock.

“200 caps.”

“150. We can reach Samedan within this night.”

“I’ll go no lower than 175. You want an absolute guarantee for your survival, don’t you? Then you’d hire the mare who wiped out a slaver stronghold and lived.”

Winestock studied me with his mouth still open. I maintained the illusion of complete confidence for my part. Thankfully, no one could tell from a first glance when a pony has no clue which end the bullet comes out of. I could see my words take effect on Winestock’s face. His mouth closed and gradually adjusted into a slanted grin.

“I can’t believe a stable pony is extorting money from me… Alright. Deal.”

Exchange closed. I nodded curtly and gestured toward my pistol on the ground. Once I had nods returned from the both of them, I retrieved it and started inspecting it from all angles. Anything to make it look like I knew what I was doing.

I took my place behind them with the brahmin, and the five of us walked into the night. Graham cast me a couple of glances over his shoulder, both of which contained thinly veiled annoyance or anger.

I only smiled back, knowing he lacked the resolve to say anything that might invoke the wrath of the Stable Dweller herself.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Non–entity
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted

Perks
Putting on the Mask – You have taken up the identity of “The Stable Dweller.” The Southern Wasteland remains unfazed. Others are more likely to hand you errands… I mean quests.