Fallout Equestria: Lone Ranger

“So tell me kid, what kinda gun did you lose out here anyway? I gotta know what I’m looking for in this place.” I said as I followed Golden Showers around the dingy, dimly lit interior of the labyrinth of aging tunnels. “What is it? A little .357? Seems like your kinda gun. Well...a .44 Magnus or .45 Auto is probably manageable enough for you to control. I'm sure your budget also had a major say in your choice of weapon.”

His head poked out of a collapsed doorway, his small frame allowing him to squeeze into places I wouldn’t unless I was in the mood for some heavy lifting and squeaked, “N-no! Actually I f-found a genuine S-Sequoia here! Y-you know! T-the biiiigg revolver Veteran Rangers were a-awarded when they g-got promoted?”

That stopped me in my tracks. If he had found a Sequoia there was a chance it still had the name of the Vet who carried it engraved on the handle. It was a long shot to be able to remember who it was after so long but idle curiosity was always a shortcoming of mine I couldn't help but indulge. After all, I was here again...perhaps a bit of exploration was ok shock therapy. It wasn't like he knew the people I did or my part in the chaos that followed so...ugh...fuck it. Just fuck it.

"A Sequoia you say?" I replied after what could've been a fortnight of thought. "That is a...rather exquisite find. Not to mention rare. How'd you come across it?"

"W-well...this place w-was mentioned i-in several magazines a-and books I've c-collected!" His voice echoed from somewhere on my right in a decrepit meeting room. "T-they all talked about how t-the Rangers kept their base of c-command here and conducted all t-the Westcoast o-operations. A b-base that important h-has gotta be s-stuffed silly with s-stuff to loot after a-all."

"A reasonable assumption, where did the fascination with these Rangers come from? There seems to be a hazy memory of them in the common perception of the past but it is overshadowed by the NER's pale imitation."

"Y-you seem to know a l-lot about them t-too." He commented with curiosity after a moments pause. "I-I always wondered who exactly t-they were...I heard a-about their i-involvement in the Badlands half of the W-War here but I g-guess they must have all b-been there when the Balefire B-Bombs went off. T-there's next to n-nothing to find a-about them!"

The situation was evolving in an unexpected way. I was used to the occasional person asking if I am/was a Ranger for the New Equestrian Republic or at the least had the balls to kill one and strip their armor for myself. After all my armor looked close enough to theirs, it only made sense I got it that way. The predecessor of the Post-War elite of the west had been too efficiently blown off the face of history; a mocking nail of irony in their casket. Indulging him a bit in history wouldn't hurt much...perhaps it could do some good. I was already indulging him enough as it was after all...

"No, you got it right. They were all deployed en-masse to the Southern Front in the final month of the War and with resources as limited as there were, all information and equipment was kept in here in Camp Macintosh. Badlands are probably full of desiccated Ranger gear but who in their right mind goes there with the reputation is has? Blowing up the Camp plus a severe lack of media attention prior to that made erasing the Desert Rangers from public mind a fuckin' breeze. What had started as a promising push towards the ocean shores of the Abrak Jungle and kicking the Empire off the Continent ended up as a sudden last ditch counteroffensive. Shamans had been brewing up some horrible creations from Abyssal Magicks for who knew how long and sent em plus what remained of the Imperial internal forces up the harder but less defended route to Canterlot. East got all the attention and resources since it was the highly populated coastline facing the Far Continent, a fact we all learned after two failed attempts and a third one that was in progress when the Balefire detonated."

There was a palpable silence this time. It was possible I had overshared, if only by the sheer volume of information, but once I started letting it out, it felt...good to continue. I could dance around the Great War itself as much as I wanted to and get a chance to talk about the comparatively less traumatic events that proceeded it. He seemed attentive enough and hungry for knowledge about my previous profession in a way that was...charming to say the least. His case was subtly improved by being so young in appearance and tone. Ghoulification or no, the enthusiasm was enhanced as there was a distinct hint of whimsy that made it easier to unwind. I basically had a fan of my own with his attention focused on ancient history that meant little to anyone anymore. That...was something I found myself rather enjoying oddly enough, more so than expected when I had opened my mouth to speak. The itch of carnal pleasures needing a scratch was one thing; a more primal, instinctual thing that even Feral animals understood and acted upon when the mood struck. The itch of military and civic fame for deeds long made moot? Well, that was a sensation I had never thought I would experience in this way ever again. I was a Hitmare of some infamy with all the notoriety that came with such a burden. To be called that in the streets hardly fazed me at all as it wasn't a title anyone could just use without the approval of the Syndicate or skill to enforce their title. To be called a Ranger...it never felt right after everything that had happened long before now. The Desert Rangers were a forgotten memory while in its place the NER Rangers had taken their name and image, only partially understanding the long history they were attempting to commandeer for themselves. They gave the name some credit and their reputation was commendable for a Post-War organization but all the same...they were a pale imitation of the real thing.

"W-where did you learn all t-this...?" He finally asked while starting to wriggle back into the main corridor I was standing in. "D-do the N-NER teach this s-stuff in Ranger s-school?"

"Where? Well...nothing against the NER but they don't know shit about the DRC. I know what I do because I was there for the War against the Zebras so all my knowledge is first-hoof. If you haven't already noticed my revolver, I served and survived the Southern Front long enough to earn my own Sequoia. I would like to think that is an ample enough evidence but if you need more convincing...take another look at my armor and tell me the NER has anything this advanced. Now, I'll admit most of my service was down South in the Badlands with a few tours on the Eastern Front during the early days of the War. Of course...that was back before I was extended the opportunity to join the Desert Ranger Corps."

He nearly collapsed under some rubble he was shifting to worm his way free and rolled out onto the floor followed by a cloud of dust as the concrete crumpled under its own weight rendering the doorway completely unusable again. As he stood, the dazed look on his face continued leading me to assume he was gobsmacked at what I had just said. He was a smart kid. Er...adult? Ghouls were damned hard to age and I didn't want to be inadvertently rude to him because of that.

“What, you couldn’t tell I’m a Veteran, kid?” I asked as I afforded myself a smirk of amusement, hidden as I was inside my helmet. "Or is our reputation so out of date only the NER has a monopoly over the term 'Veteran Ranger'?"

“Y-you’re a r-r-real Veteran R-Ranger?!” He stuttered along, something I came to accept as being just part of him. "L-like...an o-original Ranger??"

“Yep," I said with a hint of pride. "And like I said, I got the gun to prove it. No bullshit."

My old girl slid out of her holster as smooth as melted butter and even I couldn't help but admire her yet again with a renewed awareness of the circumstances that brought my most reliable tool into being to begin with. Paying extra for the solid Celestium Steel frame was an act of foresight I had no idea at the time would see it remain functional and sturdy over two centuries; well past acceptable tolerance levels lesser guns would have succumbed to long ago. The hit to my personal finances had been rather bruising at the time but I had more than gotten my money's worth out of it. It also meant my name and the date of my promotion to Veterancy, carved in silver into the bottom of the butt of the frame, was as fresh as the day it was inscribed. Third of July, 2072. My twenty-sixth birthday. Young for a Veteran but...promotions were coming sooner and sooner for everyone back then as the corpses piled higher and higher on both sides of the fight.

His smaller and stubby looking horn glowed with golden magic as his eyes begged to hold it for himself while his mouth tried to form words with nothing to show for it. With a nod I let his small golden aura take the gun from my grip and float it back to his wide eyes, every inch and detail of the black and silver revolver (including the dark red cherry grip) being examined in excruciating detail. The wonder and glee in his eyes as he made sure every inch of the thing was seen twice over was more than enough to convince me parting with my weapon was a safe call. Of course, in the event he turned it on me I was more than ready to cut him down with the combat knives hidden in the small of my back without another thought. Would be the loss of an interesting little Ghoul but at the end of the day I would have something interesting to note in my journal that wasn't more of my usual philosophical rambles in-lieu of more...journal type information. Aside from big, interesting Contracts, there usually wasn't much worth noting about in there with every day feeling like the last week after week, month after month, decade after decade.

“T-this is…w-wow…” He whispered as he leveled the iron sights up to his eye towards the wall. “W-where did you get t-this? I've n-never seen a-anything like i-it!”

“Wellll, back when they still existed, I sent a custom order form to Ironshod Firearms once I got a hefty bonus on my paycheck from some extra voluntary work in the field. Took them eight months to tinker about with the frame and latch design until they had a working prototype but it would wear down the steel quickly. With some extra extra funding, they got their hooves on a crate of pure Celestium Steel ingots to play with and solid cast the damn thing from a custom mold. Cost me about a couple hundred-thousand-something bits all said and done but god damn has it served me well since day-one.” I chuckled softly as pride took up further residence in my breast leaving me feeling more…normal than I had in decades.

“R-really…? I didn’t e-even know t-that was p-possible!” He exclaimed as he swung the massive hoof cannon around with pure glee making sure not to point it directly at me which I appreciated.

“Well, an old friend of my mom had a cousin who was the C.E.O of Ironshod, so I got incredibly lucky. Always pays to have connections no matter when or where you are.” I explained as he finally gave the gun back to me, the regret of letting it go chiseled into his face like weeping stone. “As I'm sure you're relatively aware of, all other Sequoias are swivel-action and made from a steel alloy. Far as I know, this is the only model of its kind ever produced since I also paid for the private patent to the design and shit went to hell within a few months of its casting and manufacture.”

Just for vanity's sake I couldn't help but depress one of the two ambidextrous latches coming off the rear of the frame and let the forward-heavy barrel and cylinder assembly drop under its own sizable weight. Even the mass of the large rounds couldn't withstand the strength of the newly replaced auto-ejector spring and so, all six flung out around my hooves with satisfying clinks of brass on concrete. He watched with awe as I pulled a custom speedloader from the large collection on my waist, six fresh rounds held in thin spring-steel fingers, and pushed them down into the waiting cylinder; the spring steel recessing into the base plate of the speedloader smooth and easy. With a quick push, the steel fingers came back out and I easily slipped the rounds on the ground in between the tines ready for another two-second reload. It never got old...I was a top-break bitch for life and I loved these funky, old fashioned Mareseillian speedloaders. The Gun Runners kept their promise to me to not lend out the design just so I could enjoy it alone...after a very hefty bribe of course.

“T-that's f-fucking awesome!! Common’! Mine w-was in b-bad shape but you seem to k-know a lot about them so m-maybe you can f-fix it! T-that would be amazing!" And with that he shot off down the dingy corridor and deeper into the molding, rusty ruins of a place I could narrowly navigate even when it was a functional facility. If there was one thing I could be certain of, the only way I knew to get down to the sublevels of Macintosh was via a single elevator in the heart of the Operations building.

The AutoMapping spell of my helmet tried desperately to map out where exactly I was (since I had about as much of a clue as it did and I had lived here) but with little luck. The gloomy rubble filled hallways were burnt black from Balefire and the damage of age and I found myself missing the boring, monotonous grey of the old concrete floors, walls and ceiling of these tunnels. Tastefully punctuated every now and again with an overhead light that hummed softly but angrily overhead while the bare walls only received the most basic of 'decorations'. The lights, at least some of them, still functioned and cast enough light that my LED lamp was only needed in certain areas where they died entirely and I could still faintly remember the markings to guide one along. Lines in various colors marking the floor to indicate destinations at a glance and itemized letters and numbers dotting the walls periodically in a never ending sequence that would drive anyone mad. That was, until we managed to stumble across the central atrium of the sublevel complex that formed the base of the elevator I was familiar with. Despite being several hundred feet belowground, the entire complex was huge, its fringes reaching far and wide beyond the confines of the Camp walls. That being said, I had only limited and rather ambiguous access to the whole installation during my tenure so we were incredibly lucky to have stumbled across the atrium. At least now I had a point of reference to try and work with to navigate, the path behind us marked by bullet holes in the walls at obvious points from the small pocket pistol I kept stashed in my tail for emergencies with my abundance of cheap .357 ammo. While not quite a disaster in the making, knowing your way out of a maze you willingly entered is just good judgement. That, and I didn't carry a giant marker or can of spray paint on my person so I had to improvise.

The atrium was a lofty, domed room featuring a large crystal chandelier dangling over the circular receptionist desk in the center of the room still glowing softly overhead with dying bulbs. Most of the room's dingy lighting came from the emergency lights above each archway leading down one of six main corridors leading out of the room like the spokes of a wheel, one of which we had just entered in by. Whilst the reception desk was surrounded by a small sea of tables and chairs for those waiting their turn at the receptionist, the spaces of wall between each archway out served as recessed alcoves of padded benches and hardwood tables, not unlike booths one would find in a diner. A quirky perk of being an officer that I had forgotten, the atrium was a convenient place to establish an unofficial restaurant serving any and all with the clearance to make it down the elevator without getting to the bottom eight pounds heavier in lead projectiles. The galley was down...one of these corridors...somewhere. The alcoves were something I had always wanted to try...seeing Lieutenants and Colonels alike sharing a hearty hayburger together and taking a moment to just be people...I don't know. There was a certain glamour to eating here that I regretted never getting the opportunity to try.

"W-where are we?" He asked after my distraction by the alcoves drew me in to sit down in the one closest me.

The padding was nothing short of divine. Cupping every inch of my body like a satin sling and seemingly suspending me with all the gentle grace of still water. They had wasted no expense on the Rotunda Diner...and I had wasted my chance to go when I could get damn good smelling food and relax in this nirvana of cushioned peace I was not expecting but was pleasantly ok with accepting. I'd fuckin' earned it. Was just a shame it was 200 years too late to order anything and truly enjoy the experience for what it had been. Still...the sit down was worth it at least.

"We..." I sighed in contentment after relishing the cushions in silence for a few moments. "Are in the Rotunda Diner, central atrium for this whole maze of rat tunnels. Used to be able to sit here and get food, damn fucking good food, brought to ya. No cost, all expenses paid for by the government. The fuckin' dream for anyone...a dream I missed out on. Lemme tell ya something Gold...don't use the words 'someday' or 'soon' when talking about wanting to do shit with your life. In my experience...sooner becomes later and later...well, later never comes."

He nodded attentively as he stood nearby, my weird suddenly personal bit of advice being gobbled up instead of ridiculed as I had expected. The atrium was all at once familiar and foreign to me...some things I remembered clear as day about it like the misspelled 'I' in the Camp Macintosh mural painted on the ceiling above the chandelier while other things were entirely new details to me. The reception desk definitely didn't look like a reinforced pillbox the last time I was down here as the entire circular desk was encased in a concrete wall with a small strip of window circumnavigating the rim near the top. To be fair there had to be several months between my last visit and the start of the Great War but militarizing the receptionist desk in a secure underground facility that is beneath an equally secure military base was something I was sure I would have remembered. There was no mounted HMG poking out from it but there might as well have been.

With a reluctant sigh I got back to my hooves as I could see he was rearing to go and I had to admit I was curious myself to see what we could find down here. The Crater was notorious for Hellhound activity but we had been lucky not to spot any so far. These tunnels would serve them and their burrowing habits well and yet...aside from some obvious signs of activity near the entrance, the deeper we got, the more pristine the ruins seemed. Picking a random archway off a gut choice, we wandered out of the atrium and back into the belly of the beast. Any door sign I tried reading was far too faded by time or blackened by fire for me to make out anything written on them forcing me to resign myself that despite my memories of being here almost every day for fifteen years, I was hopelessly lost. The Balefire seemed to have scorched its way far deeper through the facility than I had expected even Necromantic magic to produce... Would explain the lack of skeletal remains in what would otherwise have been a populous location. Only the Rads that came from arcane destruction of this scale would be 'gentle' enough to leave something behind.

“H-hey! I f-found a door sign!” His raspy voice called out from much further ahead, my bittersweet reminiscing losing track of where he was. “D-does the name C-Colonel Horn m-mean anything to y-you?”

I seriously hoped he was just pulling my tail. Colonel Horn was a name I hadn’t heard spoken aloud in decades…so I had to admit there was no way he randomly pulled that name out of his ass to just rile me up. I trotted much quicker than I expected myself to go, following the little green tick on my E.F.S until I found him staring up at a gold plaque on the wall that I recognized the moment I saw it. Room 101, a room I had found myself in a lot more often than I would ever care to admit over the course of my tenure with the Rangers. Usually it for was minor things (though I always had a mini heart attack every time I heard that the Colonel wanted to see me) like battle tactics and advice on how to step up through the ranks but every now and again, I would find myself on the receiving end of his well-hidden temper.

The time Buck Beak ‘appropriated’ a crate of the Colonel’s finest Apple Jack Whiskey for the whole Squad (save myself and Huckleberry since we preferred the non-alcoholic version), I was stuck in his office for a good three hours as he went back and forth between wanting to demote me and sweeping it all under the rug for old time’s sake. Obviously he had chosen the rug yet again (I hated to think on what else he had stuffed under that thing) and I was let off with yet another verbal warning while the real culprit was ordered to clean the latrines with a toothbrush held in his beak and fly laps in a set of custom lead combat armor every day for a month. The Load of Shame the armor was called. Specially made out of pure lead so the weight of your stupidity weighed even heavier on your shoulders. Good times... Gold slowly opened up the door to the office, which gave a howling shriek from its rusted out hinges, causing both of us to jump back a bit, me with my gun pointed right at the door out of sheer fight or flight instinct. We both shared a small laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation before I followed him into the office, which was surprisingly still intact compared to the rest of the building though it wasn’t much more aesthetically pleasing than the hallway outside. All things tended to turn dull and crack under the pressure of a couple centuries of neglect and laying forgotten. Everything was just as I had remembered it being the last time I had set hoof in there two centuries earlier in what would be my last meeting with my C.O in this office. His dark mahogany desk lay in the far end of the room (though its former waxy polished grandeur was covered in centuries’ worth of radioactive dust) beneath a sadly tarnished photo of the stallion himself in his formal military attire, his bushy mustache looking clean and neatly trimmed. Along the walls of the perfectly rectangular office were more photos of dead ponies, plaques of now meaningless awards and medals, bookshelves of rotted books and a slightly warped liquor cabinet with one of its doors missing and the other one flung wide open. Were it not for the obvious signs of time, shit lighting and the broken cabinet, I could almost believe I was stepping back in time...

“W-was this y-your commander’s o-office?” Gold asked softly, glancing around as if he would desecrate the room just by looking at it.

“Mhm.” I hummed simply, walking across the faded and grimy Trottingham rug that gave little puffs of dust with every hoofstep. “He was a good stallion. One of the best I ever knew and a damn fine soldier and commander.”

“O-oh…” He whispered softly, the silent room amplifying his words to the point it sounded like he was only speaking quietly.

I edged around the desk, sparing a furtive glance at the pair of rotted chairs that myself and many others had occupied before me, and came around to the view Colonel Horn had enjoyed behind his desk of authority. His antique leather chair, a relic even before the War, was still just as sturdy and plush as ever; a true testament to the Earth ponies of yesteryear who knew how to build things to last. The old terminal still glowed a faint sickly green on the desk to my right, the glow being masked under a thick film of grime that I quickly wiped away with a hoof before looking at the message displayed on the screen in blinking green letters.

‘Message Paused. Resume Recording?’

“W-what’s that mean…?” Gold asked as he peeked over the edge of the desk at the terminal.

“It means that my old friend left us one last message.” I said simply as I tapped the arrow keys to get to the play button.

“This here damned thing on yet?” The voice echoed in the room from the small P.A speakers still built into the corners, the hallways echoing as well. “Ah, thank Celestia's soggy teats…well…looks like th’ world got fucked afta all! Whoda thunk eh? Happy apocalypse everypony! Bet plenty o' y'all been placin' bets on when it'd happen...right before Nightmare Night too! How...fuckin' goddamn poetic...”

There was a loud clicking underlining his words in the background, the same sound my Geiger counter was making as I listened to his last words though the intensity of my own was much softer. The air raid sirens wailed as well though the sound was muffled by the walls of his office. A faint rattling of the terminal itself could also be heard as the blasts that ended the world went off somewhere in the distance. At any moment the big one that left Macintosh a crater was gonna go off... It happened lifetimes ago and yet, I was still clenching my gut against the inevitable.

“Guess Ah can say whateva th’ fuck Ah want now eh?” He chuckled, a wheezing cough ending his mirth after a few seconds. “Tah all ya’ll Zebra fucks?! GO FUCK YOSELFS! Tah Princess fuckin' Luna Ah say yew was ah terrible leader 'n can be blamed fer loads 'o shit that ain't gonna mattah tha' much longer. Tah th' Hexagon, y'all fuckin' bastards are hella tah blame fer this shit too and y'all can kiss mah ass in hell! Tah ahll mah Rangers…? Ah hope ya’ll kicked some serious ass out there…ahlways believed in killin’ Zebs in fair combat ya hear? This here Megaspell bullshit? Cheapest way tah win ah War eva. Oh yeah...an' ah particularly huge fuck you tah General Olive Leaf fer rustlin' mah best Rangers an' sendin' mah ass back tah Camp Macintosh! Ah belong on th' Front tah die wit' mah soldiers wit' dignity goddamnit!”

His coughs became more and more frequent until he couldn’t hardly finish a word, let alone a sentence without the sound of his lungs crapping out on him. Acute radiation poisoning was a total bitch…I knew from experience just how much it wrecked ponies’ shit. Judging from the faded blood stains on the desk and the terminal and floor…he was close to death at the time of the recording from coughing up blood as his organs shut down one by one and internal bleeding found its way outside the body. An ignoble end to such a wonderful stallion...

“Ah fuck it…” He finally wheezed after a solid minute of gut wrenching coughing. “Ahma get ah drink…be right back…ain't done givin' y'all fucks ah piece 'o mah mind...”

And with that the recording hit its end where he had paused it two hundred and five years earlier. I looked up from the desk and towards the liquor cabinet to see his final resting place. His skeleton was so badly burnt I could see why I hadn’t noticed it the first time I had entered the room. Leaving the very comfortable chair behind, I loped slowly over to where he lay at the base of the cabinet, sprawled on his back with the remains of his hoof wrapped around an unopened bottle of Apple Jack Whiskey. Looking over the other unopened bottles on the floor around him I realized he had probably died trying to open the bottle for his last drink as none of the other bottles were missing their lids. A deep sense of sadness filled my heart as I gently lifted the bottle from his hoof with my magic, the baby blue light from its aura casting his remains in a gentle light. Sadness…now that was something I had almost forgotten the name for.

“P-poor Colonel H-Horn…” Gold whispered with a squeak as he stood by me gazing down at what was left of my old friend.

I pulled the cork out of the bottle with a pleasant pop taking note that it was almost free to begin with and held the bottle of pungent liquor over the open mouth of my fallen comrade.

“Sir…I know you…can’t hear me…wherever the hell you are…but I wished to bring you my last report as one of your Rangers before I tender my resignation.” I said quietly, unsure if this was a fitting eulogy or not. “Sir, the Zebras were thicker than the Everfree in the Badlands…we lost a lot of good Rangers down there even before the bombs went off…but I can tell you with confidence Alpha and I had their stripped asses on the run in those last few moments under Maripony. And you would have been proud of us to see them running back to their fucking Empire with their tails between their legs. We...I...lost everyone on the way there...by the time we made it to the tunnels of Splendid Valley, it was just Hucks, Penny and I. I...I couldn't save them...anyone...everyone died thinking they were saving Equestria…if only Hucks could have been so lucky to share in that misguided dream...”

I stopped to glance around the office for something, anything to put on his body as a proper burial shroud and laid my eyes on the Equestrian national flag he had been awarded for his service in the field. Respectively I unfolded the flag from its triangular display case and gazed at the pristine symbol of the nation I should have died for two hundred years ago with the rest of my Squad. I laid down the half white/half midnight blue silk upon his body leaving his head exposed and took a moment to gaze upon the Sun and Moon motif emblazoned in the center of the flag, the symbol of our Royal Sisters. I never knew what happened to my rulers during the bombings and hadn’t felt the urge to find out…but this blast from the past awakened something in me that demanded answers. Answers as to what happened to everypony I had once known and loved before the War. I had avoided the pain for too long...I needed to move on and let myself bring their stories to a close for good in my mind and heart. This...this was a good step in the right direction.

“Colonel, Sir, your last drink…two hundred and five years late.” I said finally, pouring the contents of the bottle into his open mouth before covering his head with the flag and placing his tattered signature cap with the little silver Phoenix signifying his rank upon his shrouded sternum.

I set the empty bottle back into the cabinet and sat on the floor taking a trip down memory lane one last time with my Commanding Officer. I always enjoyed his company even when he was angry at me. His Southern roots in Appleloosa were always a point of conversation as he relaxed in his chair over a bottle of his favorite liquor. He grew up on an apricot farm with his massive (and I mean massive) family of eighteen brothers and sisters plus all their aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, cousins and so forth ending in a total population of around two hundred ponies in all, all living on the same two thousand acre farm. Sometime around the age of eighteen is when he decided the farm life just wasn’t for him and he decided (well, more like resigned himself) to the only other family approved profession that wouldn’t get him disowned: the military. Every buck in his family (and a good portion of the mares too) had served at least two years in the military with his grandfather achieving the rank of Colonel before him. After passing basic training and getting railroaded into officer school, he just fell in love with the military life and fit right in, slowly passing into legend like many before him. Equestria's military history was rather short but that was only a testament to how long Harmony had existed in the world prior. I could only wonder what mom must have thought witnessing the slow decent into chaos having lived back when the world was still relatively innocent. Well...innocent compared to the War... It was such a damn shame the Horn had to die like this…barely into his fifties and still able to outshoot even me on the range while holding a conversation at the same time. Denied the dignity of dying alongside his subordinates like a King on a lost game of chess fighting to the last.

“Farewell, old timer.” I said finally as I stood up and blinked the film of tears out of my eyes that I hadn’t even noticed form. “Hope you get to kick some serious Zebra ass of your own wherever the hell you are. Rock, rock on you crazy motherfucker.”

Gold looked up at me with tears in his eyes as he whispered, “T-that was…the c-coolest funeral ever!”

I nodded, the tears finally gone as I returned to business as usual. I may respect my C.O and gave him as proper a funeral as I could manage but he also had stuff that could be scavenged and sold to keep me and Gold alive. Nostalgia was a double edged sword I had been cut by one too many times before and I would not allow myself to get nicked by it again, not when I had a Contract still on the line. The Apple Jack Whiskey, though not particularly grand like a bottle of Trottingham Wine or Saddle Arabian Brandy, was of the highest quality and thus would fetch a nice price per bottle at any sensible merchant. After slipping all twenty bottles plus a few dozen cartons of fine cigars and cigarettes into my saddlebags, I made my way back to the terminal to see if there was any information that could lead me to more goodies. Walking over the rug, I took a slightly different path than I had taken to get to the cabinet and felt something off beneath my hooves that was hidden by the rug. With nothing better to do in the moment, I pulled back the rug to reveal a safe nestled safely underneath, a small red light indicating the bolts were still all locked tightly into place.

“O-oooh!” Gold gasped as he saw the safe. “I w-wonder what’s in t-there!”

“That’s what I’m gonna try and find out.” I replied as I sat down in the chair once more and exited the recording, the twinge of nostalgia in me downloading the message into my helmet’s massive storage device for future listening.

Most of the information on the main page of his terminal was boring, useless, and outdated information about troop movements and supply requisitions (though I found it notable that my Squad was still listed as ‘Beta’ in his records) and I ignored all his personal notes for a later time, focusing instead on the option at the very bottom labeled, ‘Safe Control’. Taping the key there was a loud thunk from the floor safe as the bolts jumped back on command turning the once red light green. It was just my luck that he had left his terminal unlocked for just anypony to break into and I sent a quiet thank you in the direction of his skeleton before helping Gold open the safe to whatever was hidden inside. Was it rude to break into his personal belongings like a calloused bitch? Probably...but it would only go to waste laying in there next to his long dead remains and even he would agree that it would be better for me of all ponies to have what he left behind than one of the deranged lunatics wandering the Wasteland who would only squander its worth. Whatever it was.

What lay inside was a treasure trove of objects. Most of them were personal effects like a neatly folded dress uniform and cap along with a few particularly shiny medals (all of which would fetch a wonderful price at the right vendor) and some other treasures. Of particular note was the Colonel’s own custom engraved Sequoia from his days in the field, an adjustable leather leg holster with a built in bandolier and several dozen boxes of .45-70 Celestia rounds. Beneath all that were a few bags of gold bits, a pair of extremely powerful binoculars (that were on par with the scope of my AMR), and a complete set of original Desert Ranger armor designated as the Mrk. I of the Ranger Series of combat armor I wore myself. Even the original canvas duster was included with the markings on the shoulder indicating its 'ancient' origins in the San-Palomino Desert and Badlands of old.

“H-holy shitballs…” Gold gasped as he held aloft the old helmet with its muted maroon lenses and other notable differences from the fully militarized version I wore. “I-I’ve never seen one like this b-before…”

I chuckled as he put it on his head, the fit just a bit off because of his small size and said, “That’s because that’s the Pre-War model that started it all. Back when the Desert Rangers only patrolled the San-Palomino Desert and Badlands for things like Dragons, Manticores, large Coyote packs and basically anything that could harm farmland or travelers/caravans through those areas. If you can’t tell, it’s not exactly equipped for intense, long-term combat engagements. Still, it held its own in a fight from what I heard. You gotta understand this shit is old, even by my standards. I mean when he was wearing this in active service my mom was probably just out of high school. The original Rangers were really just glorified Sheriffs roaming the desert keeping the peace. Of course...that was long before they were gobbled up by the EAF.”

He removed the older helmet from his head and held it beside my own for comparison, the differences almost strikingly obvious. While the old Pre-War Mrk, I model had a single filter gas mask built into the helmet and came equipped with a radio/tactical light package like mine did, the amount of upgrades added to the later models made the old girl look outdated. The Mrk. IV I wore boasted a dual filter mask that did more than protect from sand and smoke and protected from all kinds of gases like NecroGas and airborne substances, not the least of which was radioactive dust. Alongside that, the lenses were a bright blood red color (indicating the built-in optics package the Mrk. I lacked), the radio\light rig were larger boasting a much improved LED and the overall construction was significantly thicker. The Mrk. IV also boasted an EVA rated hermetic seal between the helmet and underbarding effectively allowing a Ranger to swim or otherwise exist in deadly atmosphere for up to ninety minutes with the refillable oxygen tanks on our armored backs. I had only seen the Mrk. I version of the Black Armor in pictures before now and to have it physically in hoof was rather illuminating for the armor nerd inside me, showing just how far and viscous armed combat had come since those very old days. ArmsTech had truly come a long way in seventy years...

As I finished explaining the differences between the helmets, Gold floated out the single desert camo painted breastplate (the dragon logo of the Rangers looking almost freshly painted in white on the left side) and the accompanying tan canvas duster, a set of lightly reinforced leather boots and a pair of faded khakis. The discrepancies between my armor and the one before us was even more obvious than the difference in the helmets. Missing were the larger neck guard (the number on his labeled 24), the external padded metal shoulder guards as well as any sort of armor protecting the hind legs and flanks. The ‘bracers’ were nothing more than shaped pieces of plain homogenized rolled steel fastened to the sleeves with wrapped leather bands and a connected piece that covered the front of the hoof. All in all…I couldn’t help but laugh at how little the armor seemed to want to protect regardless of the circumstances of the era surrounding its use. Even the NER, lacking in the industrial and technological prowess of the Pre-War world, had obtained the means to produce the Mrk. IIs in limited quantities for their own Ranger battalion and despite its own under-armored design, it was superior to this relic. It was good armor...for the time.

“W-wow…” Gold whispered to himself, his eyes glancing over the stallion sized coat and armor then back at his diminutive size that would never grow due to his transformation into a Ghoul. “T-things must have b-been so p-peaceful back t-then huh?”

I nodded glumly, trying to remember back to a time before the War but having great difficulties doing so since it had more or less begun when I was only six years old with the Resource Wars of the 2050s and stretched into my early thirties before the bombs fell. There had been a tense undertone to most of my life that I had just...grown up with accepting as the norm. I could only imagine what mom had emotionally gone through having to live through that transition from peaceful coexistence between the nations and races to outright brutal world war. Her longevity had been more of a curse than a blessing no matter what she tried to say to dispute that.

“They were…” I replied with a heavy sigh. “But I didn’t see much of them myself. I was still a filly when the War started so I didn’t know much of the real scope of the peace we had back then. Everything was much simpler I can tell you that…and aside from the rising inflation, things were pretty dandy.”

“I-inflation…?” He asked cutely, his youthful vibe almost infectious. "L-like a...b-ball or something?"

“Eh…I don’t want to bore you with Pre-War economics but let’s just say this bag of bits here would probably only get you about five days’ worth of food and maybe a good magazine or two to read when you weren't busy working your ass off for some corporate juggernaut.” I said sadly, nodding to the rather large sack of bits lying next to the safe. I knew I was being a little excessive with the hyperbole as that amount was probably good for two weeks’ worth of food and a dozen magazines but he seemed to get the point. Nor would he be able to refute my words even if he didn’t.

“Holy s-shit…” He whispered, glancing into the bag of gold with dismay. “B-but there’s so m-much s-stuff left over still!”

“That’s the funny thing. Production in Equestria skyrocketed as we tried finding alternative power sources to Zebra coal and the invention of the Spark-Battery and Spark-Packs only made it better but it was too little, too late. By the time we had a modest production volume of self-contained magical energy cells in circulation, the War had reached such a level of fucked up that there was no possible way for us to share the tech with all other countries who needed it, including the Zebras who honestly probably didn’t even want it anymore. Not that we would have wanted to give them access to Nexus Crystals or the tech to harness them to begin with.”

“W-wait…I…I always wondered…w-why did the War with the Z-Zebras start?” He asked, looking up from the helmet with interest.

“That is one hell of a long story that I honestly don’t know all the complex details to but the SparkNotes version is the Zebras needed our gems for their magic Voodoo shit and we needed their coal for our industry because we were fucking idiots who didn’t care about the environment or the fact we had magic. Long story short, their coal and our gem supplies started dying out on us and we started bickering over who got what and for how much. One of our negotiators insulted their honor somehow, and trust me, honor is a huge fucking deal to them, and then boom. The shit hits the fan and War is born from the crazy angry buttsex from our stupid arguments with the Zebras.” I said, laughing a little at the end at what I had described the events leading up to the War to be like. And in all honesty…I wasn’t really that far off on the whole angry buttsex part if the rumor I heard about that negotiator and the female Zebra were to be believed.

He laughed at my analysis of the prelude to the War and returned his attention to the armor and helmet as his smile faded and he whispered, “T-too bad I-I’m not big enough f-for this a-armor…and I-I never will b-be…”

I felt another pang of sadness at the plight of this random Ghoul whom I hadn’t even known for more than a couple hours but felt myself liking a lot. A horrible side effect of Ghoulification was the veritable cessation of physical development and aging meaning no matter how old Gold or any other foal-sized Ghoul got, they would never grow into adult sized individuals. The Ferals could give a fuck less since the littler ones couldn’t run as fast as the adults and usually died off eventually from starvation (yes, even Ghouls needed some amount of sustenance to get by) but those who kept their brains were stuck being kids (in body at least) forever.

I tried for a moment to imagine myself in his position with his fascination with the Desert Rangers and to come across a pristine set of their armor. No, it wasn’t the heavily armored combat version that covered all body parts as well as the vital organs but it was a piece of history. A history that was rich with stories of great prowess in battle, incredible survival skills and a code of honor to fight for the once great nation of Equestria. That and it was extremely high quality and with some luck and skill you would be able to cover the other parts of your body that needed protection with homemade or merchant bought armor. It was far from a hard problem to solve and with the number of quality armor merchants in The Pile, there was plenty of opportunity to fill in the gaps in protection the Mrk. I lacked. Of course, the poor colt would never be able to fit into that armor no matter how long he waited. That is…unless I did something about it.

“Hey…” I said softly, lifting his chin with the less sharp edge of my reinforced combat boot. “Chin up kid. I have a couple friends who might be able to help tailor a coat in your size and if we play our cards right we might just find some of the shit we need to make something in your size alright? I know a guy who, for the right price, can take this apart and resize it for you. Maybe. The Mrk. I might have some quirks to it since mass standardization of spare parts and repair simplification took awhile to get into wide practice. Won't know till he cracks it open.”

He gazed at me with wide eyes filled with shock and amazement as he tried to form words but simply couldn’t, his natural stutter only exacerbated by his shock. I smiled back at him in response and informed him the chest piece (which was almost as iconic as the duster and helmet) would easy to do by hoof with the proper tools seeing as it was merely a shaped piece of long-fiber Kevyarn with segmented poly-ceramic/steel pieces bolted on top. Thinking on it I actually had all the tools needed to make his armor and his duster (minus some basic supplies like thread) and for once…I felt myself wanting to help somepony and expect nothing in return. Every badass who’s served their time deserves to choose how they spend their free time and money. In this case…this little colt was so close to his dream of being a discount Desert Ranger that…I just couldn’t pass up the chance to see him smile again. Having a personal fanboy around that was interested in what's in my head rather than under my tail was a pleasant feeling after all and I couldn't help but feel the need to take another hit off this new euphoria I was experiencing. Who knew? Maybe with time he could be trained as a competent sidekick of sorts to take along on Contracts. It had been far too long since I had worked with a spotter anyway...

“Y-you w-would do t-that for m-me…?” He finally managed to whisper after a few moments of him trying to form even a single word. “W-why…?”

“Because…” I started, trying to find a good reason that wouldn’t shed light on the weaknesses in my hardened façade. “Because you’re probably the only pony I know who has given a shit about my old career and actually knows what the hell I’m talking about. I don’t see a problem with you wearing our armor or even pretending you’re one of us since…well, you don’t exactly see ponies running around calling themselves Desert Rangers now do you? Not even the NER uses that term and they practically stole our legacy right out from under us.”

He shook his head just as I had expected him to. The Black Armor (the affectionate name given to the armor worn by Veteran Rangers of the NER) was uncommon enough as it was in the ranks of their Rangers as it took at least ten to fifteen years of service for a Ranger to be promoted to the venerable title of Veteran. To come across one in the Wastes was a rare occurrence and needless to say, I was relatively impressed with their quality during the few chance encounters I had had with them previously. They wore the Mrk. IIs well enough for my annoyance at their theft of my title to remain in a contented-enough silence. It still irked me, especially when ponies asked if I too was one of their number, but at the very least they had some clout to back up their plagiarism and were competent warriors in their own right.

“Exactly.” I said with a smirk. “So you’re a good candidate for carrying on the all too forgotten name of the Desert Rangers. Everypony knows the Steel Rangers, who were assholes even before the bombs mind you, but nopony ever remembers the Desert Rangers and all we did to fight the War for Equestria. I'm convinced it was a deliberate ploy by someone in the government but I've yet to find proof... General Olive definitely had it out for us though, that much is fucking certain alright.”

His cloudy golden eyes filled with tears as he hugged me tightly with a surprising amount of strength for his size and I noticed that he actually smelled pretty good compared to most Ghouls who came off smelling more or less how they looked. Like death. Gold on the other hoof smelled a lot like pineapple (or something like that) and I had to wonder how in the hell he managed to smell like that with half of the skin and fur missing from his body. I hugged him back, gently at first like I would a ‘close’ friend but the longer he held on, the more I felt myself getting into the act. Soon I found myself clinging to him and imagining the smell of huckleberries instead of pineapple whatever-the-fuck coming from the little body I held against me. It was...the closest I felt to a pony in a very long time...and I guzzled every second of it with a thirst I had entirely forgotten I was capable of.

“Alright...well, I think we’ve got everything we came here for didn’t we?” I asked finally as we broke our simple but intense embrace and looked about the room. “One pristine Sequoia, a modest supply of ammo plus all this other shit right?”

He nodded furiously and quickly went for the leather holster we had found, floating it into the air against his back left leg with his golden magic before hesitating and looking towards me as if asking if it was ok that he donned the weapon. I nodded with a smile and encouraged him to get it on as quickly as he could so we could fill the bandoliers with ammo and slip the gun into its spot to complete the look. Before I knew it he had emptied two twenty round boxes and slipped the shiny brass rounds into the bandolier on the belt portion of the holster as well as the two leg straps that held it firmly in place giving his back left leg a wonderfully bedazzled look. I knew plenty of mares (and some stallions like Bitch Face) who went out of their way to adorn themselves with fine jewelry like necklaces, earrings and perhaps a diadem or two but the best looking bling to me was a bandolier full of nicely polished deadly brass followed in close second by one of cherry red shotshells. Just bandoliers and pouches in general looked good on people, an opinion I embraced as I was covered in them chest to hoof myself.

As he busied himself with getting the helmet to attach to his saddlebags for transport, I sat down again in the Major’s chair (making a note to snag it for my home sometime) and set about looking through his personal files which could have been called journal entries of sorts. There was plenty of garbage in there concerning the most boring of internal affairs of the Rangers but there was a file labeled ‘Veteran Dossiers [PRIVATE - NOT FOR GENERAL USE]’ which caught my eye in an instant. Looking deeper, I found the Colonel had a meticulous record of every single Ranger at Camp Macintosh and that this particular file was designated for myself and fellow Veterans. The information in each file was exhaustive in scale as it included notes on personal correspondence with each Vet, their respective psychological profiles and medical records from the Camp Doctor, and a complete list of each Vet’s strengths and weaknesses as well as a section dedicated to ‘Petty Offenses’. The chance to see what the Colonel thought of me in private was too good to pass up, even with the inevitable pain it would bring along with whatever I ended up reading, good or bad. With a mumbled apology in his direction, I nudged the cursor over my name in the list and cracked open the innermost thoughts of my former CO.

‘Lieutenant Colonel Athena Crete is rather exceptional even amongst the Vets. She has displayed an uncanny knack for strategy and sheer ruthlessness in the battlefield that can only be compared to some of those damned Feral Dragons those geniuses at Maripony decided would be a good idea to let loose on the battlefield; or her subordinate First Sergeant Buck Beak. Her team all look up to her and respect her as a mare of her word and integrity as well as their leader in any situation. Hell...if she were to ever lead a mutiny, they’d be the first to sign up. Despite these strengths, Lt. Col. Crete has one glaring weakness: Captain Huckleberry Crisp. It was brought to my attention by First Sergeant Buck Beak that the two of them, who are nigh on inseparable as it is, are indeed together in a romantic partnership. The likes of such a relationship are, of course, forbidden by the Ministry of Morale and the Desert Ranger’s own protocols against inter-soldier relationships. First Sergeant Buck expressed to me his annoyance for the two’s all too frequent proclivities (which were arranged in secret by his fellow Squad members) and also expressed his fears that they would inevitably be discovered and lynched by any number of offended parties. I informed him that if he wished to keep his rank and his place on her team, which I honestly have to admit is better than the previous Alpha Squad in many ways, he would forget what he told me and tell no one else. I could give a rat’s ass about the Ministry’s laws against that shit...hell before all this shit started happening I was engaged to my cousin for Celestia’s sake. At this point, I don’t see the need to court martial any of them for what they’re doing. They’re the best fucking Rangers we have and with the Ministry breathing down the original Alpha’s necks this is the perfect time for those two to try and have a relationship. We need our best hooves on the ground fighting those Imperial asswipes and Lt. Col. Crete, Captain Crisp and the rest of Beta...excuse me, Alpha Squad, are the best hooves we’ve got. Who better to fight a War then a pair of lovebirds who’d fight to the death for each other?’

I looked away from the terminal unable to even think as I looked back at the pony shaped mass beneath the Equestrian flag and the stallion who had, unknowingly to me and Huckleberry, kept us from being executed or at the very least imprisoned at someplace like Shattered Hoof. I wanted to hug and even kiss him for his silent actions in our defense and giving us the best years of our life, even though...even though we never had the chance to move in together into the little home at the edge of Trottingham that we had wanted. What filled my heart soon after were the complicated feelings surrounding Buck Beak and his breach of trust in telling Colonel Horn about Hucks and I. As he himself stated in his private report, Buck had been one of the ones going out of their way to arrange chances for the two of us to enjoy some quality private time with each other. Had his (and our) worst fears been realized then he would have been easily found to have been an accomplice and be appropriately charged during our likely combined court martial. Of course...that would likely have been the crowning achievement for General FatAss and his entourage of useless pencil pushers had it actually occurred...

I tried accessing the dossier on Huckleberry, a hunger for my old fiancé aroused in my heart like an unquenchable fire of need but to my horror I found the file had been corrupted and was thus inaccessible without somepony with the proper training to reformat it. I had no clue who even had that kind of experience as I usually left terminals alone and focused on the job at hoof but this...this was personal. Way more than any grudge match. This was vital, unaltered information about Huckleberry Crisp and I wanted, no, needed to know more. I didn’t have so much as a picture of my mare left to hold onto at night when the other Hitmares and ponies I knew weren’t around to see how truly weak and broken I was. The memories I had of her, though vivid, seemed faded like I had looked at them too many times that they lost their color. I wondered if memories could be worn out from overuse like holotapes or old vinyl records...if they could then I certainly had a head full of worn out disks and tapes with her name on them. What physical relics which remained, save her dogtags, lay buried in a box on that fateful hilltop...

“W-what’s wrong…?” Gold asked sweetly, looking up from staring at the gun strapped to his leg. “S-something bad…?”

I looked back at him, downloading my file as well as the rest of Beta Squad’s into my helmet, and said, “Just...a blast from the past that I’ve been needing for a long time. A...very very long time...”

****************