Fallout: Equestria - Choice Millionaire

By mid–morning, Creed and I were making the ascension toward Celestia’s Folly. The incline had been cleared of all but the dust at our hooves and the occasional corpse of a Megacorps raider––the tattered business suit was a dead giveaway. We were strolling right through no mare’s land without so much as a warning shot fired at us.

All was quiet atop this mound of earth. The banquettes of the fortress ahead were occupied by pony–shaped silhouettes and a number of prominent big guns. Howitzer barrels jutted out of turret walls like a dragon’s spikes. They still did not dissuade the raiders from bullying the dragon. The castle’s allegiance was marked by a golden flag, which depicted a cyan cod bursting from green seas, waving to us above the turrets.

“Whose flag is that?” I asked Creed.

A smile grew on his muzzle. “Baltimare Republic.” Finally, we had found a faction that did not want to kill us! At least, that was what I gathered from the tidbits of information the locals told me. The fact that no guns had been pointed in our direction yet was a promising sign.

Within meters of the walls, three lines of trenches and barricades had been erected, arranged in a salient around a metal gate. The city’s guards watched our approach with barely a reaction; most of them just grunted a “morning” or smiled in a professional, sick–of–the–job manner. They leaned against their posts in olive–drab cotton vests and steel panned helmets, occupied with the battle to keep their eyes open. Caught in a siege by murderous corporates, these soldiers appeared more bored than tense––no raider probably even made it within range of their guns.

A unicorn by the gate levitated a transceiver to his mouth, and without even an interruption in our pace, Creed and I were past the gate. Our hooves clopped upon the cobblestone to the melody of a hundred other busy hooves. The encircled settlement was positively packed to the brim with ponies.

I knew from the moment I smelled the bouquet of rampant hormones, herbal smoke, and rotting fish exactly what Celestia’s Folly’s staple was. Lines of hookers and pimps rested in the shadow of the walls; the main courtyard had been converted into an open–air market for every drug and weapon under the clouds; over by the bushes, a pair of beggars was playing tug–of–war with a plastic tin of cod.

Celestia’s Folly practically spoke for itself. Any more sentences on the depravity here would be redundant…

Also, there were a couple of drunks publicly urinating in a corner of the bailey.

Creed and I stopped at the steps to the keep, which appeared to now serve as the headquarters of the republican garrison. Given that it was the one building whose entrance was flanked by guards—whereas the rest of the bailey featured none—it was a fair assumption. It was upon these steps that we had a full view of this morally bankrupt settlement. Somewhere in the mesh of tarped stalls and roving crowds was our smuggler.

I glanced over at Creed and found him searching through the ponies. “What does she look like?”

“Grey earth pony mare. Purple mane. Has a bad habit of twirling around loaded revolvers.”

That was convenient. All I had to do was find the one mare who shot herself in the knee doing gun tricks. But the shifting disarray of smoke and motley colors in the marketplace complicated this game of ‘I Spy.’

“Split up?” I proposed.

“Good idea.” Creed stretched his wings. “You take to the stalls. Meet back here?”

“Sure.” I watched him ascend above the highest turret, drawing the eye of just about every vagabond and hooker in the bailey. It was hard not to stare myself. A pegasus was a rarer sight than a stable dweller, and I only met one yesterday. Now he was my partner. And that was following my transformation from naked fugitive to clothed hero. The past two days made less sense the more I thought about them.

As the wasteland’s winged protector flew over the tarps, I walked beneath their shade, keeping my eyes peeled for the telltale colors and revolver. Even with the siege ongoing, vendors still had their shops opened. Well stocked with every essential knickknack under the clouds—except food. I only needed to see their sale prices to understand how business was slumping.

“Y–you there! Yoooou look like you could use a little excitement in your life!” A jittery brown mare with bloodshot eyes called out to me. “Dash, Rage, Stampede, Mint–als… Whatever your fix is, I’ve got it!” She shouted the lines on repeat, failing to attract even a window shopper to her stall. Hard to trust a dealer who looked like she sampled her own product.

“Fancy bobbleheads? Yeah? No. Whatever.” The bobblehead merchant gave up on his pitch as I passed by. His attention went to the comic book in his hooves, which depicted some cowpony gunslinger scattering a tribe of stereotypically drawn zebras. His racks had an army of thick headed Pinkie Pie bobbleheads waving their unnatural smiles. Perfect gifts for children, if you were a parent that wanted to scare the living daylights out of them.

They bagged nowhere near the amount one of those rare ministry mare statuettes would, but I fancied a contact I had in Friendship City would buy the whole stock if I were selling them. Old World Blues they called her, thanks to her obsession for collecting artifacts. A shame I had to leave my best customers behind when the Talons started gunning for my hide.

One stand I saw had a vendor slumped over a manuscript, his head leaving a dark crimson stain where it landed. His pistol was on the ground next to him. I stopped to see his wares. This merchant seemed to have been a prolific writer, judging from the variety of self–authored books on his shelves. They had been crafted out of pre–war hardbacks, recycling art of the past to create art in the present. The last piece the wasteland would gain from the vendor was the bloody manuscript, titled Fallout.

Of the vendors and the buyers, the ones alive at least, no one appeared to be suffering from malnutrition. Not that they would last long without incoming foodstuffs or reinforcements. On that thought, where was the relief force? I had walked right through Megacorps’ encirclement with hardly any trouble. Well, I did suffer some shrapnel to the leg in the process, but the Buck Crusaders were pushovers past their traps. The Baltimare Republic certainly had some issues to sort out with its response time to crises.

A ball of white hair suddenly popped up at the bottom of my peripheral vision. My breath caught in my chest. My hooves stomped hard on the cobblestone. All the weight in my body was falling forward. I nearly had to flip myself backwards to keep from toppling onto whatever jumped in my way.

With that nasty crash averted, I could focus on my new priority—giving a stern rebuke to whatever had gotten in my way. A dip of my chin revealed that the hair ball was in fact the mane of a unicorn colt the color of radaway. Always the children giving me trouble.

He smiled up at me with wide magenta eyes and teeth as pearl white as his mane. Funny that anyone would care about dental hygiene out here. That peculiarity aside, “You want something from me, kid?” I asked.

The colt kept staring at my face, as if he was examining a faded pre–war painting. A microsmile appeared now and then, hesitant on whether or not to be. He spoke quietly: “You’re the one who kills bad guys with a guardian angel at her back. Right?”

So that was what the look was for. He saw me as a hero. “That’s what they say, kid. So what is it you waaaaaaa—”

At that moment, my eyes found a warhead the size of the colt’s head, attached to a tan launch tube. It was strapped across his back.

As I struggled to put into words everything that was wrong with what I was seeing, the colt started babbling, still quietly. “I can’t believe you’re here! The Stable Dweller, herself, in Celestia’s Folly!” He made a hop, and the launcher see–sawed upon his landing. My breath caught in my chest once more. Fortunately, the kid stopped immediately at one hop, looking as though he caught himself doing something his parents prohibited.

“We don’t get a lot of big heroes nowadays who’ll fight the big factions. Usually anyone who fights the good fight against them dies… Horribly! Well, except for the Angel… and Bittersweet!”

My head darted to the citizens around us, hoping someone would notice the warhead on this colt. But the vendors and customers seemed never to cast their gazes downwards, even at the peculiar sight.

“You’ve probably heard of her, Stable Dweller,” he continued, his voice raised and passion suddenly ignited. In a flash, he crouched and took on the stance of a young lion ready to kill. The lines he spoke next seemed louder than the combined noise of the whole marketplace. “There are stories they tell. Of her time as a soldier. Bittersweet’s fought in the Valley, using a thump–gun to scatter hounds. At dawn she caught them prepared for attack in a rally, at dusk gone with their dead in mounds.”

I had myself a second glance at the colt. When he spoke of this “Bittersweet,” his voice filled with reverence, and his stance magnified her importance. Even now, he was going on and on about his idol, gushing over this figure the same way an art collector would over a pre–war portrait of the Princesses.

It was simple. Bittersweet was his hero, whom he adored unconditionally. If he wanted to follow in her footsteps, then I had no right to stop him.

The pressure in my chest dissipated, allowing me to find breath for my words. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“…and she’s got the raiders caught by the balls in their own base of operations! And… I, uh, shouldn’t disclose… huh?” The colt gathered himself, still beaming, and responded methodically, “Private Lemon Burst, sir… er, ma’am.”

It seemed that I underestimated the lacking numbers in the republican garrison. It enlisted children, too. “So, private, why is there a rocket launcher on your back?”

Lemon Burst telekinetically unholstered the launcher and held it up to me. On the warhead, I noticed a two–step instruction box for firing the weapon. So simple a child could use it. “It’s a recoilless gun, actually. Bittersweet calls it the ‘Tank Fist.’”

Lemon Burst’s eyes were starting to twitch, probably caused by the strain of continuous magic use. I lowered myself onto my knees, so that our eyes were level. I convinced the young private to re–holster his “Tank Fist.”

“Bittersweet is the one who gave you this weapon?” I asked.

“Yup!” Lemon Burst pushed his chest out and held his right hoof over his heart. The whole stance fell apart the moment Tank Fist began dipping fast toward one side, nearly taking him down to the ground from the weight. But give the colt a few years to grow and train, and he would have the posture perfected.

“I wanted to train using the same grenade launcher she used, but she insisted I start with the Tank Fist. Once my training with her is complete, I’ll graduate to the thump–gun!”

I nodded, pushing to the back of my mind images of the young soldier in combat against raiders. He was happy enough to serve with his hero. And that little dance he went into at the word ‘thump–gun’ brought a grin to my face. “I think you’ll make for a great soldier, Lemon Burst.”

“Just like Bittersweet?”

“Just like her.” I stood up, recalling the smuggler I was supposed to be looking for. “Say, private, have you seen a grey and purple earth pony with a fixation on twirling revolvers?”

“Softlock? She’s over by the fountain, last time I checked.”

“Thank you kindly, Lemon Burst.” He saluted, and I returned the gesture. The young soldier took a moment to adjust the giant anti–tank gun on his back, and he marched off into the crowds. While Lemon Burst seemed not to attract anyone’s eye, I was quickly finding a number of onlookers focused on my jumpsuit.

One of the downsides of impersonating someone well known was that you had to keep up the act at all times lest a pair of eyes is watching during that split second when the mask is off. This act was easy to slip into, however. I threw on a grin not unlike Creed’s, the kind that would make a pacifistic priest buck you in the face, and walked right on through the market.

The real Stable Dweller could be some meek hermit with an urge to murder anyone who said a bad word to a child. It hardly mattered. Nobody this far south even knew what she looked like, let alone what personality she had. The persona was mine to interpret.

Making a detour around a medical camp for the condemned, I caught sight of the fountain. It was made from handcrafted porcelain, spouting clear, purified water. A miraculous sight somewhat diminished by the hungover drunks drowning themselves in its bounty.

A grey and purple mare, seated on the fountain’s edge, had abstained from the drink and looked all the wiser for doing so. A silver–tinted revolver with golden lining spun around her left hoof. Her head remained bowed toward the Earth. No matter how she angled the hoof, the gun kept its perpetual spin, neither losing speed nor falling off. As I stepped toward the gun juggler, her green eyes lifted high enough to see the Stable’s staple blue and yellow.

The revolver stopped, hanging on the cusp of her hoof by a thread of unfathomable magic. “You’re here. To help us or abandon us, I don’t know. But welcome to Celestia’s Folly, nonetheless.” As she spoke, her leveled voice ran through all the syllables as one, without pause, without loss of coherence.

“The name’s Softlock.” Her green eyes lifted to meet mine, and her hoof began twirling the revolver again. I backed up a pace, trying all my hardest to ignore the possibility that the gun was loaded. Softlock noticed almost immediately but merely chuckled and continued spinning.

“My name’s Nova. A friend tells me you’re a smuggler who knows a way to Baltimare,” I said.

“Your friend speaks the truth.” Softlock grinned. “Need a way to avoid slaver territory, then?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll show you the way. But first, where’s the Angel that’s accompanying you?” She holstered the revolver and stood up. I pointed toward the stairs to the keep. “Let’s waste no time.”

With the meager amount in caps I had on me, I had to hope Creed would be capable of paying whatever rate this smuggler charged. We treaded through the shoppers back to the keep. Creed was nowhere to be found, though.

I sighed as we stood idle. “Maybe he flew off to kill the raiders around this place.”

“He’d have quite some trouble,” Softlock responded, lighting a cigarette. “A good lot of Megacorps’ associates already turned tail and ran when they heard the news on radio. How do you think you two got through the encirclement so easily?”

As she began puffing on the cigarette, I turned my muzzle away from the smoke. “Does that well mean that siege is over?”

“Nope. But we’re hoping that by the afternoon a caravan makes it through the gap you made. By Joe, we’ll need all the supplies we can get. No matter how much the darn merchants charge.”

“You’re expecting an assault?”

“Quite possibly the one to break us.” Softlock took a long drag. “Megacorps is more complex than meets the eye. It’s a wonder how the business world keeps those raiders from slaughtering one another. Now all the CEOs are coming together in Hawkthorn for something big. Worse still, we’ve gotten no word from the darn cowards in Baltimare.”

Softlock glanced over at me, the smoke burned halfway through. “You know, Nova, what you and the Angel did yesterday means a lot to those of us stuck here, even if the lot of us still stick our noses in clouds. It comes with living atop a hill, I assure you.”

At that exact moment, a puff of white mane appeared right in front of me. A familiar white mane, belonging to a familiar radaway–colored colt. “Hey! I forgot to—Oh, good morning, Softlock.” Lemon Burst turned right around, standing to attention before the smuggler.

“And a pleasant day’s greeting to ya, Lemon Burst. How’s the neck?”

“Still a bit stiff, ma’am. The doc told me I’d have to stay off the battlements for a week. Makes it a little hard to practice with Tank Fist. Oh, right!” And suddenly he was facing me. “Stable Dweller, ma’am. I forgot to inform you that Major Buccal Lift would like to see you at the keep. Immediately, if possible.”

The garrison’s commander, I took it. I had my doubts that the major wanted to have just a fireside chat. More likely than not, he needed an able body for some chore outside the walls. And who else would be more ideal for the task than the Stable Dweller? I looked to Softlock and asked, “You wouldn’t mind waiting for me?”

She waved me on. “If it’s Buc, you better answer his invitation. Go on. I’ll wait.”

With Creed still out of sight, I went on my way toward the keep.

“You’re going to smuggle her out east, yeah?” I heard Lemon Burst inquire.

Softlock paused. For another drag on the cigarette, I imagined. “Of course. The Republic would love to have her.” The soldiers manning the entrance opened the doors for my entry. Their eyes seemed to light up a little at the sight of the Pipbuck and jumpsuit.

“The major is expecting you,” one of the guards, an eyepatch–wearing unicorn, told me. “His office is the last door on the right.” As I walked past them, I could feel their eyes upon the back of my head.

“Was that really the Stable Dweller?” Eyepatch unicorn whispered to his partner.

His partner scoffed, “No, that was just some random wastelander with a stable–issued jumpsuit and Pipbuck.”

“It could have been. I mean, we didn’t even ask.”

“Just go back to guarding the door, door guarder.”

The ground level of the keep was a single corridor punctuated every twenty paces or so with overhead arches. Ashlar stones and mortar, the materials well older than Equestria. Different wings of the building branched off near the middle. The only natural light came in thin threads from behind a glass mosaic window at the end of the corridor. The rest of the interior was lit by a net of lightbulbs and wires above the lintels. The lighting and the brooding color scheme for the keep combined to give the whole place a subterranean atmosphere. Sort of like a Stable… after some terrible social experiment killed all the inhabitants.

Faded tapestries of an extinct order stuck to the walls like wartime propaganda posters; they depicted extravagant coronations and ferocious battles in hyper–fluorescent colors and melodramatic forms as though they were cause for celebration. The old occupants of this castle must have thought their states and glory would last forever. Arrogant fools.

The major kept his door open, and he had made an office out of the wine cellar, apparently. The doorway was right across from his desk, which sat upon the largest cask I had ever seen. It took a descent down three flights of stairs from the door just to get to the tap. Whatever job the major set himself to, he could ensure himself that he would never have to do it sober.

Major Buccal Lift lifted his lean body off of an ordinary wooden chair. At least, it appeared so. It was hard to make him out in the darkness of the cellar, given that he had a black coat and a dark blue mane brushed against the top of his head. Yet I could see the perfect white smile he gave me from another town over.

“The Stable Dweller! Just the mare I’m pining for! Come on over,” he called out.

Pining for? What was he getting at?

“Right, right. That was poor phrasing. My bad!” Buccal Lift chuckled alone, his clean teeth practically sparkling in the dark. “Your pinkness reminded me of my ex–wife. Now forget I mentioned that. Are you enjoying your stay at Celestia’s Folly?”

My steps into the cellar were small ones. A walkway along the wall gave me a quick path to the major’s desk. “It’s… an interesting settlement, to be honest. Well, actually, it’s very honest about itself, sir.”

“Drugs, prostitution, and smuggling are the lifelines of Celestia’s Folly. At least since our defense budget was cut. On that note, I take it you’re in town for business in one of those categories.”

“That I am, sir. I’ve requested the help of Softlock to get to Baltimare.”

The major’s smile only grew larger. “It’s a good thing you chose the best. She’s highly professional. Patriotic, too. Heck, she’s done more to help this settlement survive than all the bureaucrats in Baltimare.

“That reminds me…” Buccal Lift swept aside the papers upon his desk and replaced them with a cardboard box half as long as my shovel. A blue aura surrounded the box as it was levitated up. “On behalf of the garrison here, I’d like to reward you for your courageous efforts by giving you a job.”

Not even surprised. I stopped on the walkway, just a meter from his desk and the giant cask it sat upon. I nodded for the major to continue.

“You must aware by now that Celestia’s Folly is under siege by Megacorps.”

I nodded again. “That I am, sir.”

“Part of our strategy has been to keep reconnaissance on their base of operations in the city of Hawkthorn, about two klicks out west. The scout we sent has been updating us on the situation there, so we can prepare in advance for any major attack. Her name is Bittersweet.”

My ears perked up at the name. Lemon Burst’s idol. Of course he would send his best soldier to infiltrate a raider–infested city. My eyes went back to the box, and the hairs on my neck bristled.

“I’d like you to deliver this package to Bittersweet. It’s filled with ammo and provisions. She’ll be waiting for you in the city’s eastern borough. Softlock will guide you there without alerting a single raider. That’s how good she is… Just make sure she doesn’t see it, though. The pay is 125 caps up front. Another 125 I can requisition for you upon your arrival in Baltimare.”

Already, this job was ticking all the bad signs. Behind that perpetual smile, there was a larger scheme at work, in which I would be playing the unwitting pawn.

I started with the most glaring lead: “You don’t trust Softlock, sir?”

Buccal Lift stretched his neck and walked around his workplace. His cutie mark was just as pronounced as his smile—a sparkling tooth. “I trust she’ll stick to her smuggling work, not pry into the Republic’s business. Besides, she packs to the brim anytime she travels through the underground. Surely you’ve got the space for a package of this weight.”

“You’re right about the weight, but I think the price isn’t right, sir.”

The major’s smile faltered just a moment. In this darkness, the difference was clear as daylight.

Buccal Lift laughed off my concern. “There’s no risk to this job, Stable Dweller. Just follow Softlock and deliver the package upon arrival. Bittersweet will know what to do with it.”

“Normally, I would accept a caravan guard’s pay for an errand this easy. But I know an incomplete picture when I see one. The pay will have to be adjusted to compensate for the unmentioned risks, sir.”

“Or I could just order someone in my command to do the job without question.”

“You could, sir. But knowing the contents of this package, would any of your soldiers even leave the shadows of this town’s walls?”

The major stopped pacing. With his back to me, I could not see his grin vanish completely. “All the mares and stallions here have constantly fended off raiders for three weeks straight. You think any of them fears making a delivery?”

He was trying to get us off topic. It was time to be logical. “Just what is the final objective for Bittersweet’s reconnaissance mission? What use is the information to an explosives specialist?”

Buccal Lift turned and walked right back to his desk, leaning over the package to say, “You’re asking me to divulge confidential information on the Baltimare Republican Army’s activities.” With that, he returned to sitting in his ordinary chair. How smug.

“Valid point, Major.” I frowned. “So I’ll just theorize then here for a moment. Your garrison has received no relief from Baltimare. Not even a sentence from Untold Song. And this castle is the furthest extent of the Republic’s military presence in the west. The likelihood of a coordinated strike to relieve the siege is low.”

The major said nothing. His muzzle remained shut. All I could clearly make out at this point were his blue eyes, two irises drilling into mine.

I took the silence as consent to continue: “It just so happens that a rumor’s been circling around town that the ‘CEOs’ of Megacorps are meeting today to discuss a new strategy for attacking Celestia’s Folly. It’d be the perfect opportunity for someone to wipe out the heads of Megacorps in one fell swoop.”

Buccal Lift laughed without glee. “You honestly believe a single soldier, no matter how skillful she is, could assassinate all of those important ponies while they’re meeting in a highly secure sixty–floor skyscraper? I’m not risking her life and the limited provisions we have on the odds.”

So you just so happened to know the location and security detail of this meeting. You just gave yourself away, major.

“That’s why you’re not risking either of them.” I marched up to the desk and put my forehooves down upon it. “This package doesn’t contain bullets. It contains enough explosives to topple that building.”

Buccal Lift leaned in as well, bringing his eyes level with mine. “Now aren’t you just swelling with confidence. Does your Pipbuck come with a lie detector? Does your E.F.S. let you see through cardboard?”

“Yes. In fact, this thing also detects swindlers. And look at that, I’m getting high readings in your general direction.”

The major squinted his eyes. I stood my ground. He was the first to blink.

“Who?” he asked.

“The little colt you’re fielding against raiders.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Lemon Burst. Seems to be a fan of Bittersweet’s fireworks.”

Buccal Lift fell back into his chair. After a spell to think, he shrugged. “300 caps up front. 300 later. You’ll be seeing Bittersweet on the way if you’re hiring Softlock. But you don’t let her so much as see the bulge of the package in your saddlebags.”

Thank Celestia, that Creed was not here to bungle this deal. Six hundred was more than I expected to win out of this. “Why Softlock? Sir.”

“Cause she’s a good friend of both Bittersweet and the Republic. Had she known of Bittersweet’s mission, Softlock would’ve gotten herself killed tagging along. That I can’t abide by.”

“And what is she to the Republic?”

“A source of illicit funds—ahem, generous donations of a patriot, I meant to say.” The major smiled with that full set of perfect white teeth.

“You have a deal, Major.” We shook hooves across the desk. Buccal Lift levitated the package into my open saddlebags. That and a pouch of jingling caps.

At the doorway to the cellar, the major spoke up. “If I had to be honest, Stable Dweller, I’m more surprised at your intuition than angry. There’s no way you could only be two weeks out of a Stable.”

I flashed my own toothy smile out of his sight. “I’m a quick study.”

Comet Scotia

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

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.