Fallout: Equestria - Choice Millionaire

Creed and Softlock were standing at the stairs outside the keep. Before I went out to greet them, I made certain the package was pushed to the bottom of my saddlebags. If they asked, the major only invited me to extend his gratitude and share a drink. Wait. Creed knew I did not drink. Instead, the major invited me to extend his gratitude and share some dental hygiene tips. They would buy it. I would buy it.

On top of some combat barding, Softlock had assembled her gear for the coming trip in a brown duffel bag. Creed, as usual, had only his saddlebags for wear. Would it kill him to invest in armor?

Anyway, the two were sharing laughs over something Softlock was saying. “…Only Joe knows how those two idiots wound up keeping their heads once Volt Tech finally got the situation under control. I expected her to at least kick them out of the energy department for that fiasco.”

In between laughs, Creed got out, “And they tried to solve their problem with a hammer, a screwdriver, and a jelly–covered handkerchief? That’s rich.”

Softlock spotted me approaching not long after I exited the keep, yet she continued, “You give the two new guys a test scenario, and they nearly wind up reporting a state of emergency.”

“I thought the government hired on a basis of merit. What’s so hard to understand about transistors? First things first, when we’re in Baltimare, you’re going to show me these clowns, so I can teach them properly!”

Right as I stopped in front of them, Creed turned and asked immediately, “Done with your republican business, Nova?” He knew it was me approaching before he even looked.

“The major just wanted to express his gratitude for our coming here. That and he gave me tips on how to keep clean teeth,” I said.

Softlock chuckled at my answer. Nothing in her features seemed to suggest a doubt. “Sounds like Buc, alright. I was just getting to know the Angel here while you were getting a checkup. But now that you’re here, Nova, it’s time we talk about our itinerary.”

She unraveled a paper map from her bag, which essentially consisted of an aerial photo and stenciled labels for towns and routes. Celestia’s Folly was smack in the middle of it, lying to the right of a highway running up and down the map—the Agnes Route. Hawkthorn encompassed the sprawling urban area on the left side of the road. A series of dotted lines ran around a great lake south to another location called Tascleon. Crisscrossed markings in red could be found surrounding Celestia’s Folly and could be found all over the left portion of the map.

Softlock’s hoof fell on top of the marker for Celestia’s Folly. “We’ll slip under the encirclement through the sewers. Leads right out to Lake Paramount by the highway.” Her hoof traveled to the great lake and gradually shifted to Hawkthorn. “From there, Hawkthorn is a kilometer north. My friend, Bittersweet, can meet us in the eastern district. With her help, we’ll get to the heart of the city. That’s where the entrance to the underground is.”

I stared for a long time at the marker for Hawkthorn, the sprawling metropolis completely covered in those red markings. The map disappeared from view, returning back to Softlock’s bag. She handed me a faded black duster soon after. When Softlock made the same offer to Creed, he simply pulled out a bundle of clothes from his saddlebags. Only the Goddesses knew how many different sorts of attires he had packed.

“Cover yourselves up. For obvious reasons, you two can’t go walking into Hawkthorn as the Angel of Mason Road and the Stable Dweller.” As Creed and I got into costume, Softlock pointed a hoof at my Pipbuck. That little bullseye on my right foreleg went into my saddlebags, but I kept on the jumpsuit, which the duster covered completely. Although the disguise was probably fitted to Softlock’s build, it suited me perfectly.

“You two are traveling entrepreneurs looking for real estate in Hawkthorn to start a business up. And I’m a neutral third party showing you around town. That’s the truth, and no one’s going to deny that. Any questions before we set off?”

I bit my lip, holding the question in my throat. But curiosity got the better of me. “What’s an entrepreneur?”

Creed had as many reservations as I did. “What’s real estate?”

Softlock gave a smoky sigh before spitting out the cigarette into a nearby bush. “Anyone from Megacorps would see through your act the moment they opened up conversation. Just let me handle the talking, and no one’s going to bother you. Except the insurance companies… but they usually stay in the northern districts. Is that all?”

I looked to Creed and found him looking right back. His frown, as minute as it was, gave me reason to think of our alternatives. Even he had to consider the dangers of a simple walk into the heart of Megacorps. Before I could raise another question, he answered first: “That’s all.”

“Good. Let’s not keep her waiting.” Softlock started off—at a fast pace too—not even casting a glance back to see if we were following. Creed matched her speed without another word. I wound up trailing behind them by at least a dozen footsteps.

We made a pass by the fountain. The conscious drunks said their farewells to Softlock, who waved a hoof to the lot without losing pace. A few went out of their way to clumsily salute Creed, who returned the gesture with perfection. One of the fools, some orange mare with a tin can for a horn, whistled a shrill serenade in my direction. I turned my head away and quickened my pace. Once we were on the fringes of the marketplace, Softlock directed us to a saltbox house next to the western gate.

The interior of the old house was just a well–preserved skeleton. The really interesting stuff was under the original foundation: a chasm dug nearly ten stories under the Earth. After a dimly–lit descent down the stairs, we emerged out into a sterile atrium with massive pipelines and huge boilers. The underbelly of Celestia’s Folly was a city in itself for the settlement’s sanitary system.

A herd of staff and soldiers filed down a single lane in the middle of the hall. The residents were heading toward a mess hall in the far back. Softlock led us right into the tide, but in the opposite direction. Several times I bumped into the legs and shoulders of passing ponies, earning expletives and insults comparing me to something called a “grackle.” My attention was elsewhere. My gaze went everywhere except in front of me—to the umbrella of high–powered LED lights above, the towering storage tanks against the walls, the tile floor pressing cool against my hooves.

And the air… Every corrosive element had been stripped from the atmosphere here. No smog and no dust to burn the esophagus. What a luxury filtered air was. Breathing was weightless. Why would anyone want to go back out after experiencing this? Personally, I would have stayed inside the stable if I knew I could breathe like this every moment.

Everything was so incredibly clean, which was weird for me to admire, given my upbringing—my character’s upbringing.

Someone pulled on my collar with their teeth. My body was yanked out of the crowd into a passageway Softlock had started down. Once his teeth were off my collar, Creed lifted his foreleg, inviting me to walk in front. I made sure not to hold us here a second longer.

Two maintenance doors and a single guard behind a desk separated that stainless atrium from the sewers. The bricks used in this area’s construction had plenty of time to erode; they amalgamated into a layer of chalk–white grime. The conduits were built on a declining slope, so that water flowed toward the glowing exit at the far bottom. Encapsulated by overarching ceiling vaults, the sewers appeared like a metro terminus for the afterlife.

Softlock disappeared behind a utility door near the entrance we came from. When she returned, she had with her an inflatable raft in military camouflage. With a single rope to anchor it to the railing, the raft went into the current.

“You’re joking,” I said.

She looked me in the eyes. “Get in.”

Softlock threw her bag onto the raft and jumped in after it. The craft, nearly the size of an apple cart, swelled up around the new center of weight. It swallowed her up like a fly trap only to unfold a moment later. Not a hair upon her had been wetted.

I stood by the railing, staring at the rapids of sewage between me and the raft. I would have to leap a gap about the width of an open grave. Putting pressure on my hindlegs brought about an ominous flare of pain from my shrapnel wound. “I don’t suppose you have life vests for us.”

“Have some faith, Nova.” Creed floated down into his seat on the raft, landing with all the grace of a humongous butterfly. “We’ll drag you out of the water if you fall in.”

“Oh shut up, you grackle.” His brows scrunched up, Creed actually looked offended at that insult.

The smuggler pulled out a short switchblade, holding the cutting edge to the rope and keeping her eyes on me. I had to jump. I had to believe I would make it.

That was the secret to how I survive in the wasteland.

This jump was really a simple hop, when compared to what I have been through. I leapt out of a burning building once… from the seventh floor. Making the jump was easy, so long as you assumed you would survive the fall. That and you had to be lucky enough to land through the only hole in the only building to have king–sized mattresses stacked up in storage. Thinking back on that experience, I did start believing in other things after that day. But the point is that a little belief in myself goes a long way.

My legs fell from under me as I made my landing, but I made it. With all passengers on board, Softlock sliced through the rope and sent the raft hurtling toward the light at the end of the sewers. We drifted out into Lake Paramount to the hot and heavy late morning air. The coloration of the water was greyer than that of the Sharp’s River—all these dark spots across the surface gave the appearance of a giant bowl of watery oatmeal.

With a wooden paddle, Softlock steered our raft for the shore least overgrown with reeds and weeds. As we approached the north, I spotted the remains of Hawkthorn’s skyline. Two skyscrapers, nestled close to each other, that had survived the balefire bombardment. The shorter monolith seemed to be a standard office building; its neighbor seemed to be the crown of an intercontinental ballistic missile. Its eight–or–so faces converged upon an antenna at the tip. Sixty floors, the major had said.

“The moment we reach shore, you two have to be in character. So keep your guns concealed. Watch what you say. Don’t get bold. Fighting should be our last resort, and if we do get into trouble, our best bet is bribery.”

Creed nodded, staring straight ahead in the bow of the raft. Softlock and I were left staring at one another. We sat in silence for some time until she remarked, “You’re nervous.” A declaration and a fact, rather than a question.

A nod sufficed for her. “That’s good. They’ll see you and suspect nothing.”

I pulled out my trusty canteen and took a sip. This whole plan felt like a repeat of Creed’s ploy on the ferry, seeing as my only defense was my lack of one. It was going to be fine. Just fine, since Huckleberry and company were not involved. Instead, the threats were all the ferocious corporate raiders infesting the city. Absolutely fine.

I took another sip. My canteen was empty.

Softlock tossed me one of her own canteens. “Fill up, Stable Dweller. My supplies are yours.” I happily took her up on the offer. “Listen. This question’s been on my mind since you got mention on the radio for being alive and all that. And I ask because I’m curious, not because I have any doubts of your talents. But how did you manage to defeat an entire town of slavers?”

I stopped pouring water into my canteen. Ideally, I had ten seconds to conjure up a story before skepticism started settling in. Keeping in mind that Creed was in earshot, I had to think of a way to conquer Old Appleloosa without much shooting on my part. Once when I was an apprentice, I went on a business trip to the wretched town. What I noticed first were all the cages, filled with enough slaves to outnumber their captors three to one.

“I didn’t do it alone,” I sighed. “A slave revolt broke out while I was in the middle of clearing out the town… They charged the slavers, unarmed mostly. You can guess what happened…” Now came the long pause that would ensure my words hung in the air. I had to deliver these next lines with a controlled, shaky stutter and a weak, but coherent voice. “I couldn’t save enough of them. Too many died… I–I need a moment. Sorry.”

Softlock let the paddle hover over the water. Her rapt look of sadness was a good indicator that my delivery was not too sappy. Even Creed was looking behind his shoulder, just as deeply invested as she was. My acting just won me twenty more seconds—realistically fifteen if I considered the impact of mounting temperatures upon the patience of an audience.

I had a slave revolt so far, but I needed a way to start one… Stealthbucks. Some sort of black ops equipment from the Great War that let users become invisible, which was perfect if someone wanted to steal a slaver’s key and unlock all the cages. Invisibility also offered some practical avenues to my tale. I would become death, sneaking into barracks in the dead of night and bashing the evildoers’ brains out with an invisible sword. By sword, I meant my shovel.

For the climax, Old Appleloosa would go up in flames. The slaves would probably want to burn a few of the buildings anyway. Next, the rifles and machine guns would open up, dropping ponies to the ground with just the shock of their reports. Then came the screams of the dying, an agonizing chorus to the vicious rhapsody. The uprising flared as the crackdown began in earnest, turning the streets into rivers of blood and all that poetically edgy nonsense.

The slaves, given strength by vengeance, slaughtered the slavers. That left only the commander of the settlement—the infamous Gallia Fortuna.

“Gallia Fortuna?” Creed interrupted my story just to eviscerate the name with his mocking pronunciation.

“Her name, not mine.” I shrugged. “Northerners have strange names.”

The infamous Gallia Fortuna. She was a middle–aged griffon with a large scar running across her face. She was holed up inside town hall, having tied one of the slaves to a chair to use him as a hostage. As I approached, Gallia cocked the hammer to her pistol and took cover behind the child. I just wanted to clarify that: the hostage was a young colt.

I stopped with ten meters between me and the slaver; Gallia pressed the gun barrel close to the hostage’s head at that point, drawing out a whimper from the colt.

She smirked. “I know you. You’re the Stable Dweller the DJ’s taken a liking to. You should’ve stayed in your shelter, little pony, instead of invoking Red Eye’s wrath.”

“Your whole gang’s out of the picture, Gallia.” I reached for a grenade in my saddlebags, watching the griffon’s beak all the while. “Your reign of oppression ends tonight.”

Gallia laughed so hard at my threat that her head pulled back, exposing the back of her throat. I activated SATS at that moment, lining up a shot with the grenade between my teeth. After gauging the trajectory, I reeled my own head back and pulled the pin with my hoof. My head shot forward, and the grenade flew from my mouth, following an arc over the distance, over the hostage, and into Gallia’s gullet.

I charged the griffon as she choked on the metallic apple, spinning around to buck her with my hindlegs. As she staggered backwards, I brought the hostage down with me onto the floor. The timer on that grenade was seven seconds… maybe four seconds. Whatever the duration was, Gallia could not dislodge the grenade in time.

“G–good Go–d!” she coughed out right before the boom. Then Gallia had no throat. Or a head for that matter. The commander was dead, and the slaves had taken care of the stragglers. By sunrise, Old Appleloosa had been liberated.

“Sneaking in with a cloaking device and starting a slave revolt… Fascinating.” Softlock said. Our raft washed up on the shore right about the time I finished my retelling. “I could use one of those Stealthbucks. I’d do the wasteland a huge favor by walking into Amos and killing Gladstone with an invisible gun.”

“They’re only compatible with Pipbucks, sadly,” Creed muttered.

All three of us unloaded our packs from the raft. Softlock directed us toward a patch of reeds further down the beach, in which we could stash the boat. Our landing area used to be a park for a few lakeside condos. Two hundred years of neglect had turned the condos into architectural fossils overgrown with plants. Softlock walked around the condos, bringing us onto the parkway.

Every road in the Equestrian Wasteland suffered from holes, cracks, and partial collapse, but none looked as disfigured and irreparable as this one. The parkway looked less like a road and more like a black ocean. There were crests of asphalt jutting across the lanes, which were incidentally the only parts of the road not yet driven below ground level. One could drop a train car into the abyss, have it land on its nose, and it still would not be high enough to resurface. In fact, many discarded carriages found a mass grave at the bottom of the very road they once populated.

Regardless of the drop, Softlock led us onto the parkway. Leading into the city center, it was the quickest path to the meeting point, but we had to slow down to exercise caution. There were numerous gaps to cross, many of which I doubted I could make with the condition of my hindleg. Creed carried me over those rifts, and he did so without voicing a single complaint.

For an earth pony, getting airborne was akin to falling into the sea, not knowing how to swim. But my anxiety got better each time. I certainly knew that Creed was a bloodthirsty psychopath, but I also knew that he would never drop me.

We slogged through this twisted parkway for the next hour. Softlock brought us to a halt below a crooked sign labeled “Exit 46. Chopine Road.” While Creed and I struggled to climb the final crest, the smuggler passed the time by juggling that gold–laced revolver of hers. Thankfully, Exit 46 had fared well after the end of civilization. It looked much easier to walk upon.

“Raunchy Cavalry controls the next portions of the parkway, so we’ll be taking a shortcut on Chopine Road until the rendezvous.” Softlock stepped up her pace, moving on just as I finally obtained solid footing.

A few blocks into the new neighborhood, we came across a concrete field encased in barb wire fences. Most of it anyway. Someone’s carriage had cut a clean hole through the safeguard before it crashed into a pipeline further inside. The area was probably a power plant, which would explain the various transmission towers and transformer yards surrounding this place. The nearby rails were littered with flat wagons carrying timber. Massive domed facilities in the center of the plant dwarfed every other piece of infrastructure. Strangely enough, for a power plant, there was a serious lack of smokestacks.

Softlock suddenly grew more talkative: “If you look to your right in front of you, you can see Hawkthorn’s greatest innovation—the Octuplator!” Her gun–spinning hoof pointed to the colossal white domes. “Named so for their ability to utilize a special megaspell that increased energy output of this power plant eight–fold.”

Creed cleared his throat. “You haven’t actually been inside those facilities, have you?”

“Never had to,” the smuggler shrugged. “And we won’t need to.”

“You wouldn’t find anything inside anyway. For you see, those are storage units for pollutant cumulus, designed by Equestria’s army engineer corps as part of the Public Air Act—”

Softlock cleared her throat. “Thanks for the textbook exposition, Creed, but I’m the tour guide here.” That earned her a deathly glower from Creed.

I walked close to Softlock’s side, keeping some distance due to her penchant for spinning revolvers while walking. “Softlock… what are you doing?” I asked.

“What does it look like, Nova? I’m getting into character. You two are looking for real estate, remember?”

“What—”

“You don’t need to know what it is. Just listen and nod when I point out locations for you.” She turned her head and smiled to Creed. “You got that?”

“Crystal clear.” Creed’s expression did not change.

I looked around for any raiders, but the only trace of their being here was a graffiti slogan on the wall of an administrative building. It was an… elaborate image of the male anatomy, followed by the words ‘Fewer regulations, fewer problems.’ The power plant’s own slogan had the misfortune of sharing the wall with the graffiti: Fidelas Power Plant – Equestria’s first environmentally friendly power plant.

From the wall, my eyes went to the literal trainfuls of lumber decaying close by. Sure, they used wood fuel instead of coal power, but to call that “environmentally friendly” was a questionable selling point.

And on the topic of questionable ideas, “Softlock, do you know anything about the history or locations of this city?”

She tapped her chin with the barrel of the revolver. “I may remember a few things from history class. But it’s alright to get some parts wrong, since these corporate scumbags don’t know a darn thing about that stuff either. C’mon, let’s step up the pace. We’re a block from the rendezvous!”

A smaller, pony–sized hole was cut into the fence, providing our exit from the power plant. We returned back to the suburbs, where every household had a white picket fence and the latest carriage in the driveway. According to Softlock, the meeting point was four houses down Pyrex Avenue, going by the street signs still standing; Bittersweet was apparently waiting for us in the sickly purple house with raiders lazing about its dead lawn.

We took cover behind the rotting picket fence of a house right at the intersection of Pyrex Avenue and Fisher Street. A dozen sharply dressed maniacs patrolled in front of the purple house, and an unknown number more were likely waiting inside. Their suits, once sparkling white, had accumulated enough dirt and blood to acquire a palette of brown and red. On top of that, the raiders had slung holsters for rifles and pistols. Many of them had an oddball weapon of their choice: crossbows, pitchforks, flagpoles, amputated chair legs.

“Money Shot,” Softlock whispered. “Mercenary company.”

“Isn’t Bittersweet supposed to be waiting for us and not the other way around?” I asked. From my saddlebags, I pulled out the hunting shotgun. Creed primed the battlesaddle under his duster, and Softlock pulled out her revolver.

She checked the chamber and snapped it shut as quietly as she could. “She would’ve swept everything within a kilometer radius before giving the clear.”

“Maybe she missed a spot. It happens,” Creed said.

Softlock snapped back, “With Bittersweet, it doesn’t. For all we know, she may have hired those mercenaries.”

“Care to ask them if that’s so?” he scoffed. His face may have appeared neutral, yet I could see the corner of his lips twitching. Hiding a smile, Creed? I already knew he took glee in stomping the heads of raiders into fine paste. The opportunity for an ambush on the ambushers was probably akin to a birthday gift for him.

I stared right into those wide, violet eyes of his. “We are not fighting those raiders.”

“We can take them,” the Dashite remarked, his disguise already half–discarded.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t be that stupid.” A new voice, one stern yet weary, drew our attention to the roof of the building we were sitting by. A lime green unicorn mare with a pale amber mane looked down upon Creed and me. Two suppressed pistols hovered in her turquoise magic, one for the each of us. The black barrel pointed between my eyes barely wavered. The shotgun practically fell from my hooves on its own.

“First time I meet a Dashite, and he’s about to kill himself fighting a battle he can’t win.” Creed made no movements, not even shifting his eyes away from the unicorn. I could only guess that all of his angry intentions were funneling into the glare he was giving her. A raised eyebrow was the only reply. She brought up a hoof to adjust her thin–framed glasses. “Not even wearing barding either. Only the Goddess knows how you’ve survived in spite of the odds.”

“I don’t care for odds,” Creed muttered. “I work miracles.”

“Hmm. I don’t need miracles.” A cough from Softlock pulled her gaze and lifted her smile. “I wouldn’t forget about you, Softlock. How goes the Folly?”

“It’s more of a dump than it was before. We were down to four days’ worth of provisions, when our VIP here—” I flinched as she twirled the revolver in my direction. “—broke through the encirclement. Town’s going to finally see a merchant later this day.”

“And Lemon Burst?”

“He’s alright. Buc is keeping him in the bailey after an accident during his shift on the battlements. A sniper shot off his helmet and left him a little stiff in the neck.”

The unicorn jumped down from the roof, switched on the safeties on her pistols, and stowed them into holsters fitted for her combat armor. A single–barrel grenade launcher, which was likely that thump–gun Lemon Burst relished, rested between her stomach and her saddlebags. The setup resembled a makeshift imitation of Creed’s battlesaddles. She frowned at Softlock. “And the sniper?”

“We zeroed in on their position with the howitzer.” The smuggler chuckled. “It was a beautiful shot, Bittersweet. The lads dropped the shell right on that sniper’s head.”

Bittersweet was back to smiling. Without a single greeting to Creed or me, she walked right past the picket fence and stepped onto the road. I jumped up and pinned her tail with a hoof. My valiant attempt to keep the raiders from spotting and gunning her down earned me a retaliatory kick in the foreleg. Every bone in my leg quaked from the impact, throwing me in enough pain to land me on my side.

“What are you doing, ya pink wombat?” She accused me with the sort of tone my mom might have used had she known what my profession was nowadays.

Holding my aching leg close, I sputtered, “W–what am I doing?”

“That’s what I’m asking!” Creed galloped to my side, throwing off his disguise to aim a couple of guns at Bittersweet. She stood her ground as she might to face the firing squad. “Get your feathers back in order, Indigo Bunting. You’ll cost me a few hundred caps if they find out who you are.”

Softlock suddenly appeared next to Creed, hastily draping his wings with the jacket he just discarded. “You mean you hired those guys? You hired Money Shot?”

Bittersweet nodded to the everlasting chagrin of Creed. “Mercenaries without morals or compunctions. Give a corporate raider a bag of caps, and the only question they’ll raise is how to best go about the job.”

Right on cue, one of the tailored raiders stepped into view. He was a purple stallion with a green beret sitting crooked on his cobalt blue mane. Almost every body part was twice as thick as Bittersweet’s or mine; next to the unicorn, the mercenary stood taller by at least two heads, surpassing even Creed in height. A massive rifle with a drum magazine was strapped across his back. Add onto that image an eyepatch, and you had a rather menacing, well–dressed raider.

The biggest shocker came when he spoke—“Thank you for the introduction, Bittersweet.”—because his voice was disproportionately soft. I could probably speak louder in a whisper than he could at normal volume.

“This must be the rest of your party, I presume.” He did a curt bow, which allowed him to pluck some sort of card from a pocket in his suit. The raider blew the card toward us; it fluttered to the ground facing me.

There was a name, company, and address listed on the card: Grapeshot, Money Shot, 90 Shoeshine Street. Creed peered at the business card over my prone form. We looked to one another and discovered that we had the same stupified expression.

Grapeshot gestured to the rest of his company by the purple house. “We’re Money Shot, the leader in guns for hire, ethics excluded. Unlike our competitor, Raunchy Cavalry, we have universal customer satisfaction.

“I am the manager of this company, Grapeshot. We shall provide your party security for the duration of your stay in Hawkthorn.”

It took the grand sum of three seconds for Softlock to warm up to Grapeshot. She stuffed a cigarette between her teeth and offered another to the corporate raider. Though my foreleg still stung, I worked through the pain to scoop up my shotgun. Businessponies or not, Money Shot was still a band of raiders. They would take glee in backstabbing us, torturing us, and cooking us alive. Obviously, I wanted to have a live firearm ready if I was going anywhere with them.

Creed probably adhered to similar sentiments religiously. But it was he who took the shotgun right out of my hooves. He put on a distant smile as he returned the weapon to my saddlebags. Once he helped me off the ground, Creed whispered into my ear, “Just try to act natural. Our priority should be getting to Baltimare.”

“You wanted to attack these raiders just a minute ago!” I hissed.

“I let my feelings get the better of me. That time I was out of line.” He sneaked a glance at Softlock, Bittersweet, and Grapeshot, all of whom were engaged in a discussion of economics, but the language was nothing I recognized (Bear in mind I was a trader before the Talons came after me). Anyway, Creed kept his eyes mostly on Grapeshot. “Besides, the protection means we could forget sneaking and simply waltz into the city.”

Sneaking into a city full of raiders was difficult, but viable. Hiding the fact that I was a Stable heroine with a bad reputation among raiders made the situation somewhat more complicated, but still viable. Throwing in an escort of raiders was pushing the viability of the situation toward the impossible.

I was believing more and more that the Goddesses got a thrill out of seeing how many times they could screw me over before I finally keeled over dead. Actually, it was about time I stopped pretending someone up there was looking out for me.

They could go to hell.

The Goddesses were certainly not the ones who helped me jump out of that fiery building. They did not make that miracle happen, because I did so first. Once I had faith in myself, what would I have to fear? I pulled my duster closer around me. “It’s just until we get underground.”

Creed gave me a pat on the back and worked out the wrinkles in his own disguise. “Until we get underground.” The self–proclaimed cleanser of the wasteland trotted up to Grapeshot and shook his hoof, offering thanks for the security. How he held up such a good act in spite of himself was beyond me.

“We should get moving,” Bittersweet announced. “Someone might call the cops if we loiter too long on the lawn.”

Grapeshot whistled a piercing four–note tune to his company, all of whom answered the call by filing into two columns. “Where shall the smuggler and her two customers be escorted?”

“The Joe’s O’s on Clapton Street,” Softlock answered.

“The Devil’s Den? Okay. That should take us about fifteen minutes. Twenty if the Daily Peddlers and the Comfort Express are still brawling on Batt Boulevard. Thirty if we get lunch along the way. Follow me.”

We trailed behind Grapeshot, walking between the two columns of Money Shot mercenaries. Every one of them looked and smelled like the raiders one would find in the north, but their discipline as a group was unlike anything I had ever seen. Not a single one turned to look at us. They trained their eyes on the surrounding suburbs, keeping watch for the vultures of Megacorps who preyed on first–time visitors.

Grapeshot whistled a new four–note tune, setting the columns on a march to the ‘Devil’s Den.’ Bittersweet and the mercenary manager led our party of twenty two, exchanging more corporate lingo than I could ever hope to understand. Meanwhile, Softlock slipped into the role of tour guide for Creed and me, the “entrepreneurs looking for real estate.” My role just involved listening, thankfully.

Just a fair warning: every bit of information I provide on the city should be taken with a grain of salt, considering the mare who informed me.

Prior to the war, Hawkthorn had been a moderately sized settlement that thrived on its lumber industry. It only really grew once the Agnes Route was developed, connecting the more populated north with the resource–rich deep south, a hotbed for ethnic conflicts known as the “Salad Bowl.” Once the war broke out, the city turned into a transportation hub for military traffic heading into the Salad Bowl and the headquarters of all Ministry of Morale operations in the south.

At least that statement was true. We had entered the downtown area of Hawkthorn as Softlock explained the Ministry of Morale’s presence in the city. Coincidentally, a massive billboard with Pinkie Pie’s face showed up on top of a monorail at that moment with her trademark catchphrase: “Pinkie Pie is watching you FOREVER!” Her face also showed up on what posters had survived the centuries and on concrete walls as graffiti and on storefronts and on empty coffee cups. If I had known nothing of the ministries, I might have suspected this city was her own little fiefdom.

Other than that, the only other claim Hawkthorn could hold was that it was the birthplace of a pastry saint called Donut Joe. Though we had to tiptoe away from that topic after every member of Money Shot began denouncing the guy as the devil in disguise. They never elaborated on what made Donut Joe so hated in Megacorps, at least not in a way that outsiders could understand what they were saying.

Our history lesson ended as every story of wartime Equestria did—the bombs fell on Hawkthorn. But the zebras did a lousy job of destroying the city, since only two of their balefire missiles actually hit anywhere close, and they missed everything outside of the southern and western districts. Then the survivors went berserk and turned on one another with the collapse of society and government. Apparently, Megacorps was founded during this chaotic period by a small group of corporate lawyers from the north. To make a long story short, they used their business virtues and logistical skills to control the whole city, starting from the downtown area we were walking through.

We were right at the feet of the skyscrapers, most of which had been reduced to their bare bones, such that a stormy wind might topple them. The presence of other Megacorps raiders was greater on Batt Boulevard, where they had established several fronts for their legitimate businesses. The vendors selling bird–on–a–stick and molerat stew were particularly popular due to the time of day. Money Shot took the opportunity to grab lunch.

Creed and I stayed under a decrepit bus shelter with a single trapper to watch over us. Suits of all varieties, representing well over a dozen different companies, surrounded us with hungers to fill and business to settle.

According to the trapper, an itchy earth pony stallion with a coat colored like gold sand and a mane of darker brown, Batt Boulevard was the site of a major “lawsuit.” Whatever this lawsuit was about seemed to have been lost on the two companies involved, since their conflict evolved into a rather bloody street war.

Raiders in neon orange sanitation jackets wandered around, lugging still warm corpses off sidewalks and out of store windows. Once intact buildings had new holes blown into them, and the gap was sometimes filled with nothing more than a crude sign saying “More open than usual.” Random brawls would break out periodically between members of the opposing companies, which went largely unnoticed by the rest of Megacorps, even when the fights involved knives and guns.

The trapper saw me watching one fight between two ponies armed with nothing more than razors. He assured me, “Our neighborhood ain’t always this bad. The eastern district usually tends to be the most stable work environment in the city. But sometimes some simple dispute that could be solved with reverse fulfillment winds up escalating. Then the investors bug out, the suppliers set up shop, and someone sues.”

“What would that dispute be in this case?” I asked.

The trapper pointed to a trio of black suits on the roof of a deli, who were watching the razor duel. “The Comfort Express has a contract with the Daily Peddlers—” His hoof traveled over to a pair of white shirts with suspenders on a street corner, who kept watch on the black suits. “—to obtain Med–X for their products. Unfortunately, one of the Peddlers broke away from best practices and supplied a bad shipment, which winds up causing one of the Express’ products to overdose.

“The Express lost a possible return in investment of 2720 caps. And mind you, that amount could’ve been made in a single quarter, given the demand for a smaller, tighter product. The Peddlers refused to reimburse the amount demanded, so… a lawsuit happened.”

The fight had concluded. The winner limped to the pair of white shirts; the loser bled out in plain view. The trapper reached into his pockets, coming up empty–handed. “Say, have you got any Dash?” I bit my lip. Surely, there was little danger in selling a drug to an addict, but I was unsure how to barter with a corporate raider. So I remained silent, much to the confusion of the trapper. “I’ll buy it off of you. No fine print, no enticements. Just name a price.”

I gulped. “How about… 25 caps?” That was the typical price at which New Appleloosa merchants bought dash from scavengers.

He shook his head. “Nope. You’re setting your sale price too low. I’ll pay 75.”

Triple the amount? What was he thinking? No. No thinking, no hesitation. Come on, Comet, seal the deal. “Alright. 75 caps.” He extended a hoof toward me. A simple handshake would conclude the transaction. Working through a few subconscious misgivings, I met the hoof with my own.

“March 9 Mint,” he proudly stated.

“March 9 Mint?”

“March, because I was conceived in march; Mint, because my parents were high on Mint–als when I was conceived. Do you want to know about the 9?”

“…No thank you.” He was still waiting for something on my part. A greeting? A compliment? Just a formality, maybe. A name. It must be some sort of Megacorps ritual. “Nova.” With that, the exchange was closed. The dash inhaler left my saddlebags, and 75 jingling (such a hollow noise) caps entered them. After a few seconds of waiting, I asked, “Why did you do that?”

March Mint blinked and looked for an answer on the ground. When he found it, he looked up and simply said, “You undervalued the drug relative to its demand.” A shrug. “I didn’t want to cheat you out of money, so I raised the price to the competitive average.”

An honest businesspony? And among raiders? Now I had seen everything.

“Don’t look at me like that. Just because I work for corporate, you can’t believe I have an ounce of decency. I swear it’s that radio witch, who gives Megacorps a bad PR.” March tucked the dash inhaler in his bags, which also contained a batch of arrows for a crossbow on his back. “Not entirely unjustified to concede the point. But most of our companies abide by best practices, and we respect the intelligence of our customers.

“The likes of Raunchy Cavalry, on the other hand… those slimy, cutthroat cartel accessories wouldn’t mind breaking every rule of honest business. That’s what better firepower does to a company—inflate their arrogance. I daresay they’ve even committed the cardinal sin of corporate espionage!”

March Mint’s rant was ridden with high–octane hypocrisy. Only a raider—and some slavers—could possibly fool themselves into believing they had the moral high ground, when they called themselves the best mercenaries, “ethics excluded.” Next to me, Creed breathed heavily and closed his eyes. One ear twitched erratically at the mere sound of the trapper’s voice. Obviously, he felt the same vibes. The biggest warning sign was the occasional quiver in his lips. If his smile ever fell, while he was as pent–up as he was now, I knew it would be impossible to prevent what happened next.

As a testament to his self–discipline, Creed kept up his smile.

We had just four more blocks to cross. For those four blocks, my life depended upon whether Creed could hold back his murderous instinct. I had no intention of testing his patience. My best bet at this point was to keep my mouth shut and give March Mint no reason to continue speaking.

Another Money Shot raider handed March a bird–on–a–stick, which had the body shape of a small crow. Softlock walked over, asking if either Creed or me wanted something from the vendors. Since the pegasus had practically shut himself off from the world, I answered for us both with a “No, thank you.”

Softlock dug into a tin of cod herself with a blissful grin. “Suit yourself.”

“Don’t you ever try to cheat me again, you understand?” Bittersweet, who was laying a verbal beatdown on a trembling yellow mare with an unusually untarnished suit and four bodyguards, was not far behind the smuggler. It was telling when even her hired muscle were backpeddling from the confrontation.

“When this ponzi scheme collapses on your head, your name will be worth as much as the bit I use to remove food from between my teeth. Your lot will be scraping the bottoms of boots for the next century just to repay all the caps other companies will sue you for! Now get out of my sight and have a nice day.”

The swindler galloped so swiftly from the old soldier that her bodyguards were left in the dust. Bittersweet stomped over to Softlock, still grinding her teeth together. “There’s too many jag–offs left in this world, even after we bombed it enough to set us on a new axis.”

“Yes, Bittersweet,” Softlock said between bites. She was reaching for something in her duffel bag.

“And the worst part! The worst part is when the liar, the cheat, approaches you. You can take one look at her face, and you know instantly everything coming from her mouth is going to be utter bull—” Bittersweet froze, all her fury rendered to naught, at the sight of a ziplock bag full of sunflower seeds on Softlock’s hoof. “—splendid. I’ve been dying to have these for weeks.” Bittersweet levitated the bag over and began popping seeds in her mouth like Party–Time Mint–als.

“Feeling better?” Softlock smirked.

Bittersweet threw a foreleg around Softlock’s neck and drew her friend close for a hug. “I feel like I can fight a thousand nights straight.”

Grapeshot allowed for a brief lull after lunch for anyone who needed to use the restrooms. Those had to be paid for like every commodity in Megacorps. I refrained, given my doubts over the standards Megacorps set for sanitation. We were on the move again within five minutes, albeit without as much caution exercised as before. We were deep within the heart of Megacorps, where the density of business fronts meant that any combat would cause major headaches for the companies situated here.

We reached an intersection between Clapton Street and Layla Road, which ran at a latitude and at a longitude respectively. The local Joe’s O’s was located on a street corner with two entrances for its two faces. The architecture captured the self–absorbed optimism of the times with its obnoxiously unconventional design and striking red–white color scheme. From the foundation up to the windows, the pastry shop was constricted with a skirt of metal and a couple of pink bands. Over time, whole chunks of the metal had disappeared while the remaining parts rusted. The windows were wide enough to encompass an entire pony from muzzle to tail, but all the glass had been smashed and replaced with plywood boards.

There was little doubt who the vandals were. Corporate raiders had turned the windows of the shop into a plywood canvas for all their kind, polite commentary on Donut Joe—Joe the Devil, Infidel, Glutton of the Business World, Corporate Espionage ponified, Baked Bad, Swallower of Vital Assets and Trade Secrets. That list, of course, was leaving out the expletives and graphic artwork. Those lacking in literacy had opted for shooting every caliber of gun at the neon signs atop the street corner and the steel cut–out of the founder himself.

This pastry chef had been asking to have his store front descecrated. If not because of the strange animosity Megacorps harbored for him, then because his shop stood out like a rainbow sherbert alicorn among wastelanders. All the other buildings around the Joe’s O’s were austere residential buildings or muted offices with glass curtain walls.

Bittersweet was the first to reach the entrance of the shop. A curt nod from her drew a whistled tune from Grapeshot. Money Shot proceeded to arrange themselves into a ring around the Joe’s O’s. The few corporate raiders from outside companies received the hint and wandered away from the perimeter.

“Cave dweller!” Bittersweet shouted at me. “Come here. We’re going to do a sweep of the place, and I’d like to have a portable light with me.”

I glanced at Creed and Softlock, both of whom urged me to obey with urgent jerks of their heads. The consensus among my companions seemed to be that doing as told was the best way to stay on the old soldier’s good side. My pained foreleg served as testimony to the fact that doing otherwise was simply not an option.

My Pipbuck’s light doused the pastry shop in a green glow. Even on its highest setting, the light could not reach the end of the room, which stretched for the length of a flat wagon on both faces. Every spot the glow fell upon had patches of brown, as though a river of paint had flooded the place. Hundreds of equine skeletons also populated the interior, assembled unceremoniously into seven heaps across the checkered floor. When the bombs fell, either there must have been a hell of a rush hour at the time or there was a rush of civilians to get underground.

I kicked a few skulls on my way to the center of the room, where Bittersweet was standing silent. “Well, the folks here certainly had a strange idea for their last supper,” I joked.

She shook her head, staring, unblinking, at me with her emotionless blue eyes. “All of them survived the bombardment. They and two generations born underground left the tunnels thinking they could rebuild in the ruins of Hawkthorn.” Her eyes traveled to the corporate raiders outside. Softlock was showing off to March Mint with her spinning revolver, Creed stood on watch, and Grapeshot was lounging by a post box.

“The history Softlock told you was a lie meant to satisfy Money Shot. The truth is that the city really died on this street corner. Megacorps slaughtered everyone who came out this way.”

Under closer scrutiny, those patches of paint did seem closer to maroon than brown. Whatever Donut Joe’s crimes may have been hardly compared to this level of retribution. Yet the brutality of Megacorps could only be matched by the stupidity of their victims. Stable–Tec kept their shelters locked up for many generations with good reason; nothing aside from an abomination released from another dimension should have forced these ponies from their refuge.

Safety seemed not to be in Bittersweet’s list of priorities. She barely looked around the donut shop before strolling inside. “Aren’t we supposed to do a sweep?”

Bittersweet crunched on a handful of sunflower seeds. “Already did. An hour before the rendezvous. I didn’t need you for that, Stable pony. Give me the package.” I dug into my saddlebags and pulled out the major’s parcel. Bittersweet levitated the supplies into her own saddlebags, watching Softlock out the window all the while. “We’re done here. Go get your Dashite and—”

The crack of a rifle echoed over the city streets. Conversations ceased; hooves remained rooted to the spot; even the wind turned still. All was quiet around this street corner. For two seconds.

My ears picked up the sound of scattered seeds as Bittersweet’s levitation gave out. Her face contorted through a rapid–fire series of emotions—shock, disbelief, grief, fury—as she yelled into the streets, “AMBUSH!”

There was a gun in every window with a clear shot on the Joe’s O’s and our own guns outside. Rolling thunder was the best description I had for what I heard, and I instinctively dropped to the floor just from the sound. The donut shop was completely redecorated by the incoming bullet storm. The foam inside chairs, the chips inside plywood, and the bones of the long deceased floated in the air like a shower of confetti.

Bittersweet ran right up to the windows, holding the thump–gun next to her shoulder. “Pull her inside!” she shouted. The gun fired, and a moment later, the face of an entire building across from us crumbled onto the sidewalk. I crawled through a carpet of bones to reach the cover of the metal walls.

I lifted my head and saw the slaughter. At least five Money Shot mercenaries were sprawled out dead, some of whom had been torn to pieces by some sort of explosives. Creed was pulling a body toward the nearest entrance to the Joe’s O’s. Although his progress was painfully slow, the smoke screen created by the building collapse kept the shooters from zeroing in on him.

Three of the attackers, dressed in grey suit jackets, made a dash from the opposite corner. Grapeshot, in the midst of another four–note whistle, popped up from behind the post box and fired his rifle. Actually, it turned out to be an automatic shotgun, so the three goons at the receiving end flew back with parts of their chests and heads missing.

Money Shot fired back in earnest after finding cover behind trees, trash cans, and carriages. By following Grapeshot’s whistles, they managed to hold their ground by suppressing the shooters with concentrated fire.

Creed made it inside the shop, dragging the body behind a metal counter. A glimpse of a purple mane confirmed my worst fear—Softlock had been shot by the sniper at the start of the ambush. The smuggler was losing blood from a button–sized hole in her throat. Bittersweet ran to the counter, ripping a handkerchief from her bags to slow the bleeding.

The wall behind me suddenly exploded with searing heat, forcing me back on my stomach among the skeletons. The metal wall, which had been holding up well to bullets, was practically melting now. Outside the windows, the attackers were putting on a laser show.

What were raiders doing with this many laser weapons? They were literally sweeping the sidewalks with beams of sizzling red light. It burned right through the thin cover Money Shot had, incinerating suits and melting holes into flesh.

Grapeshot rolled out from behind the post box as a ray cut through the steel. The manager made a charge onto the street, unloading every shell he had into the windows and the assailants inside. Suddenly, every laser weapon was focusing on him. The asphalt bubbled under his hooves, and the hairs on his coat were tinged black from glancing shots. Nearly to the other side of Clapton Street, Grapeshot stumbled as a laser struck him in the side; 10 more fell upon the manager and brought him down.

As I turned back to the situation inside the Joe’s O’s, my day only got worse. Bittersweet marched out from behind the counter, looking pissed enough to wrestle with death. Her retaliation with a grenade launcher was so ferocious that the streets were veiled with dust from all the property damage. Creed stood up and dropped a bloodied handkerchief on the floor. The look of unease on his face told me all I needed to know—we were done for.

With most of Money Shot presumably dead, the donut shop had become the main target of all the attackers. Both plywood and metal were burned away, and the beams began striking the floor around me. I trudged through the debris and bones in the direction of the counter. I just had enough time to pull out my pistol, when a shot went through my duster. Flames flickered to life around the hole.

I had just seconds to take it off before the whole thing was alight. I practically dived behind the counter to join Creed. Softlock’s body laid across the floor, eyes closed and head limp.

“Oh no,” I muttered eloquently… Eloquently? Where did my pistol go?

Creed’s jacket was thrown aside. The pegasus had his battlesaddles readied. “So plan A for reaching Baltimare has been derailed.”

“What’s plan B?”

“Survive first, damn it. I’ll think of a plan B after we do that.”

March Mint vaulted over an open window into the building. One of his colleagues tried to do the same, but a laser beam struck her in the back, killing her instantly. A third mercenary attempted to gallop through the door, but he disappeared into a fireball as a rocket struck behind him. March Mint crawled over to us, and he was shouting three words over and over: “—ing Raunchy Cavalry!”

Bittersweet fought by herself, denying any of the raiders the chance to close in on the shop. One of them lobbed a grenade into the window, only for her to grab the metal apple in mid–air and fire it back with her magic. The detonation spread a cloud of dust over an entire face of the shop. With her pistols out, Bittersweet ran back to the counter.

“Forget the underground passage—” Her pistol planted one between the eyes of a raider just as he appeared outside the windows. “—We’re making our own way out!”

Creed’s guns opened fire. With the assailants now at the walls, the best he could do was keep them pinned. “What are you suggesting?” he shouted.

Bittersweet disappeared into the kitchen. It took just fifteen seconds before something detonated inside. A canister flew out of the threshold, landing within the center of the room. White smoke billowed out, making it impossible to see anything beyond the counter. The old soldier reappeared, yelling at us to “Follow me!”

What I said before applied now—there was no alternative, except to obey. We ran into the kitchen to the sight of the carriage–sized hole in the wall Bittersweet made. Before we left, I glanced one last time at my only ticket to Baltimare, who quickly disappeared as the smoke screen overtook the counter.

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.
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.
The Old Soldier – Bittersweet is more familiar with the wasteland’s conflict and its factions than anyone else. With her as your companion, interactions with the various factions are facilitated, even if they hate you.
Token Evil Teammate – March Mint has expertise in business interactions. With him as your companion, your bartering options are considerably improved. After all, merchants are reluctant to say no to a corporate raider.