Fallout Equestria: Safety

by garatheauthor

Rating: mature
Tags: Profanity, Gore, Violence, Alternate Universe, Drama, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Fallout
Length: 7402

Far from the capital, the NCR's banner flies. Yet, this is still a land of raiders, kleptocrats, and merciless strongmares.

On the western fringes of the NCR, a battalion of troopers stand ready to patrol the barren wasteland beyond. They are underequipped, undermanned, and rife with corruption. Grimfeather's banner may fly above their encampments, but this land has recovered little from its past of raiders, kleptocrats, and merciless strongmares.

Yet, no relief seems in sight, as a migration of destitute rancher appears on the horizon. Denied access by the region's corrupt governor, an uneasy stand-off has settled into place. But as the days pass, their situation only grows increasingly dire.

How long will it be before things devolve into violence?

Second Place Recipient for the Wasteland Writing Contest.

Published 2019-09-05 20:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-09-05 20:30:01 UTC

Fallout Equestria: Safety

When I was first thrown into bootcamp, back in the Steel Rangers, there had been this one drill sergeant who was a total Equestrophile. In his long drawn out lectures, he’d praise the well-oiled fighting machine that was the Equestrian army. Oh sure, pre-war society was corrupt and decadent but if there was one thing they got right, it was that they knew how to properly fight a war. At least, if this pony was to be believed.

There was this one lecture, given in the midst of a grueling fifty push up regime. During which, this drill sergeant went on and on about communication technology. An interesting choice but one that he delivered with impassioned zeal. For those few painful minutes, he discussed, in depth, how the Equestrian army managed to outfit every fireteam with two radios. This allowed them to work seamlessly with other units, providing the idle conditions for fighting a war.

Even in the technocratic Steel Rangers, this ideal was never met. We were lucky to have two radios for a platoon of knights. By the time I went AWOL, and fled to the relative safety of the New Canterlot Republic, I realized how spoiled I had been and just how far the wasteland had really fallen.

Currently, I was stationed on the frontier with a battalion of NCR troopers, manning a desolate and sunbaked hellscape that Grimfeather deemed to be the western edge of her territorial ambitions. Among the five hundred soldiers there were only three radios. One was at battalion HQ and the others given to the two company commanders. This meant that the rest of the ponies involved in this operation needed to employ some grade A ingenuity to overcome this crisis of communication.

What that meant, in an age of power armour, airships, and synthetic drugs, is that we went back to the tactics of our forefathers.

For the ponies stretched along this thin line in the desert, we used smoke signals, good old fashion hoof waving, and most importantly, flags to try and get our points across.

“Red background, three dots… Checkered flag, black and yellow… Solid Green… Green with yellow stripes.”

I watched as Lance Corporal Shooting Star peered through her rifle’s scope at the nearest friendly encampment. She hummed softly to herself, muttering a seemingly random set of words.

However, they were words I knew well. Each was a different flag and each was like a telegram, conveying a different part of a vitally important message.

Red background, three dots. A medium sized group of non-friendly origin.

Checkered flag, black and yellow. The group, while non-friendly, was apparently civilian in nature.

Solid green. The outpost was currently fine.

Green with yellow stripes. The situation was being handled with caution, be prepared to offer support if necessary.

Shooting Star drew back and looked to Corporal Skull Fuck. “Medium group of civilians is approaching Outpost Foxtrot. Foxtrot is fine and proceeding with caution,” she reported.

Skull Fuck nodded. “Probably another gaggle of would-be raiders looking for a handout.”

“Gods is the situation really still that bad out there?” I asked. “I thought we hit the Titans’ camp last month and burned those fuckers to the ground?”

“We did,” Skull Fuck grumbled. “But they’re raiders and well…” He cringed. “Raiders can be stubborn sons of a bitches sometimes. Trust me.”

“Raiders don’t go looking for handouts either,” I shot back.

Shooting Star snorted. “No shit, these ponies are way too sane and orderly.”

“Are we still not letting them in?” Private United Front asked. “Anypony left on that side is a refugee and we all know it.”

“The Major said we aren’t letting anypony through,” Skull Fuck said. “Even if they are civvies, they were doing business with raider gangs. They ain’t exactly innocent.”

“Not like they really had a choice,” Shooting Start muttered. “Either you trade with raiders or get killed by raiders. They don’t give you a whole lot of options.”

“They made their bed and now they can lay in it,” Skull Fuck snarled. “Those are our orders.”

“And whose giving them?” I grumbled under my breath. “The president?”

Skull Fuck glared at me. “Private Valiant Charge, you know damn well that it’s the governor calling the shots out here. And he doesn’t want anymore damned raiders on his turf.”

“They’re not raiders, they’re hungry fucking ranchers who ended up on the wrong side of the demarcation line.”

“Yeah, and to the governor, they’re the same fucking thing.”

“And why aren’t we listening to NCR? You know they wouldn’t let this shit fly. They’re all about letting bygones be bygones.”

Private Berry Bunch, the last pony on our fireteam, snorted. “Because Grimfeather is about a thousand kilometers east and if she wants her flag flying this far out, she knows when a fight isn’t really worth it.”

“It ain’t right,” I said. “I thought the whole point of the NCR was to help as many ponies as possible.”

“Can’t be helping ponies if we’re too busy dealing with internal strife,” Shooting Star quipped.

“Whose side are you on?” United Front asked.

“No ones. I just like a good argument.”

“Also being moralistic doesn’t keep us paid, feed, and sheltered,” Skull Fuck said. “It’s either we play by the governor’s rules or we end up pulling back east to the nearest federally run depot.”

“This isn’t why I joined up,” I grumbled.

Skull Fuck sighed. “Look, I don’t think any of us thought we’d be doing this when we enlisted, but try and be positive here. At least we’re safe and sound, and not getting our asses fragged trying to hunt down Enclave Remnants in the south. I’d rather be making bits getting sunburnt than having my eyes melted by a fucking laser pistol.”

I held back my tongue, finding it pointless to discuss what other business our glorious leader was involved in. After all, he would know a thing or two about dealing with and amongst raiders. Skull Fuck wasn’t exactly a farmer’s name.

Though before our discussion could continued, fate decided to kick our perception of safety right in the balls.

An explosion hit, in the distance, and a far more archaic means of communication belched forth from Outpost Foxtrot, taking the form of an oily black smoke.

While none of us were formally trained in deciphering smoke signals, we were able to pick up on the meaning easily enough.

“Fuck,” Shooting Star roared, looking through her scope. “Foxtrot’s been hit. Those weren’t civvies they were fucking Titans.”

The rest of the squad rushed to the sandbags. Without Shooting Star’s scope, our perception was far more limited. Still we could see the smoke, we could see the smoldering flames, and before long, we could hear the rattle of gunfire.

“Looks like a couple troopers managed to make it,” Shooting Star commented, sounding eerily calm. “Can’t tell the degree of their injury.”

“What’s opposing them?” Skull Fuck snarled, sounding nowhere near as composed.

“Small arms from a dozen or so Titans. Looks like it’s mostly pistols and sub-machine guns.”

A red beam erupted with blinding vigour.

“One laser weapon,” Shooting Star added.

She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Permission to fire?”

Skull Fuck nodded. “Granted.”

The rifle barked and Shooting Star chambered another round. “One hostile down.”

Our glorious leader ignored her, instead turning to the rest of us. “Alright troopers, get your shit together and pray to the princesses that we get there before our colts get fragged.”

There was no hurrahs or inspirational words, only the bark of Shooting Star’s rifle. This was followed promptly by her cussing under her breath, clearly the result of a miss.

We snatched up our service rifles, slinging them over our backs. Once ready, Skull Fuck clambered over the sandbags, followed shortly by myself and the other two.

There were rules about approaching situations like this. In the Steel Rangers, we were always taught to advance into hostile situations with the upmost caution. After all, what was better bait than the peril of one’s comrades. It was this sense of brotherhood that could turn one dead fireteam into two in the blink of an eye.

However, Skull Fuck had been raised on the doctrine of raider combat. There was no analytic or thought to his approach, just raw passion as he marched forward, throwing caution to the wind with us in tow. Not even the years in the NCR had seemed to temper his emotions.

Thankfully, he did not charge directly into the fray, instead stopping on a hill mere metres from the action. The sound of low calibre weaponry was a constant percussion line, occasionally augmented with the crack of a distance rifle or the shizzle of ionized air from a laser weapon. What was absent was the rattle of service rifle fire, the distinctive thud of 5.56s eerily absent.

However, it was obvious that the raiders hadn’t picked up on this fact. Something that would benefit our counterattack nicely.

Skull Fuck pulled me close, pressing his muzzle right against my ear.

“Take Berry Bunch and head left around the hill,” he hissed softly. “Once you start firing, I’ll pop over the ridge with United Front.”

I silently nodded and motioned towards Berry, getting her attention. She looked at me and tilted her chin in confirmation. We then began to shimmy along the hill, attempting to stay as silent as our kit would allow.

It felt like hours to get into position, but in reality, it took maybe a minute for us to peek around the embankment. From our new position we had a perfect view of the hostile backline. A few of them laid dead, though four more were still firing. Three, positioned behind a car, took aim at Foxtrot, while the last stood in the open and looked towards the hills, obviously aware of Shooting Star’s suppressive fire. Though this pony’s attempts at countering it were cut short as a rifle round slammed through her head.

I motioned towards Berry Bunch, giving her the appropriate gestures to inform her that I was about to engage. Then, in scarcely a moment, I prayed to the princesses, hoping they would protect me as I leapt into combat.

Our rifles fired at the same time, bucking three round bursts of munition at the enemy.

In the books, a car would’ve provided ideal cover. In reality, it was two thin sheets of steel, turned brittle from age. So, our rounds drove through it with ease.

Mine caught the fucker with a laser rifle, ceasing his fire in a heartbeat. Two of Berry’s rounds caught nothing, but the last, found another raider, bringing them to the ground in a hollering mess of agony.

I paid their comfort no thought as I dashed forward, moving from the hill to a sunbaked piece of earthen cover that offered an advantageous view. To our right, two more service rifles barked as our comrades entered the fray.

When I peered up next, the remaining raider was apparently too flustered and looking around frantically in every direction.

I took advantage of this and squeezed off another shot, downing them with pinpoint accuracy. The recoil of a service rifle was nothing compared to the .50 calibre I had once wielded.

A moment passed and the din of gunfire abated. When I peered over my cover again, I noticed why. Raiders could be vicious but they were also an irregular force that often broke under the first sign of organized resistance.

There was something off about their retreat, however. While unorganized, it was obvious that they were protecting those in the core of their formation. The way they sheltered those ponies seemed off. That wasn’t the behavior of raiders and that alone made the whole situation not sit right with me.

“What are you doing?” Skull Fuck snarled. “You’re letting them get away.”

I looked up and saw our glorious leader now perched near me, sending off a rattle of gunfire into the hostile formation. He had completely abandoned the semi-automatic nature of his rifle, instead spewing a full magazine into the hostiles, felling them one after another with no remorse.

This settled my shaken composure and I soon joined in, rattling off my own bursts. Between our four rifles, not a single one of the raiders made it further than a hundred metres from their ambush. A brutal but effective means of retribution.

With the last of the raiders felled, the gunfire died down and a long silence followed. All we could hear was our shallow, adrenaline-tainted breathing.

Berry Bunch finally broke the silence.

“Anypony still alive over there!” she called to our allies.

Silence.

That wasn’t a good sign.

I sighed and picked myself up, moving away from my cover and stepping into the field of death.

All around me were the bodies of raiders, their broken corpses resting upon dirt and sand that was now coloured red by their viscera. The rancid smell of defecation, blood, and gore hit me like a sledgehammer.

Yet, I didn’t gag. It was a cologne I was all too familiar with.

However, United Front did, spilling his lunch a second later. Thankfully, the putrid smell mingled in with all the others and no one else joined him.

We stepped passed the bodies, heading for Outpost Foxtrot. The pillar of smoke, that had warned us of their situation, still billowed into the sky.

“Outpost Foxtrot,” Skull Fuck called. “You folks still alive in there?”

Nothing.

Definitely not a great sign.

Our approach slowed, as if none of us really wanted to make that fateful discovery. After all, nopony wanted to discover five dead troopers.

I was the first to the sandbag.

There were five corpses within that protective perimeter. Three had been taken out by whatever caused the explosion, turned to gore by the force of the blast or wave of shrapnel that followed.

The other two were a grimmer story. Both had clearly been wounded by the shrapnel, the trail of blood revealing that they were bleeding profusely during the firefight. Still, what the explosive failed to do; the torrent of gunfire had finished. Both were dotted with multiple bullet marks. Though, they had at least gone down fighting, with a nice pile of spent shells littered liberally around their final resting place.

I drew back, my eyes and nose burning from the harsh oily smoke. At least that’s what I told myself to explain away the tears.

Outpost Foxtrot was our sister fireteam, the other half of our squad. We’d done boot camp together and I knew each of these ponies intimately from our tour of duty.

When I looked to my comrades, I noticed that they were all the same, trying their best not to show weakness.

“See if there are any survivors,” Skull Fuck said, his voice hollow and distance.

Berry Bunch shook her head, her gaze unable to move away from the carnage. “There aren’t any.”

“Not them, you idiot,” Skull Fuck growled before gesturing to the secondary field of carnage. “Check the raider scum.”

We all turned and looked out upon the blood soaked and sun cracked wasteland. There were easily three dozen raider bodies and not one of them seemed to move.

I was about to state the obvious but Skull Fuck spoke up first.

“Berry, Charge, I want you two to start looking through their dead. If you spot any who are faking, put a round in their skull.”

Berry saluted. “Yes, sir.”

I simply nodded and walked out amongst the enemy’s dead. That order was not how things would’ve been handled back in the core of the NCR. In the core, they listened to the idealism of old. However, out here, things like mercy were ignored lest they get you killed, or worse, captured.

Yet, even knowing this, I found the order distasteful to the extreme. It was something a raider would’ve done, unsurprising considering the corporal’s history.

The first thing that struck me, about the initial line of hostiles, was how different these raiders looked from the ones I was familiar with. Sure, their attire was shabby and their weaponry cheap and fragile, but they looked more like ranchers than bandits.

I shook my head, remembering our raid upon the Titan’s compound. The bodies there had been in a more traditional raider garb. Now, those ponies fit the bill, dressed in a combination of gore and jagged metal that was more likely to offer tetanus than protection.

My curiosity got the better of me and I stopped beside the body of a mare. The top of her head was missing, the remains speckling the landscape with grey and red for a good metre or so.

I hooked the edge of her coat with the barrel of my rifle, flicking it open. Inside was a box of munitions, a few snack bars, and a bottle of water. But mysteriously there was no drugs. What type of raider attacked a fortified NCR position if they weren’t on every substance in the known world?

It was also noteworthy that I could count the mare’s ribs. It must’ve been awhile since she had anything approaching a decent meal.

A few steps away was a stallion, who remained motionless. He was in all likelihood dead from the rounds that perforated his body. I looked through his coat as well, finding an even more puzzling cache. Chiefly, he was weighed down with a few MREs, standard issue amongst NCR troopers but not so common for those beyond our border.

I eased one out and gasped softly, throwing a cautious glance towards Skull Fuck. Thankfully, he was preoccupied scouring Outpost Foxtrot.

Written on the back was United Front’s name, a common means of calling dibs on a preferred type of ration. I could still remember our glorious leader claiming that he had lost a stash during one of his patrols.

I continued my search, and in one of the stallion’s pockets, there was a photo. This was even more puzzling. Raiders weren’t known to be especially sentimental. Yet, here was a picture of the stallion, standing next to a mare and two foals.

Like the mare before, this stallion was also positively famished.

I was about to move away but found a letter in one of his other pockets. The text was spotted with blood but I could make out a few words. It discussed prices, laid out in rations, but the stallion’s gore made what was for sale impossible to decipher.

With one last glance, I moved away and continued to stray farther from the outpost, my gaze flicking between the various corpses. None of them twitched or breathed or groaned. They were dead, every last one of them.

Still, we hadn’t come across the main grouping of hostiles. The group which had retreated away from our incoming fire. In total, there must’ve been twelve dead bodies among them, a significant portion of the attacking formation.

I was the first to reach it, recoiling at the smell of such a strong concentration of equine misery and suffering. Still, I had a mission and a suspicion clawing at me. Something was amiss and needed to be rectified.

The bodies were silent, unmoving, dead. Still, I poked through them, using my rifle to ease the various corpses apart. The ponies on the outside seemed to be huddled around something at their core, protecting it with their very bodies.

I turned over another of the deceased and let out a choking sob.

There was a foal.

She was as dead as the rest.

As I moved another pony, a second foal was revealed, then a third. Then after that, a senior pony who’d been taken out by a wound to the side. She was old enough to be my grandmother.

I gritted my teeth and turned away.

The death count didn’t matter, it was the victims who did. These weren’t raiders, they were families. This was a community not a gang.

“Private Charge, do you have anything to report?”

I looked over my shoulder and watched Corporal Skull Fuck approach.

He must’ve seen the utter horror in my face because he stopped, looking almost taken a back by my sorrow.

“Private?” he asked again.

First, I sobbed.

Then, I told him what I had just found.

Battalion Command was located a few kilometers behind the frontline. It was this little cluster of tents with a thin barrier of barbed wire strung along a few beaten fence posts making up its pathetic perimeter. To its flanks were two batteries of large guns, totally eight pieces of various larger calibers.

Not how we would’ve set up a command post back in the Rangers but it got the job done.

Our fireteam approached the encampment, walking forward without a word spoken. Even three days later, the memories of the incident still laid heavy upon us.

Not only had a friendly unit been wiped out but we had all very likely taken an innocent life in that firefight. I couldn’t speak for everyone, but personally, the knowledge that I had done so laid heavy upon me.

After the engagement, we had returned to our outpost, sending United Front as a runner to Company HQ.

We then sat around and tried to sort things out. Though, I made sure to keep the discovery of the stolen NCR rations a secret. Instead, I kept a close eye upon our glorious leader. My main concern was trying to figure out if he had given those rations out of kindness or had profiteered off them.

It wasn’t a question that was going to be easy to answer.

A day after United Front’s departure, he returned with a reserve unit. They relieved us with orders to report to the Major for debriefing.

Debriefing.

The word hung over us like a threat.

Would we be reprimanded, rewarded, or thrown before a court martial for what we had done?

There were a dozen possibilities. On one hoof, we had been in the heat of battle and there was no way of knowing. On the other, our glorious leader’s decision to fire on retreating civvies had cost several ranchers their lives.

However, no matter what direction this royal cluster fuck took, there was only one way to find out what our fate would be. And that would be to report to the Major.

Skull Fuck was at the head of our unit and was the first to stop as we approached the battalion’s checkpoint.

Two guardponies saluted, the one on the left taking the lead.

“Name and rank?” the pony asked.

“Corporal Skull Fuck.”

The guardpony looked at a clipboard before using his magic to check something off.

“Here to see the major?” he asked.

Skull Fuck nodded. “Yep.”

The guardpony stepped to the side and used his horn to lift the wooden barrier.

“Good luck.”

Something about his tone stung. It was like he knew something we didn’t.

Skull Fuck looked to us, trying his best to be reassuring.

“He probably says that to anyone whose here to see the Major,” he grumbled. “That old bitch is known for being tough as nails.”

As we entered the camp, I was taken aback by how much this place reminded me of the core. Ponies here were crisp, shaven, and clean, none of them bearing the stress and ceaseless wear and tear of the frontline.

I breathed in slowly and smelled lunch being prepared. It was a stew of sorts, like the stuff you’d find in a hole in the wall establishment back in the capital. I took in another breath, also picking up on the scent of fresh jam and bannock.

As I looked around, I saw ponies that could’ve been transplanted right from Camp Tandi. There was a doctor in a sterile white, chatting with a nurse; A group of non-coms shooting the shit as they smoked; and a duo of MPs giving our unwashed group a cautious glance.

“Be careful,” Shooting Star muttered. “Don’t want to spook the ponies vacationing over here.”

United Front snorted. “No kidding, this place looks like a summer camp.”

The fireteam seemed to meld closer together, as a sense of us versus them really began to permeate through our ranks.

We passed tent after tent, observing them from the corner of our eye, unwilling to make eye contact with anypony.

There were tents that housed medical facilities, a mess, various storage and quartermaster services, and then of course those used to house the ponies who worked within this barbed wire paradise.

The canvas tents might seem spartan, but to ponies, who had nothing but sleeping bags and a small cavern for protection, they seemed almost luxurious.

Finally, we came across the only permanent structure within the base. It was a weathered and broken-down storefront for a petrol station. The paint had faded to far more muted versions of its once vibrant red, the glass, shattered long ago, was now covered by sheets of plastic, and the neon signage was busted, replaced instead by a wooden sign which simply labeled this as “Major Rock Candy’s Quarters”.

Outside were a second pair of guards. This time they were stern faced MPs in crisp black uniforms.

As we approached, they snapped off salutes, though their politeness did not carry over to the clear disdain they had for us. It was plastered all over their faces, questioning what a bunch of unwashed front liners were doing before them.

“Purpose of your visit,” the MP on the right asked.

Skull Fuck chewed on his lip for a moment, examining them closely.

“Corporal Skull Fuck, delta platoon, reporting for debriefing with Major Rock Candy.”

The MP drew out a list, using his lip to tap the tip of his pen against it. He hummed softly, glancing from his list and back to Skull Fuck.

Finally, he nodded and crossed something off.

“Head on in,” he instructed after spitting his pen into his pocket.

Skull Fuck nodded and stepped past the guards, holding his head up high. We followed behind with a similar level of dignity.

The interior of the gas station was dimly lit with only a few bare bulbs offering any light. There were a few workstations scattered about, each being operated by a pony who had at least three sets of chevrons on their uniform. In the centre of the room, was a table with a map laid out upon it. Various green flags were stuck through the paper, forming a defensive line against a mass of yellow and red to the west.

And upon seeing this, I felt my stomach drop. There sure was an awful shortage of green.

In the background, I heard a radio operator chatting with his counterpart in one of the company HQs, relaying orders to reinforce a certain grid number I wasn’t at all familiar with.

As we stood their awkwardly, a junior office, who seemed to be hovering around without a purpose, approached and offered us the politest smile we had yet received.

“Delta platoon?” he asked.

Skull Fuck nodded. “Yep.”

“Give me a second and I’ll see if I can find the Major.”

The officer wandered off, heading for a door near the back of the room. He knocked a few times and exchanged hushed and hurried words with its occupant.

Shooting Star snorted. “She has a fucking secretary?”

I nodded.

A few seconds later the door opened and the Major walked in.

She was a stout earth pony with a faded pink mane and muted grey coat, which must’ve once been gorgeous, but were now a frazzled and unkept mess. She wore the beige uniform of a field solider, with a pair of golden leaves pinned to each shoulder.

It didn’t take her long to spot us, and once she had, her scorn faded, but only ever so slightly.

“Ah, Corporal, I’m glad my messengers got through,” she grumbled.

Skull Fuck saluted and we all did in turn.

“Major Rock Candy,” he grunted.

“At ease, I didn’t call you here to tear you a new asshole.”

Skull Fuck let out a sigh of relief, dropping his hoof back to the ground. “Oh?”

“In fact, I was wondering if I could request a more in-depth status report from you and your unit. Your messenger was rather fatigued and blanked on some questions.”

United Front flushed as we all glanced at him.

“If there’s any way we can help, we’ll gladly offer it,” Skull Fuck said.

The Major nodded, gesturing towards the entrance we just came in.

“Would you be opposed to taking a short walk to somewhere more private?” she asked. “I can’t imagine the march here was easy.”

“We survived,” Shooting Star muttered.

Skull Fuck cleared his throat, shooting his second-in-command a warning glare. “Lead the way, Major.”

Major Rock Candy seemed to ignore Shooting Star’s comment as she led us back out into the stifling heat of the sun, heading immediately for a destination on her left.

“So, could you possibly tell me what happened?” she asked.

Skull Fuck did so, making sure to mention the attack on Outpost Foxtrot, the ensuing firefight, and the discover of both, our causalities and the nature of the hostile force. He did, however, make sure to avoid mentioning any thing that would’ve made him look bad, such as his infamous order, and of course, anything related to the missing rations.

“You’re telling me that they assaulted the outpost while accompanied by underaged civvies?” the Major asked.

I nodded, taking the question from Skull Fuck. “I found victims still in foalhood.”

“Princess fucking Luna,” the Major growled. “So, you’re sure this wasn’t some raider force?”

“I did a few searches and they looked more like ranchers than raiders. No chems, all the weapons were low calibre. You know, with the exception of their laser rifle-”

“Where the fuck did they get laser weapons?”

Shooting Star shrugged. “A million places. Crashed or ambushed Enclave or Ranger units seems most likely. Even those fuckers fuck up sometimes.”

“They probably picked over the Titan compound,” United Front interjected. “It seems like the most likely place for them to get that many guns so quickly.”

“We should’ve done more than just a hit and run,” The major growled. “Did you find anything else?”

It was time to play my hand.

I nodded. “The civilians appeared to be starving and what food they did have came from NCR field rations.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Skull Fuck tense.

The Major worked her jaw. “I see. Probably a few units have been taking mercy on the local populace.”

“I think it might’ve been a trade,” I said.

Skull Fuck’s jaw clenched so hard I swore his molars were going to crack under the sheer force.

“What makes you say that?” the Major asked.

“Found a partial manifest on one of the combatants, they were selling something in exchange for rations.”

“Was probably a fucking militia unit,” The Major said, making Skull Fuck relax. “The governor’s troops seem more interested in making a quick buck than actually protecting the fucking border.” The Major shook her head. “This is getting out of hoof.”

“What is?” Skull Fuck asked.

“This whole damned operation. Those ponies out on the frontier are getting more and more desperate and I don’t blame them. This is between us, but my scouts are telling me that they’re experiencing a complete failure of local crops. Meanwhile, the president isn’t sending us regular shipment of munitions, let alone reinforcements or relief aid. Plus, I have that cocksucker, Governor Devonshire, telling me that he’ll cut off our local supplies if we let any of those savages in.” She stomped her hoof. “It’s like were stuck between an anvil and hammer and getting beaten over and over again isn’t making things any easier.”

She then growled and threw up her hoof in disgust. “Plus, I apparently got my fucking troopers fragging foals now.”

“It was the heat of battle,” Skull Fuck growled.

“If your report is correct, then those foals are dead because you fired into a retreating formation.” She glared at Skull Fuck. “You know, you never did explain why you acted in such a fashion.”

“We only did that because we assumed, they were raiders and they had just fragged one of our fireteams. What would you have done?”

The Major waved a dismissive hoof. “Were the New Canterlot Republic not some raider gang, Corporal Skull Fuck, please do try and remember that and show a bit more levelheadedness while in a life or death situation.

“I don’t need to take this from some-”

“Oh yes you do! This is how a chain of command works, colt. The president gets shit on, then she shits on a general, who shits on me, and this shit goes all the way down to you. That’s how this system works.” She leaned in, getting right in his face. “Isn’t bureaucracy such a wonderful invention? Aren’t you glad we brought it back?”

“How are we going to resolve this?” I asked, trying my best to do away with even an ounce of their collective fury.

It seemed to work as they eased back from one another.

“I’ve sent requests to both the president and governor. If the president sends the supplies I’m asking for, we can house the refugees until the civvies back east figure out a solution. If the governor bends, we can begin letting them in. If neither does as I ask, then we pray that the refugees piss off somewhere else. I heard the Communes of Appleloosa are lovely this time of year.”

“And if none of those scenarios play out?” United Front asked.

“Then we pray that a few hundred rifles are enough to hold back a couple thousand angry ranchers who are hungry, desperate, and have families to protect.”

The whole squad went silent.

“Anyways, that’s all I needed you for,” The Major grumbled. “See Staff Sargent Bakers Dozen, he’ll set you up for the night. Then I want you back to the front tomorrow.” She turned away, though glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, and Corporal?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I really don’t want to have to send anymore reports of dead foals back to Camp Tandi. So, no more firing into retreating civilians. Got me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Skull Fuck muttered under his breath.

During the night, our fireteam took turns watching over the dessert, with each pony being given a two-hour shift. For me, that meant being awake from two to four in the morning, watching over the landscape from the dead of night to the first embers of sunrise.

It was dull work, especially on a night such as this. Without the moon, my only source of light was the stars and my lantern. Though both were extremely limited, meaning that there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot I could see.

So instead, I mostly focused upon a book, reading through a battered and bruised tome. It was an adventure novel about a character named Daring Doo.

Her adventures across the globe almost felt like they were pulled straight out of fantasy. The way the author described the lush jungles and fertile plains seemed like they were right out of science fiction, being far too alien and exotic for this Equestria, a world of dust and decay.

Yet, for some strange reason, I had no doubt that such locations had once existed.

Though tonight, my escapism was denied and my reading scattered, with little meaningful progress actually made. No matter how much I attempted to let the words of a long dead writer distract me, I was always forced back to confronting our present predicament.

Out there, somewhere in that dark expanse, there were families. They were hungry, scared, desperate, and poor. Yet, I was unable to help them. I was a mere cog in a system that had apparently become rotten.

Grimfeather was an idealist but even idealism became faded, tattered, and tainted by the fatigue of distance.

The capital may have wanted to help those ponies, as much as myself, but on the frontier, there was only a sense of helping our own. This was a lesson that I had learned from the actions of our very own glorious leader.

I glanced up from my book and looked down at Outpost Foxtrot. By now, another team, a foreign team, had taken over those sandbags as their own. None of us really knew the ponies who manned them anymore.

They were a small unit of local militia, a necessary stopgap in manning the frontier. Still, all of us proper soldiers were wary of the locals. There was little cross-communication between our two units and their loyalty to the Republic was questionable at best. They were mercenaries, there was no other kinder way of putting it.

No, the Major had summed it up perfectly in our meeting a week ago. These ponies were here to make a profit, one way or another.

Still, a gun was a gun, and on this border, we were apparently going to need all we could get.

I was about to return to my book but something caught my attention. In the distance, a small group of torches approached Outpost Foxtrot. I would’ve raised the alarm if not for the fact that I saw one of the militiaponies wave his cap at the approaching delegation.

To my side was Shooting Star’s scope. I picked it up and looked through it.

In the illumination of Foxtrot’s encampment, I watched as a wagon was wheeled up from our side of the border. While I could not see its contents, I did watch the militiaponies begin to drag out crate after crate of goods.

As they worked, the foreign delegation arrived.

In total, it numbered around twenty ponies, enough to make me nearly call for my comrades. However, I noticed something odd. Half of the ponies, all mare and foals, were naked and unarmed. The rest all appeared to be ranchers, and even from this range, I could tell that they did not look happy.

Still, the leaders of both parties approached and had a brief conversation, which was lost to me by distance. However, neither pony seemed ready to shoot as they instead shook hooves. The rancher’s posture seemed reluctant, a troubling juxtaposition to the eagerness of the militiapony. It was evident who held the power in this exchange.

The ranchers surrendered control of their unarmed patrons, who moved towards the wagon. However, before they were allowed inside, I watched in utter horror as militaponies shackled the civilians together.

One of the ranchers shouted and lunged at the guards but was held back by his allies. Among the now imprisoned ponies, a mare and foal tried to make a move towards him but were tugged back by the militia.

Then something clicked in my mind, a memory of the manifest. I would bet a hundred caps that those containers all contained rations and now I watched, in growing despair, as I realized what the price for them really was.

After that came the memory of the photo. A stallion with a mare and two foals. Suddenly, the exchange that just took place made a lot more sense.

Was this a father selling his wife and kin into slavery? It seemed likely, but why?

I gritted my teeth, remembering how I could count the ribs on that mare we had killed. Had their situation really become so desperate that they were selling their own into slavery for whatever scrapes could be thrown together? Was a life indentured to a baron on the fringes really preferable to what they had?

I was sickened, these militiaponies were supposed to be representatives of the republic and yet, they went against one of her core ethos.

Yet, this was not the republic. This was a fringe land that sometimes flew her banner. This was autonomous from the east, a lawless reach that enjoyed republican protection while spitting in the face of her laws and values.

There was nothing I could do but watch as the mares and foals were led onto the wagon, which was then closed and wheeled away, into the darkness.

In exchange, I watched the ten remaining ranchers take their crates and walk away into the night. Their pace was slow and each step felt heavy upon my soul.

I drew away from the barricade and slipped into our alcove. The only thing I could think to do was report my findings to Skull Fuck. He was a lot of things but I doubted even he could stomach profiteering off of slavery.

Yet, when I reached my slumbering comrades, I noticed that he was absent. And as I felt the coolness of his sleeping quarters, I realized he’d been gone for quite some time.

One question plagued me at that moment.

Would he really?

Weeks went by, and every couple of nights the story would play out again. A few ponies would be chained together and ferried onto a wagon, and in exchange, some ranchers were given a few crates of supplies.

I had attempted to voice my concerns but Skull Fuck had done nothing with them and ordered me to remain silent. His guilt seemed even more likely as I confirmed his absence during every single exchange.

Yet, I had not remained silent and instead performed the slow act of convincing my squad mates, managing to get each to witness the transaction, one after another.

Tonight, we all sat near the sandbags, with the obvious exception of our glorious leader, waiting for another deal to go down like clockwork.

Yet, tonight something was different. It was well into my watch and it wouldn’t be long before the first vestiges of daylight broke the horizon. However, the ranchers had still not arrived.

They always arrived every third night, yet they were now strangely absent.

Had they grown tired of the deal, or had they simply run out of chattel to trade for table scraps?

“Where are they?” Shooting Star grumbled, watching through her scope. “The militia looks worried.”

“Must’ve got tired of the deal,” United Front muttered. “Can’t be easy selling your wives and foals into slavery.”

“I still don’t understand why they’re doing it,” Berry Bunch grumbled.

“Desperation,” Shooting Star interjected. “There isn’t exactly a whole lot of food on their side of the border. And well, maybe they hope that they can get their kin a decent meal and safety from getting fragged by raiders.”

“Still isn’t right.”

“Never said it was.”

“Guys,” United Front whispered, tugging upon my coat. “Look over there.”

We looked out into the desert and saw the precession of torches approach.

“They’re late,” I muttered, feeling a certain unease settle in my gullet.

Like always, the militiaponies left their outpost to greet them. Their wagon was already in place and had been unloaded. The cargo waited in neat little rows as the wagon stood open, ready to receive another shipment of chattel.

For the first time, we even caught a glimpse of Skull Fuck, chatting with one of the militiaponies, confirming what we already knew.

It seemed like another deal was about to unfold.

Except, the four torches stopped a hundred meters out from their meeting spot.

An oppressive silence settled in place as everypony stood on edge.

Something wasn’t right here.

Somewhere, amongst the desert, a horn blew. And in that moment, the four torches were joined by dozens, no hundreds, no…

Thousands of little lights lit up the horizon, stretching onwards for kilometers in every direction.

United Front let out a hollow chuckle. “Well fuck.”

Somewhere in the distance, kilometers from our position, a rifle cracked.

And with that, we’d get to find out if a couple hundred rifles would really be enough.

Author's Note

My first attempt at a more serious FOE fic. I uh hope I did it right? Don't really know how I feel about such a comedy-free approach.

Also just to head off any political discussion. This was based off of the migration of Goths into the Eastern Roman Empire. I wasn't even thinking about modern day allegories.

Discord/Ko-Fi/Patreon/Twitter