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.