Fallout Equestria: Reflections of Radiation

Chapters

War, War Never Changes ~~[PROLOGUE]
Hatred boils blood just the same~~[Arc I]
Peace is paved over for Progress~~[Interlude 0]
Ambitions unchecked breeds destruction~~[Arc 1]
Traitors and treason emerge when sucess falters [Arc 2]
Conflict creates infrastructure~~ [Arc 2]
Even with new names and faces~~[PROLOGUE PART 2]

War, War Never Changes ~~[PROLOGUE]

War, War never changes. In the year 2077, Atomic fire rained down upon America. Countless people died in the initial nuclear detonation, and more followed, basking in the radiation. Project Safe-House, the American response to the nuclear threat, had failed. The corruption present within the shadow government, code name Enclave, led to the deaths of many who manged to reach the vaults. Those who had a spot in a vault, often suffered horrific fates, subject the the experiments of immoral scientists. Across the nuclear wasteland, many wanders wonder who launched the first nuke. Who doomed them to their fate.

In the Capital wasteland, there was one such wander who made it his life goal, to study the old world, to learn the trials and tribulations his ancestors experienced. That was not always his goal, however. When he had first set out, he had the vague goal, of finding his last family member. He was an only son, whose mother had died, like many other wastelanders, giving birth. His father was a man of obsessions, and his son was sadly, never one of them. His father, first grew fascinated by science, and in his travels, met his wife. She was also interested in science, but not for knowledge's' sake. Where he saw value, she saw purpose. She had wandered for some time, and saw the difficulties that everyone in the capital wasteland faced. She wanted to help the wastelanders the father passed by. Once she had passed away, the father distantly protected his son. Isolating him from the horrors around him.

One day, when the father had decided that his son was grown up enough, he left. He left, to finish his wife's greatest wish. Help the people of the wasteland. Through the science he helped his wife conduct. Their quest to purify the waters of Washington. He left with little more than a note on his son's night stand. Ignoring the chaos in his wake.

This had shattered the protection that he had made for his son. His son, who he had managed to shelter from the horrors of the wasteland, realized that his father never truly cared for him. That his own father, would rather obsessive over his long dead wife, than his only son. This, broke something in the young man. Something, which would make room for something that was slowly spreading into the Wastelands: Magic.

This magic, wasn't something anyone would just notice. It was subtle. A surer aim, better eyesight, a lucky shot, some extra ammunition, a few more bottle caps, a safer night. This magic, gave him a special connection to the wasteland. A sixth sense, which let him not only survive, but thrive in the harsh conditions. This magic, would only make him seem a little more Special. A mite stronger. More perceptive than most. Capable of enduring the wasteland. A bit more charismatic than most wastelanders. More intelligent than many. A slight more agile. Some even said he was luckier than most.

Time went on, this wanderer explored, he found his father, bent over a workstation, working furiously on a doomed project. This discovery, shattered what little innocence left in his mind. His one shred of hope, torn from him by his own father, the wanderer left, looking for something, or someone, to keep him wandering.

For some time, this wanderer assisted Moria Brown in her life quest, of the Wasteland Survival Guide, something that soon spread across the capital wasteland, and beyond. In a few short years, copies could be found as far as the Mojave desert. The Wanderer, was the first of many, to work under Moria Brown, in her noble quest. While others would forget the detials of his character, she will remember until the day she dies.

Afterwards, he continued his wanderings. This time searching for the answer every wastelander pondered. Who shot first. Whist searching for access to the ruins of the white house, he found a ghoul haven: Underworld. In this settlement, he learned of honest mercenaries, being corned by super mutants, and something awoke in him. A purpose, a reason to wander. With this newfound sense of self, he rushed to the Statesman Hotel, and fought through waves of Super Mutants. The Rangers who he rescued, would describe his fighting as almost impossible. He always had the first shot, the best instinct, the surer aim. The sturdier cover. They would describe him, later, as an avatar of the wasteland, centenarian, unyielding, unforgiving, yet infinitely kind. It was as if he himself didn't know what he was. Who he was. Or maybe he was just on a cocktail of drugs, and couldn't think straight.

He wandered the wasteland for years, he watched as the capital wasteland turned from a wretched, radioactive hive of scum and villainy, into a oasis of hope. He saw the horrors of the Enclave's experiments. He saw the brave brotherhood soldiers fighting for the common wastelander. He saw the effects of project purity upon the wasteland. He saw that when there was even one base, primal need fulfilled people who were savages days before, would rejoice in celebration. It was miraculous, the constantly closed gates of Rivet City, Megaton, Underworld, and even the Republic of Dave, opened. People forgot rivalries, and rejoiced, drank, and feasted. The wanderer however, felt something else changing.

His sixth sense, his inner connection to the wasteland, was fading. The very thing that had kept him alive and let him thrive, had started degrading. It was beyond frightening.It was as if he was going blind. He could feel it degrading. The very thing that had kept him alive, was slipping away. So whilst everyone else was in celebration, he left.

He became a legend in his next wanderings. What people didn't realize, is that he wasn't facing impossible odds to save a few, from the goodness of his heart. He was suicidal, with more than a dash of narcissism. He couldn't just hang himself, nor could he die to some mere wasteland creature. His death had to be suitably memorable. He had to follow in his father's footsteps. To die a meaningless death would dishonor his memory. So he turned away help, and and took increasingly difficult missions. Impossible odds, dozens of raiders for every shell he took with him. Every time he heard Three Dog exclaim to the wastelanders that the 'wasteland messiah' was still among them, he pushed himself harder, further dedicating himself to his mission. He traveled from the Capital wasteland, into places as far as Point Lookout, trying to escape his fate, or at least end it. China's counter intelligence couldn't end him, nor could the darkest magic the Dunwich family could gather.

To the people of the wasteland, he was a shining example. A hero to be revered. A true icon of what the future could be. Someone who came from the safety of a vault, and fought for the wastelanders. Someone, who fulfilled the promise that President Eden had been making for years. The promise to make America great once more. To charge forth, taking the hits, only to soar higher. To bring down a hell worse then any had seen in generations, to the threats to the common wastelander. A man who, was young and in his prime, and wasn't afraid of losing both.

He was a man, who traveled great distances, just to reunite a mother with her daughter. He fought for project purity, the source of clean water for everyone. He rescued the last band of honest mercenaries. He made the wasteland survival guide into a staple of every merchant. He discovered the secrets of the fire ants, and removed them from the capital wasteland. He forged the alliance between Arefu and the Family. He brought democracy to the former Republic of Dave. He taught the people of Big Town how to defend themselves with the marvels of science. He rendered Canterberry Commons safe from the superhuman conflict. He lead a band of escaped slaves to the Lincoln memorial, and established a safe haven for any slave, which only made his future worse.

Soon after the astounding success of Project Purity, the wanderer heard tales of the Pitt, a land of hopeless slaves put to work in radiation and mutagens until they died. he heard the words of a man who escaped, and was seeking help in liberating his people form their plight. He left his home with a crate of munitions, and light heart. When he returned, months later, he had neither. He had left with the acknowledgement that he could easily die. He had made peace that it would be for a good cause. When he returned, his once immeasurable will was being sapped. His almost childish desire to save everyone was gone. His choice, his actions which dictated how the Pitt would be ruled, by whom it would be ruled, had changed him. The moral dilemma had taken more than he could handle. To side with freedom, at the cost of the future, or to side with progress, whist hundreds suffer? His choice, changed him.

How could it not? To choose between a caring father, and a heartless bastard should be easy. It should be a fast, almost instant choice, that you know in the deepest pit of your soul was right. But what if the right answer, is also wrong? What if choosing a caring father, means you choose death and hatred. Or to choosing a heartless bastard means that the future doesn't improve? There was no right answer. And this small fact, broke him more than even his father's sacrifice. It drew out the last shred of innocence, and cut it away. Burnt off the severed soul in the harsh rads ever prevalent in the wasteland.

It was a simple mission. Charge in, fire off his Metal Blaster at every Super Mutant he saw, and rescue Reilly. A quest like any other these days. Charge in with little more than a doctor's bag and a bandoleer of microfusion cells or shotgun shells. Convince anyone that wanted to come along that it would be better if they didn't tag along. In this case, have them prepare to launch a surprise assault elsewhere. To prevent the Super Mutants from reinforcing Roosevelt Academy during the rescue.

In all honesty, it was how all of his plans were. Charge in, shoot up everything hostile, use whatever skills he has as needed, and win to fight another day. Every time he tried a suicidal charge, he won. Raiders broke before him, super mutants charge to meet. Even among the Enclave, his name brings terror. He was an emblem, a symbol more powerful than Old Glory. Old Glory lead millions to death in Alaska. He had only had a dozen die by his side. Cross, James, Charon, Artemis, Bael... each one he remembers. How can her not when he sees them every night?

But today, his wishes were partly answered. He would no longer be among capital wastelanders. And his mission would be competed. But that would not be without its price. You cannot gain something without sacrificing something else in return. Something he had learned early into his wasteland quests. To gain without losing first, means you will pay later, one way or another. Often times, it was better to pay up front, then let the cost fester.

He had done it, again. Saved the girl, and barely got scratched doing this. Of course, this is the one person he never risk dying for. Ever since he first saw her. He knew, he knew that if she asked him to take over the wasteland, he'd hand her a crown. He knew he had no chance in this wasteland. Since when have such facts mattered to those in love? He couldn't help but wonder. What it'd be like. What he can never have. Would it be worth it?

Such thoughts, can be disastrous when they distract you. In this wasteland, a moment of intention, means you don't see the glowing green grenade. You don't react to your certain death. But sometimes, the wasteland sees an opportunity, and you can bet that the wasteland is an entrepreneur. Peace is its competitor, and you know what they say about competition: It sucks.

In a single instant, Reilly knew something. That if her rescuer had died, the fragile peace would break, and generations would suffer. So she took it upon herself, to save him from the deadly plasma, about to be unleashed. She pushed him away, and leaped to her end. But where her story ends, a new story begins to blossom. Wings sprout forth from unadorned sides. Hair grows out into a mane, and a tail follows. Eyes widen, bones shift, and fur spreads. All things change, the most fundamental rule of the wasteland. No one is as they were two hundred years ago. Her story ends so that his may begin anew. The cost of a new story, is the end of hers.

Author's Note

Normally I'll have these at the top with little loading screen wisdom and lore tidbits. But for now, let me welcome you to this story. If you see any errors, continuity or otherwise, please point them out.
~~Irradiated Blue

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Hatred boils blood just the same~~[Arc I]

Author's Note

Trench knifes have a long and bloody history. Passed on by blood, these weapons of war have seen untold slaughter. From their spiked guard to their serrated edge, each one has split enough blood to horrify even the most cold hearted raiders. These knifes are often seen as a symbol of power and prestige among raiders, for no raider will let them be taken without bloodshed. To have one, means that you killed a raider boss for it. Often a mixed message to the unlucky wastelanders who happens upon one. Of course who knows what secrets they may have seen in their bloodied lives.

Hatred boils blood just the same~~[Arc I]

Raiders are a menace. From the former republic of Dave, to Little lamplight, raiders cause issues. They cost caps, whether by a protection racket, or supplies to fight them. They cost lives, as they take what they want, and try no matter what. They pillage and murder, regardless of moralities. They don't care who they raid from. They don't care that power armored knights can easily shred them. They care for naught but destruction. To fight such beings, is to risk becoming them. To risk become as ruthless, as cold hearted. To fight the dark evils, when they come forth, is to risk your own sanity.

Raiders are naught but the result of anger, fear, and unbounded rage, finally let loose. A moment of weakness, a drugged haze or the first kill. The wasteland forces all to their knees, those who rise once more, get a blade to their neck. Only two options exist: Either you are knighted, or beheaded. The raiders roam without their higher thoughts, and without their charming eyes.

His eyes see it: Raiders are chasing a group of wastelanders. A ratty group sacredly half a dozen, with barely a few guns among them. Three ghoulish ponies, one armed with some kind of mounted gun, each lacking in wings, one pony, fur matted with blood, and two with stubby points on their heads. Their armor is worn down winter coats, with tire strip reinforcements. A pitiful reminder of of his moment of weakness, a pitiful group of raiders.

The splatter of gunfire shakes him from his thoughts. The wastelanders were being threatened. His actions, were never in question. this was his chance, to reforge himself, by the nuke's fury, he would not let it go. With a quick prompt, his pip-boy, beeped in affirmation. The culmination of many brilliant engineers computed more than he can hope to understand. All he knows is the beep was affirmative. With a nightmarish grin that would fit in at the trenches, he leaps on towards his foes.

He had little time to wonder how the Vault-tec Assisted Targeting System (tm) would react to his new body. The raiders had an equally short time to wonder what a pegasus was doing below the clouds. The wastelanders, simply stood in shock. They couldn't believe that their months of troubles would end like this: A brown coated stallion. His dirtied white armor coated in blood, probably on either rage or stampede.

His leap instinctively lopped into a back flip, a small object falling from a side pocket.His mouth snapped out at it, and they saw a bright blue glow emit from the blade he had grabbed. Fully armed, he slashed the throat of the the nearest raider, a pale gray unicorn mare. before her blood reached the ground, he was already upon one of the ghouls.

He flew up above the inexperienced stallion, and dropped down on it, crushing the raider's jury rigged battle harness. Stretching his neck out, he nearly decapitated the ghoul, as the other unicorn turned her gun on him. As if he knew it was going to happen, his leap off the recently dead ghoul, gave him cover. The gun fired, the revolver barking out thrice.

Another body dropped. A mare, recently inducted to the raider lifestyle. Two bullets in her lungs, one through the ear. The bloodied stallion, unfazed, didn't stop. The glow from his knife became nearly blinding as he it flew from his mouth, embedding itself to the hilt on the unicorn's chest, straight into her icy heart. The two ghouls shared a look, and rushed him.

The look on his face spelled out their fate. They had thought him helpless without his strange knife. They were ill fated, as he broke them for their mistake. Their irradiated were crushed by his hooves, and he hoped on one, lead him into the other, and took off. Flying directly up for a mere moment, his momentum crushed the final raider.

With a quick breath control of his body flowed back to him, VATS having ran its course. His body returned, he trotted over to his trench knife. A proud relic, which seems to have adapted to this world better than he has. Perhaps it just knew its place better. Instead of deluding itself with thoughts of peace. It was a weapon of war. As he was. Unlike him, who had charged over to the fight, with thoughts of a peaceful resolution. When the time came, his instinct was to fight. Not to talk, not to offer friendship.

He didn't notice the smallest pony among the wastelanders darting past him, but he did hear the metallic clank, followed by a electric
double beep. The double beep alerting him to changing loyalties. From friendly to hostile, someone had just tried to shoot him. With a frown etched upon his face, he turned to his would be attacker.

A small pony, mint mentats blue. A young look in his eyes, awkwardly holding the unicorn's revolver in his mouth. His legs shaking for than a vetibird. Pupils spread in utter terror, jaw clenched in determination. The other wastelanders are frozen to the spot. Each of them wondering if that clank marked his death. They were afraid, of him. That realization shook him. Seeing an chance to talk the youngest of them down, he tried to speak. Only to realize he still had his trench knife held in his mouth. With a quick jab into the dirt, he spoke.

"Hey hey hey. Calm down there little guy. If that was still loaded, the recoil alone would have at least dislocated your jaw. That hurts, a lot. Your jaw could end up permanently displaced, which could cause all sorts of issues when it comes time for eating, let alone trying to kiss with a jaw like that. Let's just talk this out." Tact never was a strong point of his. In fact it seemed everyone he ran into had another pressing issue they managed to pass off to him. Thankfully, the elder wastelanders were more than willing to settling this without any more of their number dying, and quickly responded.

"Come on darling, do what the kind pegasus, and just calm down. Come over here darling, yes that's it, over here..." A deep blue mare began talking to, presumably her son. Said pony was visibly calming down with each word she said. Another pony, this time in green hues stepped up to speak.

The words may be different, but the story was the same. they were a group of wastelanders, a couple of families banding together to make a settlement. An area was selected, the nearest threats mapped out or eliminated. Then came the raiders. At first it was just a threat. One raider, more or less unarmed walking up, telling them to pay up or else. Then when two raiders come a week later, demanding their protection money. A month goes by, they make their payments.

Then the price rises. Not just fifty caps, no, it becomes unplayable. Threats increase, and before long, the raiders attack. Houses are burned, crops razed, and caps stolen. Any who tried to fight back were mercilessly gunned down. The survivors try running. Taking what little they have left, and just trying to put miles between them and the raiders. Only they become a target for more raiders, as the frantically pass through territory after territory.

Nearly twenty survivors get whittled down. Five die on the road, from illness and injury. Four die in an attack, three more to animals. By the time he had found them, they were barely eight among them. A family of six reduced to mother and son. Lifelong friends were split between life and death. A story he had heard all too often.

With practiced sympathy, he took them to his shelter. A small town bar. Cobbled walls and burnt plasters, but still recognizable as a bar. Even as tables were broken down to board up the windows, the bar itself was littered in beer logos. The lights long ago broken, but enough light sneaks through the boarded windows. The town may have lost its name centuries ago, but its constructions stands proud.

Time passed by quickly for the wastelanders. The stranger rarely said much, often preferring to simply sit and listen. They tirelessly worked to secure the town. They knew, that any day the raiders would return. But they had learned. They would not let the raiders walk over them. They would fight. This small town would become their fortress.
` the bar they had been brought to became a town hall, the park it overlooked; A farm. The depot he had mistaken for a subway was investigated. It was a refueling station for trains shipping supplies across Equestria. Only one train there. The entrances and exits blocked by rubble. The small train present, held three boxcars. One held an ornate mirror, cracked down the center. The other two held shipments of terminals.

Whilst their contents were of little use, the boxcars themselves were broken down, and used to wall up the few alleyways. The pre-war metal was well preserved underground: They made for excellent fortifications. An unicorn mare by the name of Vibrant Breeze led a small team to a site of wrecked sky-carriages: Pre-war aerial transports. They had some irradiated foods, but with a show of great strength, they were brought to town to serve as guard posts.

This town was no longer forgotten. It was re-branded, no longer a dead spot. The name was hastily painted by the youngest among the group: New Foal Lins. It was quickly corrected by the elder wastelanders to New Foalians, the town of new beginnings. This new town, would soon attract the attention of the raiders they had so recently feared. When the time came, they did not submit: They fought back.

Equestia's communication in most cases, relied upon radio signals to be bounced from relay to relay. In order to cut off any section, all an infiltrator needed to do would be destroy the nearest relay. This was a pressing concern to the Ministry Mares. The Ministry of Arcane Science and the Ministry of Technology were working alongside the Ministry of Morale's best to fix that issue. A facility was created in absolute secret. It's mission: To take the best technologies available to them and a few that weren't, to create an separate way of communicating. As a contracted corporation, Stable-Tec was brought into this project later on, to establish communication with the Stables hidden across Equestia. Stable-tec brought in a project of their own, and both trotted away with a grim smile.

They theorized that if there was a radio relay at an high enough altitude, saboteurs couldn't reach it. However the Zebras had already obtained flight comparable with the Wonderbolts of Pre-war. The leading expert on flight and high altitudes was brought in to talk, Rainbow Dash. She said that no pony, nor any team could possibly haul such a device to a high enough altitude to be effective. So they looked for an alternate solution.

The first Megaspell rocket was created shortly after. Taking inspiration from such a design, they started work anew, creating a rocket with a payload of magical and scientific devices, designed to monitor the conditions of high altitude, low orbit flight. Before they could launch, the war pushed forward, nearly reaching the facility, and they sloppily refitted the device to provide battlefield data. For the last few centuries, it lay dormant, unable to sense anything.

Peace is paved over for Progress~~[Interlude 0]

Author's Note

There is a single currency worth more than caps that no trader will take. It is more rare than fuel, more valued than gold, and never traded. A minigun can cost up to a thousand caps. Sufficient ammo even more so. Power armor is priceless, but all of it pales to the value of trust. So easily broken, yet it is the key to peace.

Peace is paved over for Progress~~[Interlude 0]

He could handle many things. He had even killed an Enclave soldier wearing hellfire amour in ten seconds flat using nothing but his fists and trench knife. It was poorly designed armor,the spiked guard could press both of the quick release buttons. From there, it was trivial to slit the throat. The Enclave had not anticipated fighting in close quarters with competent opponents. A shortcoming that led to many casualties when fighting him.

What he could not stand, that he could not bear: Is a mystery. An unknown, a secret connected to anything, everything. Something only hinted at, even if the only hint is the lack of a story. A gap in the tale, a hole that hid in the telling. Even legends have their roots in truth, embellished beyond truth.Even as the truth behind the stories grew more horrific, he needed to know. Truth after truth, fact after fact, each he learned. Stories made to comfort, sanitized from reality. He was addicted, he needed to know.

One story, lay buried in his mind. Half overheard, and even less remembered, it would answer a burning question of his. It would give him his fix. A single night in megaton would answer his questions, if only to lead him to more. It was who he was. A man determined to bear the weight of the truth. To learn what his ancestors faced, to be a living memory.

The story started with a case of scotch. A night to remember the lost, the sacrificed heroes. To remember his father, and to pay respects to her brethren. It had begun as just the two, but through the night many joined. Each of them had their stories. Lucy spoke of her parents, of their dream to open a postal office. Lucas spoke of his wife. She had died when the town was still building, defending her family to the death. Moria spoke of her younger sister, who walked away one day, without a clue of what she'd face.

In a nearly silent undertone, Jericho muttered his own story, of the lady he had loved. A fellow raider, in the same gang. She had ambitions though. She was determined to lead the gang, it was what made him love her. When she challenged the raider boss, the duel that ensured was swift but nonetheless brutal. By the end, her body was unrecognizable. Her blood became a mist about the boss's knife. The next night, the boss was dead and his knife missing. Jericho swore to never to pick a fight with him, for an unmistakable knife was stabbed into his table. A knife just like the one that kept the raider boss in power. Although in that deep moonlight, it took a completely different look.

When he failed to return, people wondered. A day may have been nothing, even three days. But no sightings at all? When it became a week, the Brotherhood of Steel began an informal investigation. Lyons Pride volunteered to conduct the search. In two days they had found his last known personal quest. Equipped to eradicate the super mutants known to inhabit the area, they deployed. When they hit the ground, all they found were the Outcasts securing the facility against further intrusion. Whist no shots were fired, tensions rose to new heights. Without their leadership, Riley's Rangers considered disbanding. They chose to stick together, but leave her moniker behind them. They joined big town, becoming their security force.

Without competition, Talon Company expanded. They reached the point where the Brotherhood deployed against them, assured that their reclaimed air force would insure victory. They had not anticipated Talon Company to shoot their vertibirds out of the air with missile launchers, and bombard their infantry with artillery. They had thought their power armor untouchable by all but the Enclave and super mutants. They were proved wrong.

They had underestimated the strength of Talon Company, thinking that they were equipped with combat knifes and shotguns. Never realizing they had sentrybots and missile launchers. Never respecting the threat they posed. Without Liberty Prime tank their munitions, the brotherhood began deploying units in mass. Lines were drawn, trenches dug, and throughout it all no one dared wander.

This was not ignored. Seeing an increased demand, the south began exporting food to fuel the conflict. More and more of point lookout was converted into farmland to feed the fighters in the Capital Wasteland. Smugglers expanded, finding more supplies for their best buyer. Talon Company pays well when you supply on demand. To the north, the Pit also saw opportunity. War requires three things, soldiers to kill each other, food for them to eat, and munitions for them to use to kill. The south had claim to one, the north another. To the far north, there was another faction. Barely reaching its prime, one who had its eye on the war.

The battles were long and bloody. Project Purity was shelled to destruction. Fort Banister was ripped apart by heavy lasers. Megaton was sieged, occupied, liberated, and sieged again. The Brotherhood's T-60 light infantry was torn asunder under the barrage of high explosives and automatic rounds. They reverted back to an older time, one of thicker armor and colder superiors. Of more death and less honor. A time where they fought on their soil to reclaim what had been taken.

After the war, the Brotherhood never became what it once was. Leader after leader died, effectively meaningless. When they cast their eyes to the north, they went looking for a new start. A chance to build themselves without the history they had in the Capital Wasteland.

Time stretched on. Leaders rose and fell, until Maxson came to power. He galvanized the Brotherhood. Reforged them, and led them onto a crusade. He led them north, to where a crime most horrifying was constantly happening. Synthetic Sentience would not be tolerated by the Brotherhood, no matter where it is created. It would be exterminated. No matter the cost. As they rose, and flew north, many flocked to his side. Closing ranks against the local threats.

But they had to fight through the infested ruins of New York. Abomination after abomination. Mutants wielding weapons they cannot understand in a state of constant war. Everything the Brotherhood stands against. Every crime they saw, they had to put down. Every gatling laser, every missile launcher, every monster. All of it was forced into compliance, or destroyed. By the time they reached the commonwealth, it was nothing like their scouts had reported. It was more. More mutants, more synthetics, more raiders flowing in from the east. More abominations crawling across the sea. Even the farmer militia had energy weapons, if only to deal with the local threats. They also found something that terrorized them. The Institute may need execution for its crimes, but the Gunners terrified them. Another Talon Company. More robots, more energy weapons, more bases, and even more personnel.

Their actions, were to utterly destroy them. To systematically take every military asset they had, and turn to their cause. They would not risk another drawn out war between them and a Talon Company, or rather Gunners as they called themselves here. They brutally shattered the Gunners, taking each of their vaults, clearing their plaza. However, it was not without losses. For every brotherhood soldier who fell, a half dozen gunners went down, but there was hundreds of gunners. And scarly a hundred of them.

The Commonwealth saw these knights fly in, and eradicate the gunners. Many began to worry, would they assume their role? Was that conquest done to make them helpless? If the Gunners could not stand against them who could? Who would? Every faction had its own answer. The minutemen, under new leadership, established friendly contact. The Railroad immersed itself deeper into Diamond city. The Institute, ramped up research into FEV, seeking to create shock troopers that can defeat the titans of steel before them. These new super mutants would evolve in combat, regrowing limbs even better than before. Equipped with weapons unlike any seen in the wasteland. Miniguns that seem to never reload, bullets that explode upon impact... No one had seen such things. While the Brotherhood fought them throughout the city of Boston, the farmers dealt with the ones spreading out. The Minitumen built themselves up once more, as men and women banded together to fight the greenskins.

As the combined forces pushed closer and closer to Cambridge, a secret meeting between the heads of bother organizations took place. A plan was formed, and together they would end this threat. In one week's time, their best would strike at the heart of the vile beast. Unwilling to ask any of his soldiers, the general of the minutemen went alone.

Ambitions unchecked breeds destruction~~[Arc 1]

Author's Note

War is easy to ignore when its not at your doorstep. When the trenches are being dug in someone else's yard. If your house isn't being used to plan the next engagement. When your sons and daughters are not the ones fighting. All you see and feel are the side effects. Taxes, restricted liberties, even appropriations for the war effort. Easily shunted aside, as you push through your daily life. That is the trap, you don't care. You don't give your support, or speak out. the war doesn't matter to you, win or lose.

The war drags on. Maybe ground is gained, maybe lost. More familiar faces leave to do their duty, but that is all they are. A face in the crowd during your morning routine. A single face you never see again, or worse see in the morning paper. A hero, built upon the sins of war. Your inaction to end the war one way or another, costs dearly. The war moves, miles and miles. All the way to your front door, as a shell flies down your chimney and a rifle pokes in your window.

Ambitions unchecked breeds destruction~~[Arc 1]

The life of a raider is one of death and destruction. Every time you wake up, you are surprised, surprised that your chem usage, eating habits, and compatriots have yet to end your miserable life. Today was no different for Bleak Days, a raider like many others. A member of the local gang, she was gearing up to strike at a fledgling town. Her battle saddle was ready, her veins chalk full of chems. She would prove herself today, she would use this battle to propel herself up the ranks. The streets in this forgotten relic of a frontier town. At a glance, her raiders knew what the battle would mean. Those disloyal to her would charge ahead, only to get shot in the back. After they all die out, they would crush these pathetic fools. After looting what little these wastelanders have, they would turn back. To execute this coup, Bleak needs to kill the boss.

With a look, even the rookie raiders knew that this battle was important. When the raid leader, equips a battle saddle, despite being a unicorn. Her lackeys hauling a pre-war Ministry crate, arming her saddle with reverence. A fool would know that something big was going down. Her armor coated in layers of dried blood. The thick armor plates, metal spikes, and loose tire layers obscure her ammo pockets. The spikes discouraging anypony from getting too close, whilst the armor protects her vitals. Those few that dare look at her face, have the image burned into their memory. Many ponies would hide their disfigurements behind armor, she doesn't. Her face, riddled with burns and scars is proudly displaying itself to her troops. Her eyes, however say the most. Tonight, the demons below will feast, and she will merely grin at the destruction. For a brief moment, the gates will open. The war never ends for some. For the ghoulish Bleak Days, her ship sinking only brought her to a new theater. One where she was always in hostile territory. Where she never needs to watch her fire, nor write reports. A theater where her actions speak for her, no words required. A far cry from her life in the service, but she would be nothing without her training.

It was a town that she almost forgot. A blip on their map, nothing more until the war pushed forward and their princess ordered them to defend it. Her captain had complained: The town could've easily been relocated, so they could use their big guns on the zebras. The orders were unchanged, and her captain reprimanded. Princess Luna was strict on her troops, unlike her sister. As ordered, the ship disembarked many of its sailors, and began digging in. They were ill prepared for land battles. Their guns were outdated, amour nonexistent, even their training was for another battle.

Still aboard the ship, she had watch as each vital faded. She stood there, still, unaware of the world, until she felt it. The rumble, the fate heading towards her. When she glanced up, she didn't see the steel, she saw her end. Her smile, is the first one she had since training. The smile of the dead, as they know their fate. When she awoke, she had drifted south, instinctively clutching a life preserver. She wailed for hours, she wailed at the Zebras, at her captain, at her princess. At herself. centuries later, she was ready.

Feeling restless, he rose and walked out of the newly christened town hall. His wandering takes him to the edge of town. Idly traveling towards the largest of the ruined buildings, and the poster on the front door. While the text is gone, the aqua pura eyes draw him in. Her face is locked in an emotion he can't quite place. A tingling feeling starts, deep in his guts. Concerned, he pressed the door open. Winching at the rusted hinges' screech, he glances for a seat. Finding one in some kind of waiting area, he sat down.

A moment later, the roar of thunder almost had him jump. The ticks from his pip-boy telling him that the pitter patter of rain was not harmless. His wings ache, demanding to be stretched. With a sigh, he pulls them closer. Believing that the rain would make flight impossible. His eyes look back to the her. Finally placing the look in her eyes. She was recalling a sad memory. Well, not quite. A memory that now make her sad. A look he had on his face, when peaking through vault windows. In a moment of sudden light, the shadows show another message. A new meaning in the same poster, a look of worried concern. Gone in an instant, but present in his mind.

A beep from his pip-boy startles him onto his feet. With a glimpse, he sees a new signal. Military Broadcast Honest-Apple-2-Rarity-Pink. Following his instincts, he tuned in, only to hear a series of beeps. Listening more a few minutes, he hears the pattern. It is obviously morse code, but it may as well be static. In frustration, he trots out. Determined to follow the signal to its base. A quick circular walk tells him that the signal comes from somewhere south of the new town. Actively ignoring the rain, he turns south and returns to his wanderings.

The raider taking point falters, seeing a pegaus walking with a determined look about him. Teeth not quite barring, eyes narrowing. A sinister glow, seemingly irradiating his face. More afraid of what Bleak would do, the raider steps forward, puffing out her chest and taking a deep breath. Ready to unleash a threat, she pauses. The stallion that a moment ago, was nearly a dozen paces away is looking down her snout. She can even smell the meat on his breath, and see his yellowing teeth. Her shivers come from more than the heavy rain.

"If you don't make a move soon, your buddies are gonna shoot you." His words convey an authority unlike any she knows. "If you don't move, I'll have to fight through you, I personally don't mind having a body shield, but you might object." Again, his words ring true within her. On shaking legs, she drags herself to the side of the road, barely under a roof. The stallion continued on, facing against the net raider in the band. Their marching order is fairly standard. The newest and disliked upfront, increasing in skill and equipment until the end.

The next raider, her sponsor into the gang, stands without shaking. The raider, looks the stallion in the eye as he draws. The sickly aurora around his forty-five twitches, never pointing at the pegasus. The scene embeds in her memory for the rest of her life, no detail forgotten. No raindrop fades away. Not a drip of blood erases itself. Every detail in her tunnel vision will haunt her. She will never forget starring down the barrel of her buddy's forty-five.

His actions were swift, and controlled. His right hoof collided with her buddy's horn, a sickening crack ringing out. The gun dropped as bullets rang out. Her buddy crumpled, as he took to the sky. She sees droplets of rain by muzzle fire. The stallion far above her sight. The cases keep falling, joining in the rain as waste cast away. A faint sound reaches her ears: Groaning. Her buddy was alive! Suddenly a wave of dread rushed her, her 'buddy' just tried to kill her. A buddy doesn't do that. He wasn't her buddy anymore, he was a threat. Not even trying to hide her tears, she dashed to the forty-five, laying on the muddy road. The raider seeing this ignited his horn, only to wince in pain as painful sparks fly from his crippled horn.

Grabbing it up with her mouth, she nearly spat it out. The taste of irradiated mud in her mouth, she turns to point it at what became of her buddy. Looking up at her, he spat out, "You will always be a bucking Mud-" Crying in pain, she collapses. The recoil displacing her jaw, and breaking several teeth. As she lays there, vision flickering, she saw the end of Bleak Days. A gunshot from town, ringing true as the bullet pierces her neck. The sounds of combat die, as her vision leaves her. The stallion looks back to her eyes, and an emotion flickers across his face. A blink later, he is closer. Her last final before the black; was the stallion reaching into his pocket for something.

What is training but taught instinct? Medicine was never his aptitude, but his father tried to train him. A failed attempt to bond. One of the only attempts to bond with his son. These attempts were not without benefit, but he never saw them. He never saw his son in the midst of combat hurriedly apply stimpacks. He never saw his son order others in emergency triage. He prepared his son for the wasteland, while trying to isolate him from it.

He isn't sure why he did it. Maybe it is a way for him to redeem himself? A way to make up for his choice. His reasons aside, he had to put distance between them. He says few words to the guard, thanking him for saving his life from the last raider, and insuring that she would be let in. He needs to clear his head, and wanders south as the rain dies down. Its what he is, a wanderer. He doesn't stick around, but he might come visiting some day. A house for him is nothing more than a free bed. A place to rest for a time. The only way he had found to keep his deepest wounds from scaring was to keep moving.

The rain broke before him, running off the broken roads as he wanders south. The broken skyline lightens as he passes countless abandoned carts. Unable to track day and night, he marches onward mile after mile. His hooves strike the hard road unyielding. Each strike rings out a clop. His eyes seek out any threat, piercing the rain's aftermath. the malleable soil could hold any number of threats; from radscopions to mole rats.

Eventually fatigue begins to set in. An ache that grows with each strike. Looking back, the town is far beyond his sight. Unsure of how far he traveled, be begins to search for a shelter. Some time later he finds a sky carriage, slumped down the ramp. It wasn't particularly large, not even enough space for him to unfurl his wings. It was however, sealed. A practice haven for a night of rest. A simple look revealed a broken lock, impossible to pick. Even if he could figure out how to do so in this body. Annoying, but not impossible to work around.

he unfurls his right wing, trying to maneuver it into his pocket. After failing miserably, and nearly straining his wing, he decides to emulate his pip-boy's commands. Trotting back from the sky ramp, he shakes out as much moisture as he can. With a confident snort, he charges the ramp. Spreading his wings just as he leaps off. Smiling in pure bliss, he simply glides down to the ground. Completely forgetting to attempt a back flip.

he succeeds after his second attempt to preform a back flip, unfortunately landing head first to do so. Still riding on the rush of his success, he gleefully gathers his constant companion, and meanders back to the sky carriage. Whilst the reins are completely twisted beyond his repair, the shipping container it was carrying is ideal for him. The need to unlock it was quickly bypassed by his enduring knife, the contents of ballistic weaves could be of use to repair his armor. Seeing no need to make it a rush job, he includes a new sheath for his weapon. Located in the necking of his armored overcoat, it wouldn't need him to execute any aerial acrobatics to retrieve. As the tiredness spread form his sore legs to his head, he settled in for a long nap.

The message remains unchanged: For it's message is still true. Now aware of a wider world, new threats appear. Those who have forsaken their vows, and those who refused to take them. Each rotation, more are found. Each oath breaker gets tagged, their reckoning will come. The Zebra Empire have be broken, but Equestria is on the verge of shattering apart.

Traitors and treason emerge when sucess falters [Arc 2]

Author's Note

X ! WARNING ! X

X ! Gore tag kinda gets real, only warning ! X

X ! WARNING ! X

There are many threats in the wasteland. Raiders, ferals, mutants, even radroaches are dangerous if they surprise you. The most dangerous thing, is none of these. The most dangerous thing in the wasteland, is your weapon breaking in combat. Outside of any major faction, weapon maintenance is far from standardized. Most wastelanders don't bother with a gun more advanced than a grand, fearing that when it enviably breaks, they won't be able to fix it. This is the dividing line between a minor faction, and a major faction. Routine, standardized weapon maintenance.

Traitors and treason emerge when sucess falters [Arc 2]

There is no central government in the wasteland. There is none of the benefits of such an organization. There are still tolls and fees as you pass through various territories, but they don't offer you any assurances, any protection, or even justice. There isn't any institution for crime and punishment. If you can't high tail it out of town before they realized you wronged them, as a wasteland rule, it'll be a fight to the death. If you do make it out of town, maybe they won't pursue you, but if they do ever see you: They're gonna shoot you. If you are given mercy for your crimes: It becomes a question of honor.

Honor is more than your morals and beliefs; its the conviction to stand by them. Honor, is a rarely of note in the wasteland. Between the daily horrors and harsh realities, not many can live honorably. Even few die trying. To even try an honorable life after life without it is nearly unheard of. Then again, so is being shown mercy when you were dead to rights.

When she awakes, she rises with clarity she has not felt since she was a foal. The mare who would be a raider now, is dead. In her place stands a mare ready to fight until her blood runs blue. Not for her sake, but to repay the kindness given to her. To pass on the gift he has given her. Her newfound sense of purpose comes with a name. A symbol of her life as a raider being wiped away. The name Lucy Light would mean her. Her destiny in motion as she forges her path.

Her first step in her new journey, is to follow in the hoof steps of her creator: Spiritually and physically. The first hurdle is the town that she wronged. Just as his actions show, she must find a way to support the town. The stallion supports them by combat, so she must find a way to supplement it. Just as she sees the clouds, the colt sees her. In his panic, he drops metal scrap onto the road below his hooves. As a metallic ping reaches her ears, she falls.

She barely sees hears it before collapsing in memories. She remembers years of her mother drilling in fact after fact. Movement after movement, harsh punishments for any failure. Ment-als reward for any major success. Her past unlocks as the hours drift by. She sees her father dying before her, and her mother taking her away. Her restless slumber ends as it began. The metallic ring marking the end of her past. The blood splatter never reaches the floor as her eyes open anew.

Lucy struggles back to her hooves, as she plots her path. The town is well defended, but lacking in supplies. There is a caravan that Bleak was thinking of raiding. Bleak was concerned that their rivals might beat them to it, but if she pushes herself she might beat the other raiders to it. If a caravaner establishes a route here, then the town can buy supplies, bullets, and even more guns. She gallops east with her mind, moving with a purpose.

Awaking, he feels more free than when he saw the sun for the first time in years. More elated than seeing Fawkes fighting through the Enclave to rescue him. Until the rumble deep in his gut reminds him of its neglect. With a grin of pure determination, he takes to the air. Searching the ground for movement, he finds movement. Taking shelter in a carriage like he had, the bristling fur of this dog reminds him of a friend he lost. Acting on instinct, he lands, and tries to approach. The moment he steps forward the dog in front of him grows deeply. He stops the moment the sound reaches him, opening his mouth to speak.

"Hey hey. I'm not going to hurt you.. I'm-" His next words go forgotten as he sees why the dog is being so protective. The three pups scattered around her look terribly frail. At second glance, so does she. All fur and skin and bones. His heart feels like its trying to jump out his throat as his eyes remain glued to the sight. The implications dawning in his head nearly stop him from hearing the snort behind him. Turning, he saw what became of the mother's mate.

Before him was a predator, low to the ground, wide, vicious looking teeth with fur caught in them, and two large tusks built like deathclaw horns. In a way it resembles a mole rat, on a diet of psycho and buffout. Fur resembling that of the pups' is stuck through its teeth. It paws the ground, thinking him trapped between the mother and itself. If he twitches, the beast will charge. If he dodges, it'll reach the mother behind him. With those undeniable results before him, he takes the final option: He charges the beast.

The creature cannot believe its eyes. Ponies are prey, not predators. Prey shake in fear, yet this pony is charging fearlessly. With a snort of shared aggression, it tries to embed its tusks into this foolish pony. Only to real back in pain as the right hook gouges into the squishy flesh of its left eye. Still alive, it leaps towards him, jaws wide open. Biting his leg, its teeth find nought but pain as they clamped down around his armored leg. The dog hairs squeak against the armor of this pony, as the leg slides further in. Its teeth failing in their quest for blood, the remaining eye seeks its competition.

The teeth of this pony are shown, an obvious show of dominance. The eyes paint a look of determination, as the hoof presses itself deeper into the throat. There is a scent like none other on the breath of this beast, slowly forcing itself deeper. The victim shakes as the air gets cut off by the hoof stuffed down its throat, the scent of a hungry predator taking control. Unable to contain itself without air, its trashing drove the hoof deeper, until the teeth meet the armored chest of its killer. In a desperate, last chance at survival, it leaps: Yanking the leg out of its throat as it gains air time. Landing gracelessly, the mutant creature gasps the precious air it never learned to value.

The monstrous pony also was recovering, from a dislocated leg. Attempting to fix it, he raises the leg, and twists. The resulting crackles and loud pop alerts the radhog. Fearing for its life, it nervously backs away. At a full sprint, its den is a matter of minutes away. But would the radhog make it? Would that thing take to the air as its wings seem to suggest? Can the radhog risk not trying? Fear is the most prevalent motivation for evolution in the wasteland, and this radhog shares little with it's ancestor.

The pain recedes as he cast his eyes upon his prey. This creature is gasping deeply, switching between glancing at him and off in the distance. His prey is daring to consider escaping. Stretching out his neck to elicit a threatening crackle while he bites into his knife's handle. His tongue traces out a path his pointer once did in anxiety. Between each spike, a number is stamped in. As he reaches first number, five; the beastly look in his eyes fade. The curves of zero start a shiver deep in his spine. Spreading to the tips of his wings, the shiver cools his rage. The final digit, a firm line forces his eyes wide and his ears rise to attention. His hooves shuffle to better ground. Its route done, his tongue retreats to the safety behind teeth and steel.

His ears hear a faint sound. A rustle almost hidden entirely by the beeps and clicks coming from his leg. A moment later, a hundred pounds land firmly on his broad back. He nearly buckles from the effort to stay standing despite the sudden weight, his wings spring out from the strain. As he adapts to the new weight, it leaps off. The den mother makes little more than a blur as she soars over his head. Her landing is much more graceful than the radhog before her. Her rage burns brightly, far from a edged blade like his. It is the rage of a single mother of three, recently widowed by the target of this rage.

Far beyond fearing the loss of its life, the radhog turns, its small feet furiously pounding the ground. Before it could gain any speed, the merciless teeth of a scorned mother bite into its pathetic tail, and drag the radhog closer. With a viscous snap, her teeth sunk deep into the stubby neck of the wasteland creature. The body twitches, as the body realizes it is already dead. Her anger fading fast, the den mother turns to him. With a wolfish grin, she gives big a big, bloody lick across his face. Strangely it doesn't repulse him, as he reaches out to pet her.

What can a single buck naked ex-raider do to divert, and protect a caravan? No guns, no knifes, not even a bucking pool cue. What could she do? The only thing she can do, disrupt the local raiders. Her own gang would still be reeling from the loss of Bleak Days, and her most trusted. But there is another crew in the area, rivals of her gang. They call themselves the Asylum Syndicate, after the hospital they live in.

Nopony is sure of how strong they are, as they rarely leave their walls. When they do, they don't leave witnesses behind to tell the tale, but their echoing screams spell out their fate just the same. Every now and then a new rumor will pop up, of something just inside their territory. Sometimes it'l be a Stable, just now opening. Other times a new town, ready to be exploited. Those with a lick of sense about them stay away, the fools that go are never seen again. Lately a rumor about a pre-war convoy has been making the rounds. Something around the lines of a military rail tunnel that collapsed when the balefire came.

Lucy can only think of one course, she cannot hope to mount an assault on their fortress: So instead walk right in as a new recruit. Tear them apart from the seams. Get them to kill each other, and slip away. The gang will be too broken to threaten any caravan. After dealing with the Syndicate, find the caravan and guide it to town. The only hitch, is finding a way into the gang.

Every gang has it's process. Rites of passage before you become a full member. Bleak tossed her recruits as the first wave, if you survived and distinguished yourself: You've gotten in. Yet the Syndicate's process is unknown to her. Her entire plan hinges on an unknown, without the time to solve for it.

The sound of constant typing fill the already cluttered office. The occupant: A beige mare is desperately hoping the report will show success. Unread and unimportant messages go by, as she navigates to her final hope. A healthy glow flickers as it's light burns into her eyes. The latest report from the recovery team, who have yet to find their objective. The missing link in her masterpiece. With a sigh, she shuts down her terminal. Why bother to read the same report for the dozenth time? They haven't found it, despite their hard work. Turning to the wall behind her desk, she looks again at her notes.

She tracks her desperation, starting with the neat and professional notes to her left. The early days, when workers and insights were common. Then they become less neat, more issues were being found. After that the notes change topic, switching to locating something pre-war. As a technology, it was found quickly. A copy of the development team's notes are scattered across her office.

Notes, won't fix the problem. Notes would be invaluable, when trying to build it, but without the facilities it is impossible. The factory they were made in was in ruins, but a report was recovered. The facility had produced three of them, and saw them packed into a military sky carriage. Its destination was redacted, so she sent out recovery teams to search for it.

The sound of her door slamming open draws attention. She looks directly at the intruder, "Why the in the name of Luna did you interrupt me! I have a very important review coming up, about highly classified materials! At the very least have the bucking decency to knock so I can preserve classified materials. I know you think that power armor gives you authority, but in case you haven't noticed, this is my office!"

The mechanical voice emits, "Mam, I'm here to bring you before the review board."

"What, no, The review is... Manure, it's Tuesday... cast me to tartarus."

Conflict creates infrastructure~~ [Arc 2]

Author's Note

The difference between a laser pistol and a laser rifle is not the stock. A laser rile has three beams, micrometers apart. Whereas the laser pistol model has a single beam, which is prone to warpage and overheating. The contrasting laser rifles cause the devastating effects on their target, increasing durability and damage for in mass deployment. The major advantage of laser pistols is their range, thus they were the weapon of choice for officers during the Great War.

Conflict creates infrastructure~~ [Arc 2]

Before his emerald eyes is a rusty sign. The green background has faded to nearly white, yet the lettering is completely clear. Even as the scent of saltwater invades his nose, he reads out the name of this place: Joint Base Elemenhoof. Blackened trees and wire fencing with signs every few meters often proclaiming a myriad of defenses, stretch on for miles, each way from the gate before him. The signal had brought him here, its signal strong and never changing. Somewhere just west of his position would be the nearest relay.

Flying above the fencing is not an option. If this base is anything like Adam’s Air Force Base, then turrets will be plentiful. The very real prospect of being shot out of the air is quite frighting to him. Without something like a stealth suit, flight is an inadvisable action. Without operational support, fighting his way into the heart of a military base would be akin to walking out the front door of vault eighty seven: Suicidal.

While his nose withstands the barrage of salt and decay, his eyes scan past the chain link fencing. Buildings and streets, decaying paint and burnt woods, empty window pains and withered bushes. Fresh tracks in the muddy paths, casing littler the ground, fresh on top of the mud. The gate before him is old, red with rust. The gatehouse lay hidden behind sandbags pilled against fencing.

With a confident step, he begins his latest explorations. The immediate goal is to find a way to get any active security to not fire upon detection. He trots up to the exterior building. The breeze of his passing disturbs the leaky sandbags. The scent of decay overtakes the distant saltwater. His eyes pearling for protection, he marches forward to the gatehouse. Built low to the ground, the paint is faded like the sign behind him. Sickly and pale, rusted hinges and a missing latch.

With a grunt and a screech the door swings inward. His eyes adjust the darker interior momentarily. Glancing inwards, the room feels very simplistic. Bare even. There is a single occupant, still performing the same task as centuries ago. Sitting at her desk, waiting for the next soul to enter. Letting loose a breath he held from the door's screech, the skeleton shifts from the attentive stance down to a rag doll on the floor.

Walking further into the office, he kneels down to desk worker. Still clad in her fatigues, her dedication is inspiring to him. Awkwardly shuffling through his pockets for something, anything to pay his respects to this valiant patriot. Trifling through his pockets only find scraps and caps. For a moment he thought of leaving her his few Nuka Cola Quantum caps, only to realize that some scavenger would likely take the currency without a second thought.

Aspiring to return later, he begins searching the room. Starting with her desk, which was professionally clear with one exception. Just off center on the desk is a old envelope with a familiar pink face stamped in the top left. Were it not for her face, he wouldn’t touch it in respect of its recipient. But that false cheer smile doesn’t let him go, and before he realizes it he is gingerly trying to open it. After fumbling around with his hooves, he resorts to his teeth. Expecting a poor taste, his grimace turns to a smile as the berry taste is surprising.Moving onto the contents of the envelope, it quickly unfolds into a shot memorandum.

Dear Coco,

It really has been too long since we last spoke, hasn’t it? I really do miss your company, but you have to understand why I was suck a poor friend at the time. I am under a tremendous amount of pressure right now, and I’m afraid I need to ask a favor from you. I have a, I guess he is more of a close associate than a friend, but I really think we’ll make such good friends when we meet up. If you would be so kind as to make sure he gets the visiting Ministry of Morale inspector pass. I know you asked for the night off, and that the only way you could insure he gets it is to wait for him, but I pinkie promise to make it up to you!

Signed Pinkie D Pie,

Minister of Morale

The short missive, no wait. That is an oxymoron. Missive is long and formal, whereas this was short and personal. This letter unveils a potentially advantageous and invaluable item of interest to his objectives. An object that identifies him as an inspector, regardless of of field, could give him carte blanche. With a gleeful expression he begins searching through the desk's drawers. In the bottom left drawer, was a lanyard embossed with that familiar pink face. Without hesitation he takes it, and wears it under his armored overcoat.

With a glance back to the service member, he leaves her in peace. A promise on his lips, to return and give her the honors she deserves. Closing the door, he trots on. Through the sandy corridor. Expecting the dust his eyes squish shut, and he just walks on. Looking back to the gate house once more, he turns back to the gate. With a smirk of determination he steps forward. Ready for the adventure ahead of him.

The industrial halls echo, as she cries out her grievances. "Those rotting lumps of lard! I won't last a week. I barely survived basic, now they're sending me out alone! No armor, a old ten mil? Might as well give me a single bullet, then at least it'll be fast." The beige mare eyes cross as she thinks, desperate for a shred of hope. Finding inspiration, she dashes into her office, and nearly vaults over her desk. under one corner is a small stack of papers she deemed useless, apart from keeping her desk flat. With a heave and a puff, she yanks out an old Ministry of Awesome map, tearing off the southwest section. She ignores the tear, and traces a path.

She knows that her quarry would realistically go to one of a few places. Canterlot would make sense, but would remain her last option, due to the dangers it posses. Manehatten would be another plausible destination, but it would be far too vast and dangerous for her to search on her own. Which leaves places of military importance. Many of which have been occupied or are already been secured, leaving few that she could search. The vast majority of which are in the exclusion zone. She begins further reducing the list, removing those that were destroyed completely. Taking the marked map, she begins tracing a route.

Before long, her work is done. Strapping on the little equipment she is allotted, She leaves her office behind. Her mind numb as she is led outside. Breathing in the fresh decay for the first time in months, she doesn't look back thinking: This is her duty, and by the princesses long gone, she will fulfill it. Her escort leaves her behind, when they turn back.

This, is not quite what he expected. Elemenhoof is empty. Eerily so, the casings he saw are everywhere, as are the corpses of what they shot. Raiders reduced to paste and ash. This military base was empty. His hooves echo on, announcing his presence, daring anything to challenge him. Anything to break the monotony.

Looking back shows the gates, a few blocks behind him. To his left is a residential block, his right having a few stores. On a whim hd turns to the stores.

He approachs the first building. Built on the exterior wall and across the second story is a large poster, showcasing a purple mare enjoying a refreshing drink: Sparkle Cola, now with three new flavors!

The first floor has a row of windows looking out into the street. Glancing in shows an old diner. The stallion enters, calmly pushing the door open. Looking to the front counter, he sees what reminds him of a protectron standing up, blocking a door marked as employees only.

"Powering up. Protectapony on duty!" rings out a familiar, synthesized voice. "Inspector detected, engaging role: Management."

He wories for a breif moment, wondering if his looted pass would still work, and what authority it gives him. He bites back his negative thoughts and forces a smile before speaking . "I'm here to make sure everything is just fine and dandy. Give me the run down."

"Acknowledged, there have been zero inidents reported since the latest inspection. Enjoy your complementary Sparkle Cola, its the real thing." The machine, a Protectapony, offers him a bottle of the same drink the poster advertised.

Taking the offered refreshment, he pushes his stolen authority further." I would like to finish my inspection with checking out the employees only sections." The smile on his face only grows wider, and less dishonest.

"The Ministry of Morale is always welcome to-" the speakers blow out, and the ponified protectron slumps. Chuckling he passes it by, since its seems to be of no threat to him.

He steps beyond the fallen robot, lightly pushing the door open. Behind it is a cramped hallway, on his left is the kitchen. His right a small stairwell leading upward. Already feeling cramped, he turns right. Trotting up the small stairs.

Even with new names and faces~~[PROLOGUE PART 2]

To some, waking up after being knocked unconscious, is a slow affair. A flicker of light, maybe a sound or two, then a little more. Until you become fully aware. To a few, it is instant. One moment, unconscious, the next fully aware. Most days, this wander would be among those few. Today, was special. Today, he woke up completely different.

Today, he found his wings, fur, tail, and mane. Today, he found his new body. And his initial reaction would be surprising to most. Most would be either ecstatic or worried, if not horrified that their body had mutated. Instead, his reaction was more akin to a Med-x addict's. Simple, accepting calm, a new fact, nothing more. And in all honesty, many would classify him as an addict. He certainly had the scars to prove it. Of course those needle marks could just as easily be from psycho, but to outright claim someone is a psycho addict is a lot more dangerous.

After all, if he spent a day without partaking at least one of those, it would be a boring, slow day. A day where he couldn't have the chance to die honorably. But in these wastelands, who cares about your vices? Maybe your dealer, but beyond that? Not a soul. After all, friends just die, and are never around to talk. Let alone care for your mental health.

Life is strange. One day you might die of rad sickness if you step out side, whist the next will see you hoping along in happiness. It just seems to be random chance. Some times, you're just lucky. Other times, you're being hunted. In all honesty, who is truly surprised? Its a wasteland. Whist ponies may not have the natural inclination to violence, they are nothing if not quick learners.

Drugs are far from an uncommon sight, helping them get through the adjustment period. To detach them from the realities of the wasteland around them. To hide the judging, blue eyes, plastered on walls across the wastes. From cantlerlot's castle, to manehatten's projects, the Ministry of Morale's poster party mare looks down on their choices. On their hatreds, and of the perversion of a world she loved.

Scavengers see the faded beauty of a purple mare. Magenta eyes sparkling with knowledge no being could hope to learn. Teeth shown, not as a threat, but an invitation. A smile, promising good times. A promise of what could've been. Of what she'd hoped would've happened. Drinks shared among friends, celebrating the end of the war. Celebrating peace, calm. Celebrating their friendship, and mourning the lost.

Those few, who seek not survival, nor simple pleasure, find the hidden masterpiece. They see the works of an artist, of a dedicated friend. Masterwork wonders, hidden beneath dust and decay, gifts meant for those long gone. As a testament to their creator, they still stand tall, proving that generosity, can survive the apocalypse. A white mare's final gift, hidden away. Re-gifted, reused, but still potent enough for her to be proud.

When he awoke, he followed a simple chain. He asked himself three basic questions. Was he alive? Was he bound? Was armed? Finding that all three were true, he followed up with the classic; where am I? Fining himself unable to answer that, he realized something important. The poster on the wall before him, was watching him. No, not watching. Looking at. The poster wasn't watching him, it was constantly looking at him. It took some time before he realized he was below ground, in an over sized metro of some kind. Some kind of industrial transport, if the large boxcars behind him were any indication.

Feeling a little brave, and possibly dumb, he stood up. His mind was made up, if that wall was going to look at him, he might as well give that wall a show. As he started to flex his agile muscles, he noticed his second important detail. He wasn't human. When some people wake up, they do so slowly, regaining their sense of reality bit by bit. Some people are not addicted to med-x and mentats.

When such addictions are present, everything looks alright, normal, even crazy things. In fact the following were his 'coherent' thoughts: Seeing hooves where you should have hands isn't all that bad. You just have more feet. Why focus on the bad? The bad is complicated, so focus on the easy, the good

Quite plainly, he's loopy. Of course, this did solve a problem of his: Reacting to not being human. If he had panicked, he could've seriously hurt himself. As it was, he noticed that the poster, despite smiling was sad. It was the sort of sad look his father had: A smile that doesn't reach the eyes, who reflect self guilt and sadness. A distinct, 'It's my fault, I'm sorry' look. The look his father wore in his last moments, telling him to run. In a rare moment of weakness, he drunkenly trotted to the poster, nearly tripping on the tracks, and blurted out his reassurances.

"Its not your fault, you did everything you could. Then you went and did more... If anything, its their fault. You did what you had to stop them, even if it didn't work. I don't blame you, and I never will..." In his mind, he wasn't talking to a mare, long dead. He wasn't talking to Pinkie Pie, head of the Ministry of Morale. He was talking to his father. Finding closure he once thought would come from reclaiming the memorial. Of being the better man, and letting Colonel Autumn walk away, but when he had, he saw the end. He saw how his story should have stopped. It was too perfect, after earning his closure, just three numbers away. If only it wasn't fated not to be.

Countless miles of wandering had only lead him back to that moment. Day after day, fighting only to dream of the trek to the memorial. Dreaming of the faces now among the dead, of the radiation burns, of the dying screams of the damned. Only to end as he earns his place, next to his father. Waking, often to find a fight awaiting him. Never truly having the chance to mourn. Nor that he would let himself show such weakness.

Yet, in perhaps his most broken state, he fixed himself. Suffering withdraw from from mentats and med-x, in a strange body, and likely miles from the nearest settlement, he found himself. When the wasteland forced him to delve down, past rock bottom, and drill into his vault of emotions. Hidden thoughts he dare not let the world see. Impulses to kill, to cry, to act out. His tears cleansed him. Made him pure once more, for his next adventure. His latest hurrah through a nuclear wasteland.

As he awoke once more. He looks up at the poster he had been straddling. Gone were the depressed eyes, replace with a shared understanding. No words were spoken, none were needed. It wasn't a tangible connection, but it was an honest one. He held no secrets, and she told no tales. It was what they both needed. A simple, wordless agreement. To stand for each other, to bear each other's burdens. To see it through, no matter the hellish terrain before them. To stand side by side, despite what mistakes they need to atone for.

On wobbly knees, he trots away. Complete, but a man no longer. His past life behind him, and his future ahead. Following a few, barely lit signs to what promised to be an exit, he ponders what may have brought him here. Death and this being the afterlife make it's way into his thoughts more than once, but just prior to reaching the surface he makes his choice. It didn't matter. With a slight glimpse, to another poster of the elusive pink mare, shows her winking at him. A sure sign that she is behind him, and supports embracing the now.

With a heavy sigh, releasing the last of his past, he pushes outwards, into the shockingly dim outside. Burnt trees, decayed grass, and a breathtaking view each confirm that he is outside, but as he glances up, is rough emeralds see clouds. Clouds from horizon to horizon, crackling with energy, darkened with weight.

Glancing around, he sees a quaint, small town. Unremarkable, no apparent raider bases, no scent of a drug lab, no sounds of other threats. It seems to be a peaceful hillside town. Getting the hang of trotting, he walks over to the nearest trashcan, beginning his routine for scavenging. With a quick glance, he sees the apparent. It had already been looted.

With new eyes, he glance around again. This time not seeing the idealistic clean roofs and clear glass windows. He is looking at the wasteland. A nice part, but it is a wasteland. Broken, charred windows, tumbleweeds formed of trash, caved in roofs, all of it. Where many would frown, cry, and maybe just give up, he smirks. A new challenge, without baggage to start with. A fresh start, a chance to begin again. In a way, it is his own paradise. A little nowhere all to himself, while he works out the kinks in this new body. While he learns to fly, to shoot, to punch. A place to learn to be himself, and to figure out who he wants that to be.

Even if on a deep level, he knows he cannot stay forever. Paradise is a gift best enjoyed sparingly, lest it loses its spell. Days, even a week, but no more. A week of paradise is all he sees as possible, anymore and his skills would decline. To him, it is an undeniable fact. To others, it would be a sad thought. To ponies, it would be a thought made in crisis, but they lack the basic instinct for violent efficiency. To them, peace should be possible. Even raiders think this, the fact that they will never be allowed into peace is what drives them to spread their anarchy.

A week, a few days, hardly a hour, scarcely a minute, and mere seconds. A week of wonderful, needed peace. A few days to adjust to a distinct lack of fingers. Hardly a hour before he was surveying the sight of gunfire. Scarcely a minute before he charged in, and mere seconds before pony blood splattered across his coat.