Fallout: Equestria- Turnabout's Fair Play

by Andy Soshal

Rating: mature
Tags: Other, Original Character, Mystery, Sex, Science Fiction, Adventure, Princess Celestia, Crossover, Main 6, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe
Length: 3084

There are many stories about the Stables and their Dwellers, stories of nobility and self-sacrifice by Ponies who had no obligation to do so. This is not one of them.

It's not every day that you survive a bullet to the head.
Doc says I was damn lucky. Says the Goddesses must be watching over me.
I don't feel lucky; how can I, when I've forgotten my real name, my job, and whatever it is that's telling me I've forgotten something important?
Now I have to find out why whoever it was that did this to me felt like they had to; they may be the only lead I got to remembering.
And if they don't want to tell me...well...
Turnabout's fair play, isn't it?

Published 2016-02-20 16:30:02 UTC
Last updated 2016-02-20 16:30:02 UTC

Prologue

Once upon a time, in the magical land of Equestria...

War. War never changes.

There had been a period in history where the pony race and the numerous other intelligent creatures of the world had walked, if not in open friendship, then at least a friendly amicability. Griffon and Zebra and Pony and all the others beside, all working toward the same goal of prosperity. The spirit of the Elements of Harmony was strong in the leaders of each nation, and the blessed Sun and beautiful Moon shone their lights in turn upon the good people.

But nothing is forever.

As the years passed, the Elements of Harmony present within the leadership of the races began to decay. Laughter became Bitterness, Honesty turned to Deceit, Kindness was cast aside for Hate, Loyalty was now Treason, and Generosity gave way to Greed.

And the most potent of them all, belief in the Magic of Friendship, became simple Doubt.

Eventually, what had once been goodness, now evil, had its time in the form of a war to end all wars, to end almost all life on the surface as it was known, and on the final day, nature itself was torn apart by one last, desperate attack, one that poisoned the world for centuries to come.

Yet, nothing is forever.

Though almost all life was extinguished, it was not the end of life. Deep into the good earth were dug large safe-houses, big enough to harbor small populations of ponies. These safe-houses were called "Stables", and they allowed enough of ponykind to survive that fateful day when balefire poisoned the sky. Willing prisoners of their own design, some of these Stable ponies wait for the day when they can walk under Sun again. Some are satisfied with their lot, content to remain within their living tombs. Some have no knowledge that there is a world beyond their Stable door. Some have died, the lights of their home shining on bones and dust. Some have made a life for themselves, two hooves in their Stable, two hooves in the Wasteland of Equestria.

There are many stories about these Stable-dwellers.

This is not one of them.

Hot Shot was a quiet stallion, particularly for one his size. His coat was a pale blue, offset by a silver mane, and seemed too small for the vast musculature underneath, which only increased the feeling of smallness that others felt when standing next to him.

Hot Shot was also a Unicorn, which made his massive frame seem completely at odds with the seeming delicacy of his horn.

Not that he cared much, so long as he was able to do his job, namely walking the walls of the Las Pegasus Strip at night, ensuring that nopony tried to climb them, go through them, damage them, and so on.

Typically, he had very little trouble during his shift, which was just the way he liked it. Low-key and quiet, no muss, no fuss.

He reflected on this particular desire as he looked down the scope of Periwinkle, his anti-materiel sniper rifle, at the small knot of street sweepings some hundred yards away.

Hot Shot's beat along the wall overlooked the main road of Skid Row from twenty-five feet up, Skid Row being the slum directly outside of Las Pegasus, a small city surrounding the smaller cluster of hotels, brothels, and casinos that made up the Strip. Skid Row itself had several small-time establishments of the same type, if one could say that the low-grade hovels beyond the wall were even of the same league, if not caliber.

Hot Shot had spent a few nights in this one dump out there while he was earning enough caps to get into the Strip and find a decent job. It had taken three times as long to get rid of the assorted crawlies he had found hiding in his fur, and he still woke up some nights, frantically scratching to get rid of nonexistent bugs.

Wastelander he may have been, but he had more sense than to lay down where he'd get eaten alive.

He'd also had more sense, he mused as he watched the idiots on the end of the street, than to try and storm what was essentially a fort without so much as an ounce of barding.

It happened every so often; some maniac, hopped up on Rage or Buck or Stampede or something of the like would get it into their fool head that they could bash through the wall, climb it, or something equally stupid, and gain repercussion-free access to the pleasures within.

None of them ever had, and especially not while Hot Shot was on the watch; his part of the wall was technically the weakest, it being the part with the gate and all, and as such, he paid special, close attention to the goings-on in his surroundings while on his shift.

He gave the toothpick in his mouth an extra grind of irritation as the damnfool colt at the other end of his scope finally made a move...by rushing the wall. Hot Shot sighed; why did they always choose to try and get through instead of just going home and sleeping it off?

Ignoring the forms behind the colt, egging their friend on, the giant stallion moved the scope to look at a line painted onto the asphalt of Main Street. It was a simple thing, a white streak cutting straight across both lanes of traffic, and it served a simple purpose.

It was Hot Shot's killzone. Anything or anypony stepped over that line at night without permission was as good as dead, and Hot Shot would do his damnedest to put a bullet through the brain of any who crossed it.

It was a more merciful fate than what the other defenders of the gate had in store.

A few more steps, and the kid would be over it. Hot Shot momentarily toyed with the idea of warning the kid away, a round over the ears or something...but he waved it off. Any rounds he fired were docked it out of his pay. While he loved Periwinkle, her ammo didn't come cheap, and there was no guarantee it'd work, anyway, which would mean two bullets instead of just the one subtracted from this week’s food money.

He led the target, gently counting down the seconds until the first hoof crossed his line.

3...

2...

1...

His horn glowed momentarily as a purple aura gently squeezed the trigger of his rifle. Immediately, Periwinkle kicked back hard into his shoulder, robbing him of the sight of the foolish colt who had charged. He brought her back under control, putting his eye on the scope again.

Scratch one addict; the kid lay sprawled over the line, half of his face obliterated by–

Hot Shot stiffened as his victim began to crawl; the shot hadn't been clean. The toothpick fell from his lips as he frantically chambered another round, desperately trying to get a bead on the poor fool still making some insane attempt at the city beyond.

He heard a whirring noise, and let the gun relax in his grip, even as his gut sank.

Too late.

Hot Shot turned his back to the spectacle about to unfold.

He looked at the buildings inside the wall instead of the malformed, inequine shadow lumbering out of the darkness of the gate.

He watched the flashing neon instead of the bright orange flame that leapt from the shadow.

He felt the cool wind of the Wasteland instead of the heat from that cleansing flame.

He hummed a tune to himself instead of listening to the screams of the soul behind him as it surrendered to the immolation.

And finally, he rested his eyes upon the tower that was the Aces and Eights Casino, where his boss lived, and wondered about why Mr. House had never allowed anypony inside in the two hundred years he'd run the Strip.

The white Unicorn standing on a high mesa allowed his eyes to rest on a distant tower, just barely visible as a glowing vertical streak high above the rest of the chaotic blur that was the lights of the Las Pegasus Strip. The gold-plated lighter levitating in front of him flicked once, a bright flame appearing, to which he touched the end of the cigarette dangling from his lower lip. With an expert snap of magic, one that spoke of long practice, the lighter closed and floated back into the pocket of his near-immaculate grey sports jacket.

Dragging on the cig, the Unicorn stared holes into the distant building with hungry blue eyes, eyes cold as ice. There was a look of want...no, need in those eyes, a look of obsession that bordered on neurosis as they looked at that indistinct streak of light.

"Mine," he muttered. "All of it. Lock, stock, and barrel, baby."

A rough cough from behind him snapped him from his reverie. "Hey, uh...High Life? We got the hole digged."

Immediately hiding the look of distaste that had shot over his face, the Unicorn called High Life stood from where he had been sitting on the ground, spun around in an impressive display of dexterity, and beamed a blinding-white smile at the speaker. He pointed a forehoof at the dirty Earth Pony. "Holy-moly, daddy-o! Ya sure did, and ain't I impressed! Ya know what, just color me impressed, ya dig?"

The Earth Pony merely blinked at this, shooting a look at his compatriots, a trio of equally-dirty fellow Earth Ponies, each with either a shovel or a pick. He looked back at High Life. "Uh...yeah...we did." He paused for a moment, a look of confusion crossing his face as a chipped, cracked hoof gestured to the hole. "We, uh...we digged."

High Life's too-big smile seemed to stick in place for a second before becoming something resembling genuine again. "Nah, nah, buddy-boy, I mean ya dig me, ya know, you savvy me, I savvy you, capisce-comprende? Gotta pick up on the lingo, baby, the lingo, know what I'm sayin'?"

The four Earth Ponies merely looked at him with expressions of complete incomprehension. High Life sighed inwardly.

The shit he had to put up with.

Conjuring a comb from another jacket pocket, High Life ran it through his slicked-back mane, the black strands greasily parting before the teeth like water around rocks before it, too, disappeared back into its place. "Ok, ok, look, so ya ain't hip to the slang. I get it, I get it. I won't hold it against ya, we're old pals and all, yeah. So, tell ya what. How's about youse guys go ahead and pack up the crap so we can haul ass in a jiffy. Ya got that?"

The other three Earth Ponies nodded eagerly, eager to please the smooth-talking white Unicorn. The one who had spoken first, though, looked apprehensive.

"You, uh...you sure you don't need no help, boss?" Looking down, he kicked at the bound hoof of the Pegasus pony before him. "We, uh...we could finish him off for you..."

Smile immediately disappearing, High Life stared hard at the slow-speaking Wastelander, taking a long drag off his cig. "What," he said after a few seconds of glaring. "Ya think I can't off a guy or something?"

The Earth Pony blinked. "I, uh...I di—"

High Life stepped forward. "'Cuz lemme tell ya something, daddy-o, I off ponies all the damn time, savvy?" A silver glow accompanied a pistol suddenly whirling out of yet another secret pocket and jamming itself into the unfortunate Earth Pony's mouth, who tried in vain to look at it cross-eyed. "I did it last week ta some little filly who mouthed off at me, so if ya think some two-bit Pegasus hack, or some Mud Pony's gonna give me a bit o' trouble, baby, lemme tell ya something else..."

The hammer cocked back as High Life looked straight at the poor, sweating-bullets Wastelander he was holding at gunpoint...before bursting out into laughter. "Oh, jeez," he gasped. "Oh, fuck, brother, I got ya good!"

The pistol tucked itself away again, and the Earth Pony blinked a few times before hesitantly joining along. High Life slugged him in the shoulder good-naturedly.

"That's my boy, right there. Tell you what; we've had a laugh, you and me, that makes us buddies, right? Right!" He agreed with himself before his "buddy" could reply. "Why don't ya just go on over there with your friends and pack up the shit, and I'll call ya over when I'm done here so we can all get this dope buried and back on your way home, huh? Sound good?"

Not waiting for an answer, High Life pushed him out of the way and stood before the soon-to-be-dead Pegasus. "Man," he said in an undertone as he watched the slow-thinking pony join the others, "those guys sure are dumb as fuck, huh, daddy-o? Well, at least they're serving their purpose...kinda like you did, huh? Oh, don't look at me like that," he said in mock regret as the Pegasus stallion glared hatefully at him. "Ya knew what you were getting into when ya took the job. Bad shit happens to Couriers all the time...and besides that, ya knew too much about what my plans are in the first place."

He scratched his chin in reflection. "Still ain't sure on how ya knew, exactly...care to fill me in?"

More hateful glaring. There were sure to have been equally-as-hateful words to accompany it, but the Pegasus was gagged as well as bound.

High Life shrugged. "Ah, whatever. You'll take it to the grave, I guess." The pistol floated out once again, hovering above the goggles resting on the forehead of the soon-to-be-victim. "Look at it this way," High Life said, grinning, even as he pulled a small, oblong object from the chain around the Pegasus’s neck. "At least ya spent your life away from that fucking Enclave. Am I right?"

*BANG.*

Keen ears picked up the sound of a distant gunshot.

Grimm Ironclaws ignored it; a single gun in the cacophony that was everyday life in the Wastes was inconsequential, and this one was certainly far-away enough to not matter.

He merely sat at his place by the door, talons holding his shotgun at the ready and back stiff in attention as he watched the display before him. He allowed his gaze to slide to the side at his fellow guard, who had mirrored his own stance, albeit with a rifle instead.

A muffled whimper emanated from in front of him, and he returned his eyes to the sight of the Kaiser raping the small Mud Pony colt on the floor.

Grimm Ironclaws was certainly no small specimen; grey-feathered and falcon-headed, he was descended from some of the finest Griffin lineage still in existence, and it showed. The topmost feathers of his plumage were a half head over the rest of the Griffins in the entirety of the Jagdkraft, and he was capable of flying while carrying the equivalent of seven, fully-grown Mud Pony stallions. He was faster, smarter, better than all but a scant handful of the other warriors in their army.

But he was nowhere near the size and strength of the Griffin before him.

And nowhere, he noted absently as the talon not holding the poor slave down by his mane ripped bloody gashes down his back, near as ruthless.

The Kaiser narrowed leonine yellow eyes as he picked up the speed of his thrusts, the colt’s whimpers turning to barely contained shrieks of pain as the blood ran down his flanks in sheets. A few more seconds and the Griffin grunted in satisfaction, reaching completion as he finished.

Grimm straightened even more as the Kaiser pulled out of the now-shivering slave and turned in his direction. The undisputed leader of the Jagdkraft grasped a nearby towel and cleaned himself off, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder.

“Ironclaws,” he said, voice as deep and harsh as gravel roiling in a metal barrel, “fetch me the Captains of the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Divisions. I want them here within fifteen minutes. Tell them that I wish to discuss the plans concerning our impending operation, and do not wish to see any of them late.”

Grimm nodded once, sharply. Does-the-Kaiser-also-wish-me-to-bring-the-Captain-of-the-Augen?he signed, ending it with a cock of his head.

The Kaiser considered the question for a moment, then nodded. “Make it so.” He gestured contemptuously to the pathetically broken Pony foal on the floor. “And bring me a new slave. This one is broken.”

 Grimm thumped a fisted talon against his chest, slung his shotgun over his back, and hurried past his commander to scoop up the pony as gingerly as he could. He did not stop to look back to the massive Griffin, nor to look at his fellow guard.

He did, however, allow his gaze to linger upon the insignia stamped on the door of the room.

The red, double-headed eagle stared back at him, and, for just a moment, Grimm Ironclaws thought he could see it glare at him in hate.

Big Chief Thunderhooves looked down at the trampled, broken banner under his hooves, the remains of a mutant eagle on the fabric staring up at him.

He snorted and hawked a massive ball of phlegm on it.

Fucking Griffins.

Turning around, he looked at the destruction his tribe had wrought upon the small group of Griffins that had trespassed into their mountains. They usually did not come this far out, and the Buffalo had kept it this way, for not one of them was left alive, and not one of them had escaped a painful death. Even now, his warriors were pulling pinfeathers from corpses, splitting spoils and weaponry, and heaping care and aid on the newly-released slaves, mostly Pony with a handful of his fellow Buffalo mixed in.

Thunderhooves nodded, satisfied at the sight.

But it was not enough.

He could feel it; something big was coming, something that would affect them all before it was done.

And he realized, even as he looked up at the round-as-a-bit-coin moon, that this time, the mountains and canyons might not protect his people.

The creature blinked owlishly at the round-as-a-bit-coin moon hanging low in the sky from its vantage point on the edge of the deep, miles-long gash in the ground.

It sighed, bowed its head, elbows on its knees…

And waited.