Fallout Equestria: Reflections of Radiation

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.