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."