Fallout: Equestria - Choice Millionaire

“Get this thing off of me!” I threw my hooves at the latches on this cursed collar. Why would the smith who crafted this thing make it ridiculously difficult for the wearer to remove––oh. I stomped on the asphalt and hissed, “Creed, get this collar off!”

In the shadow of a burned–out pharmacy, Creed freed me from the shackle. We had slipped into an alley the moment we lost sight of the ferry. I was not walking another block with this bomb collar on me. Not after coming within a sentence of becoming someone’s comfort mare. Goddesses, just looking into those eyes… but then there was the morally righteous pegasus who let Huckleberry have his thorough inspection in the first place.

Creed tossed the collar into his bags. “You weren’t harmed at least,” he offered. I returned his courtesy with a glare and a kick of my tail. Next time we were going incognito, he was wearing that collar.

But that situation could come later. We could not dwell in the alley forever. “How far is it to Celestia’s Folly from Postalmac?” I asked as I wore the jumpsuit once more. Never had I imagined that the clothes of the recently deceased could be so refreshing to wear… well, no need to dwell on that detail any more.

The Angel folded up his slaver disguise into a neat bundle and packed it up. “If we keep pace, we could reach the town by tomorrow morning.”

“So we’ll need to find somewhere to stay the night along the way.”

“You enjoy camping?”

The memory of my exodus came to mind. I picked up some outdoorsman skill on the run. “I can manage.”

“Let’s roll, then. There are lots of Red Eye loyalists here.” Creed started out into the town streets, battle–saddles readied. I walked out at his side.

Postalmac was evidently a pre–war town, possibly dating from before even Littlehorn, the incident that kicked off the journey to the apocalypse as we knew it. The town’s architecture gave away its antiquity––brick and mortar for stores, unvarnished wood for homes, crumbling asphalt for roads. Had it not been for centuries of decay, I imagined this town might have been the best–preserved artifact of Equestria’s golden age.

Creed and I stuck to the alleys, crossing the streets only when the citizens had their backs turned to us. The pegasus was spot–on when he said the place was crawling with loyalists. Red Eye’s banners hung from every building that still had its face intact. Town hall had even been converted to a church for that Unity religion he embraced. I doubted that any of his converts here even knew what an abomination the Unity really was.

What mattered, however, was that Red Eye could win over towns and their populations. There was no telling just how strong his grip was on this wasteland.

We came to a stop within the outskirts and rested between two of the only walls still standing. Collapsed homes were the only company we had for blocks—them and Pinkie Pie’s face on torn posters.

The head of the Ministry of Morale was said to have her eyes on every citizen in Equestria. She bit the dust two centuries ago when the Great War ended in an explosive bonanza, but there were still remnants of her legacy, watching “FOREVER” from fronts all over Equestria.

A poster per wall, though? That was overkill.

Creed had his ears perked up and his eyes turned to the west. Following his example, I made out the distant ruckus of rattling metal. It was a familiar tune from the previous night—the sound of a brahmin carrying junk merchandise.

“It’s a trader,” I whispered.

Creed nodded, peeking through a hole in the wall. “A merchant on the westbound road, coming in our direction.”

“Safe to talk to?”

“Let’s find out.” He pulled out a blanket and covered his wings. As the Angel strode out to meet the merchant, I took his position and watched out of the hole.

The trader appeared to be an earth pony mare of stunning red. When I say stunning, I actually mean so striking and brilliant that the whole world brightens up just looking at her long enough. She tipped a worn sunhat in Creed’s direction, briefly exposing the equally stunning orange mane underneath.

I eventually snapped out of the trance her hair trapped me in. My gaze wandered from the spectacle to focus on scouting out the area. Creed and the merchant met at the corner of a t–shaped intersection, barren of any accessible cover, yet out of sight of any vantage points. The skeletons of decayed homes were all the sites from which a possible ambush could be sprung.

Creed turned to me and tapped the ground. That must be the cue––the merchant was safe.

“Is that…? Stars above! The Stable Dweller! Well, stranger, you certainly have some peculiar company,” the trader remarked as I approached. “The name’s Eye Candy. So long as you’re not a window shopper, I’m okay with you staring.”

I forced a chuckle. We all did.

“Like I told your friend, you should probably stay off the road. Buck Crusaders hit a caravan heading out that way. They took the survivors captive.”

Buck Crusaders. They had to be raiders to come up with that name.

“Do you know where they took the survivors? Their hideout?” Creed inquired.

“The crusaders are holed up in an ancient processing mill,” Eye Candy said. “With this road under lockdown, Megacorps will have completed its encirclement of Celestia’s Folly… so, are you buying anything?”

Slavers to the east; horde to the south; some ‘Megacorps’ to the west. Was fate just trying to kill me whichever path I took? But from the sound of it, Megacorps may only be a raider band. I had the Angel of Mason Road on my side, so cutting through some ‘Buck Crusaders’ should be at least manageable.

“What’s Megacorps?” I questioned.

Eye Candy frowned and peered deeply into me as she explained: “The worst kind of evil to remain from the Great War… neither radiation, nor taint… Megacorps is a corporation.”

Of raiders?

“Of raiders!” the merchant hissed. “The descendants of surviving corporate lawyers from the north––I don’t know what they were looking for down here––who went insane when the bombs fell. They’ve organized themselves into ‘companies’ specializing in all the wretched trades of the wasteland.

“Most companies are set up in Hawkthorn, west of Celestia’s Folly. Somebody in town violated a copyright or something, and now the whole of Megacorps is laying siege to Celestia’s Folly. That town is protected by the best, but even she can’t beat corporate. Nobody does. Now, you want to look at my goods?”

Up north, raiders typically formed gangs no bigger than a dozen ponies. On seldom occasion, they even rallied under a raider king. So to hear that the south had as many as could form a corporation was… just unpleasant.

It was still the afternoon, yet today had offered nothing but misery and bad news… and that disturbing slaver. Why was I expecting anything else to go right?

I had the thought of telling Creed we should just cut our losses and take up work as farmers in Samedan, but the Angel had already made peace with his maker. He told Eye Candy, “We’ll rescue those caravan survivors. Nova and I happen to specialize in quality assurance.”

What in the world was quality assurance, anyway?

Eye Candy’s smile returned. “Nova is your name, Stable Dweller? I’ll be sure to remember that. If you two actually do succeed, send those caravaneers to Postalmac, so I could fit them for their journeys home. But first, want to buy some ammo or weapons for the coming battle?”

I shook my head. Not that I would fare any better with new firearms. Creed declined the offer as well, settling for a curt goodbye to the brightly colored merchant.

Her eye twitched, but the smile remained plastered on her face. “Good afternoon, then!”

Eye Candy watched us depart west. Postalmac grew smaller and more insignificant as we made distance on the main road, but the merchant remained a persisting spectacle––a fluorescent red dot against a colorless world.

In front of us, the Southern Wasteland laid bare to the horizon, upon which a mountain range began. The thickest fog covered the peaks, such that the mountains seemed to fade out at a certain height, as though someone were erasing them out of existence.

A few degrees to the south, I spotted the silhouette of an industrial plant. Since the structure was too lean to be a factory, it had to be the processing mill Eye Candy had pointed out. That mill was exactly where Creed was taking us next.

It dawned upon me that Creed was a little romantic in his perception of the world. It was not every day that someone would decide to tackle raiders and save hostages on a whim. No reward either. “The Angel of Mason Road.” With a title like that, he was just begging to become a hero. Like the Stable Dweller.

My eyes focused on E.F.S. for any new threats, I mumbled, “What are we even doing?”

Creed took a long breath and exhaled. His next words could not have been more blunt: “Killing raiders and helping innocents. Restoring the wasteland by ridding it of infestation.”

I swore I heard a snort from my companion as a yawn got the better of me. “I haven’t been out here long, Creed”—which was the truth to an extent––“but from what I’ve seen, I’d say you would need to do a lot more than kill all the bad guys to make things better.”

“You’re right.” I turned my head. Creed kept his eyes on the mill, his face and thoughts unreadable. “The wasteland won’t be fixed by the conquests of trigger–happy warriors or cowardly governments or empires. It’s best if we just wiped each other out.”

“I take it you don’t side with any of them,” I said.

He nodded. “Given the choices, the republic’s the only power worth trusting with the future. If the president and senate weren’t so shy about accepting the responsibility, they could’ve prevented the south from becoming a warzone.

“What the wasteland really needs is someone to get everybody off their flanks and remind them that life can get better than this. All the pieces are set; now we just need a catalyst, a spark.” Creed abruptly stopped in his tracks, crouching low with his neck stretched outward. I followed suit without prompt, facing forward to a closer view of the mill.

The structure looked like a two–story barn with a rooftop tumor in the shape of a modest cottage. The metal sheets it wore for walls had begun peeling away to expose a hollow interior, ruining the rustic appeal. From the top window stretched a conveyer belt built upon metal beams. The belt connected the mill to a modern slab of concrete also two stories high. This building appeared to have weathered the centuries better, but the incompetency of its architects showed in a collapsed corner at the far end.

Creed pulled me by the foreleg to an overturned flatbed. With binoculars in his hooves, he peeked around the corner of our cover to survey the area. I examined my firearms, unloading and reloading both the Stable pistol and the revolver. My shovel remained tucked to my side with the saddlebags, easily accessible should I have to fight close quarters.

“The Buck Crusaders are here alright,” Creed returned to my side. “There’s one of the vermin atop the old mill, but that’s all I could see at the moment. Can you locate any on your PipBuck?”

Turning my gaze toward the concrete building, I saw at least a dozen bars on E.F.S. Three of them hostile red and the rest yellow, probably the captives. As I turned to my right, where the mill stood, Creed came up on my compass as a yellow bar as well. The sentry he spoke of was highlighted red.

“I’ve got four bad guys––three in the left building, one on the mill––and a number of friendlies in the left one as well.”

As I was speaking, Creed had packed up the binoculars and taken account of his guns. “What’s the plan then, Nova?”

Now I was in charge? I could not remember the last time I organized a hostage rescue––that skill was not required of my old profession. Still, I could not possibly come up with a plan worse than disguising as a slave and riding a ferry with slavers. That said…

“Right, my plan.” I clapped my hooves together. “Creed, you wear a bomb collar and convince the Crusaders that you’re just a lost slave looking for his master.”

Creed smirked. “And deprive us of air reconnaissance? Or the only pony with some marksmanship?”

I returned his dumb grin. “Good point. You should fly up and shoot the sentry atop the mill. Then focus your fire on that open corner on the other building. You’ll get their attention, and I’ll sneak inside and take care of the trio.”

Upon hearing my role, Creed raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to be able to shoot three raiders?”

“No, but this will help. Activate S.A.T.S.” As I spoke the words––just thinking the command actually––Creed froze in place, presenting a patient target as I slowly dragged up my Stable pistol’s sights on his head. At the same time, I could see him flinch, one reflexive muscle twitch at a time, as he pulled away from the barrel. By the time I commanded S.A.T.S. to stop, Creed was already leaning as far back as physically possible.

One of his hooves slowly brushed my gun aside. His smile grew once the barrel was pointing elsewhere. “That’ll do. Ready to save the day, Stable Dweller?”

“Always.”

Creed took to the air, ascending to the height of a soaring bird before starting a flight path for the mill. I shook out my legs, eyes trained on the concrete building. The distance I had to cover appeared around 400 meters with nothing in between but a few disabled wagons full of ashes. With a flick of my tongue, the safety on the pistol was off.

My ears perked up at the staccato sound of gunfire. A raider’s death cry resounded through the air, and I broke into a sprint. For an earth pony, I thought myself adequately fit and well–built, yet my endurance could never sustain me for anything more than a short race. Reaching the metal double doors of the facility could not have taken more than a minute.

I just had to give myself another minute to catch my breath. Maybe take several breaths, lean against the wall, and spit out my gun. In the space of time I spent slowing my heart rate, I caught a few bits of shouted chit–chat inside the building.

“––ing pegasus!”

“I see him. Out that corner!”

“Jammed! Stupid trash! Acre, can I borrow your shotgun?”

“No! Take better care of your trash, Antioch.”

I poked my head in through the left door. Some twenty meters or so in front of me was a rounded counter with a terminal on top. Both sides of the room were designed to mirror one another, presenting the same walls of decorations, the same limestone pillars, and the same overhangs on the second floor. These corridor–length balconies met at the wall opposite the doors, on top of which rested a makeshift stronghold made of office cabinets and tree logs.

All three raiders had their guns trained on whatever space existed over the wall. There they stood with their backs turned to me––three heads I could line up shots on in S.A.T.S. I slipped inside the building, shutting the door behind me with practiced concealment. At twenty meters, however, I had doubts I could land perfect headshots. Even the rudimentary helmets the Crusaders had on could render a badly placed bullet non–fatal. So I took a few slow steps forward, closing the distance by at least a few meters.

That was when I felt a wire against my foreleg; I heard a pin drop to the floor. Three seconds. Dive right? Dive left? Fifty–fifty chance I was going to eat a faceful of shrapnel. Left!

I leapt to my left. The explosion swept the room from the height of a pony’s chest and up––I was prone against the floor at the last millisecond. Although my continued living surely meant I had chosen luckily, the resounding scream of the booby trap made it seem like I had jumped right on top of it.

My left hindleg suddenly received a hoof–sized scorpion sting as I laid there in shock. Whether it was the shrapnel or a bullet, it was the worst wake–up call I had ever received! I crawled behind one of the pillars under the balcony, grinding my teeth together from the searing pain in my leg.

“Behind that pillar!” shouted the raider known as Acre. “Fire everything you’ve got. It’s the darn Stable Dweller herself!”

My cover took on a beating from that point on. I brought my forelegs up to prime my gun, but they just ended up at my lips. After a few seconds fiddling with a phantom pistol, I spotted the real thing out in the open, likely dropped when my hindleg got torn up.

Where were you, Creed?

The Crusader with jamming woes, Antioch, answered, “The pegasus got inside! Left side. Enjoy the grenade, you pheasant!”

The explosion made my heart jump a second time. I tried looking at my E.F.S. to check on Creed’s status, but I could not tell where he was in the cluster of yellow and red.

The barrage continued for a moment longer. It died down just as Acre spoke up, “C’mon, Stable Dweller! Give up. Your friend’s dead, and you’re outgunned.”

I took deep breaths, trying to stop the thumping sensation in my skull. With my back against the pillar, I took a glance at myself. My jumpsuit had a new tear in the bottom left sleeve, out of which jutted a square shred of steel. The shrapnel must have penetrated only a couple millimeters or so. Blood continued pouring from the wound, but I figured bleeding out was the least of my concerns––I was in no condition to run.

The idea struck me at that moment. I could not run, so surrender was the only option, as it appeared to the raiders. I replied, “Alright, I surrender!”

The Crusaders hollered to one another upon hearing that. I even made out a hoof bump in the din. Acre called out, “Step out and lay flat on the floor. In plain sight.”

“I would, but your front door greeting tore me up pretty bad. I can’t move.”

“Ah, whatever.” Acre paused. “Antioch, go retrieve the distressed damsel.”

“Can I at least have the shotgun with me?” Antioch asked.

“Get your own, apostate.”

“Go to hell.” Antioch began walking away for what I presumed were the stairs.

From my saddlebags, I quickly retrieved my revolver and checked the cylinder. Five in the chamber. Hammer cocked back, tongue upon the trigger, I steadied the weapon in my mouth. The steps grew closer.

I turned on my side once it sounded like Antioch was on the same floor. Soon enough, the raider appeared in my sights––a malnourished green stallion dressed in a white–collared shirt, a red tie, and, below the chest, a red sash, which formed a cross with the tie. A butcher’s knife rested between his teeth.

S.A.T.S. engaged.

My revolver’s barrel fell right on the face of the well–garbed raider. My tongue pulled the trigger. The first shot struck Antioch just above his forehead, sending his batting helmet into the air; the second punched a hole into his neck and made him stagger backward; the third and final bullet found its way into his muzzle. Antioch died well before he crumpled to the ground.

A moment of silence passed in honour of the late Antioch.

“Y–you monster! Lying murderer!” Acre screamed. The bullet storm resumed. Nothing penetrated through the pillar.

“Heretics like you are all that’s poisonous with the wasteland!” I had to admit, the guy had to have a pair of iron lungs to be heard above the gunfire. “When I’m through with you, you’ll be praying to your god for death! Know that I will not give you such mercy!”

A pair of battle–saddles let loose two bursts. Immediately, the torrent of gunfire ceased, punctuated by two mortal cries. There was a thud upon the first floor. Peering out from behind my cover, I spotted a purple stallion dressed much like his dead brethren, save for some metal plates of barding and a shotgun by his side.

He crawled with his forelegs––blood smeared on the floor in his wake––to Antioch. Not much good that move would do for him. The knife was all that raider was carrying.

Through a couple flares of pain, I got back on three hooves and limped out to the pony I assumed was Acre. The last Buck Crusader froze in place once he noticed me. Were those really tears in his eyes? Sure, he was dying, but raiders did not really care about their lives anyway. They were the scourge of emerging civilization, and I was playing the sort of character that dealt with such problems.

“Luna! Celestia!” Acre gasped. “…I–I don’t want to die. Please, I can––I will get you any favor from Megacorps! I’m well liked…”

He should have just spit at me or cussed. That way, it would be so much easier for me to execute him.

But at that moment, Creed flew down and stood above the dying raider; he replied to the Crusader’s terrified look of recognition with a pleased smile. The Angel reared up on his hindlegs, giving the raider just enough time to whisper one more “Please” before a pair of hooves came down upon his skull.

The squelch made by the mixing of brain matter and shattered bone caused my lunch to briefly jump back into my throat. Absolutely nothing else could quite mimic that disgusting sound. Worse still, I had to hear it three more times before Creed was finished.

I took a long gulp from the canteen to clean out the acid.

Luckily, I was trained by the best to keep composure around carnage. What would my companion think if I vomited from business as usual? But if I had to be honest, I was still going to have unpleasant images in my dreams tonight.

Since Creed seemed busy cleaning his forelegs on the corpse, I decided to get on with looting the other bodies. But of course, my first priority was the Stable pistol. With that regained, I prodded through the contents of Antioch’s suit, uncovering at most ten caps and a few pistol rounds. The knife he had was about as valuable a weapon as a broken pool stick; my shovel had more flexibility in battle than this junk.

“What are you doing?” Creed trotted over, looking no less weary and jolly than before. If I squinted my eyes, I could make out the red stains on his coat––not to say he did a bad job of covering them up.

I shrugged. “Looting the bodies.”

“Aren’t you going to do something about your leg?”

I glanced back at my hindleg, which was still dripping blood. In negligible droplets, I thought.

“Yeah. You got any medical supplies on you?” We relocated to the counter, which served as my exam table. I laid on top, hoisting my injured leg up with only minor suffering.

Creed dug through his saddlebags, acquiring his canteen, a pair of pliers, a bandage, and some adhesive tape. Pliers to remove the shrapnel; water to clean the wound; a bandage over the cut; tape to wrap around the bandage. Thankfully, he never had to use his hooves.

“Try out that leg, Nova. See if you can walk okay.” The Angel pulled out a key ring. “I’m going to get the caravan hostages out.”

Creed flew over the counter and over the wall. The moment he was gone, I went on with looting. My leg was still stiff, yet I could manage walking on all four hooves now.

I may have rushed my examination of Acre’s body; one could only ignore the splattered remains of a head for so long. At least he offered better yield than did Antioch––forty caps, two dozen shotgun shells, two Buck tablets.

Buck was a strength–enhancing combat drug. Even though the raiders and mercenaries preferred the likes of Dash and Rage, Buck tablets typically sold for a higher price in places like Manehattan. That aside, I had no idea how the drug market was like in the South.

Taking some stairs on the right, I walked through the Crusaders’ stronghold. Bullet casings, empty bottles, and all manner of improvised weapons littered the floor. After seeing what they had as a welcome mat, I made certain to practice more caution as I passed through.

The other dead Crusader had a Dash inhaler and a submachine gun so abused that I feared holding it in my mouth. No, the real catch was a hunting shotgun, which Acre must have dropped when the Angel struck him down. The weapon looked like an antique from a museum exhibit, made dirty by weathering conditions and experiencing combat damage––it still worked.

I thought back to my poor showing against the raiders at the Buckner distillery. Surely with a scattershot, aiming would not be as essential. I assumed that the pump included was the means by which I could ready the next shot. It was just unfortunate I could not spare the shells I had to practice my aim.

“Good choice. I prefer receiving buckshot in my back to receiving a submachine gun spray.” Creed was hovering a couple meters off the ground.

I smirked. “I hear that before the bombs fell, they used buckshot to down low–flying birds.”

“No, for that they used birdshot.” Cheeky pegasus. How could he know that? “But I’ll heed the warning.”

Under us, the caravaneers were making their way out––quite a number of children in their midst. A few even stopped to look up and thank their Stable Dweller savior… and Creed.

“I’ve already given them instructions to reach Postalmac. We’ve done a good thing here, Nova.”

I was really playing up to the hero role. Huh. Was that pride I felt swelling inside me? More likely than not, it was amazement that we had taken down the raiders with nothing worse than a leg wound. I would be lying, if I said that I was not feeling a little joy. It was as though I had metaphorically taken on the wasteland––its cruelty and harsh reality––and won the battle. That must be what gave Creed his high.

And that must be what gave the Stable Dweller her strength.

As I watched the caravaneers exit the building, my eyes went back to the two corpses on the floor. The Buck Crusaders were well–known; Megacorps would know what I had done to them. The caravan survivors would make sure of that.

“I’m not so sure Megacorps would take too kindly to our fighting the good fight.”

Creed landed at my side. Transfixed on the mess we made, I completely failed to notice that he had rummaged through my saddlebags for a Buckner Special. He took a swig, still smiling at the corpses of Antioch and Acre.

“Let them do something or nothing at all. Either way, we’re just getting started.” The Angel laughed.

Comet Scotia

Current reputation
Southern Wasteland: Liked
Red Eye’s Slavers: Hated
Gawd’s Talons: Hunted
Megacorps: Neutral

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.
Names to Run Away From – Creed Brook has a reputation of killing all the scum on the Mason Road. With him as your companion, raider encounters become much less common. Cleansing evil does not require mercy. Slavers and raiders are instantly hostile upon encounter and harder to talk down.