Fallout Equestria: Hell

Hell. That's the only word I can use to describe the apocalyptic wasteland that was once Equestria. From the noxious pink cloud in Canterlot to the highly irradiated lands of Splendid Valley, and all manner of ungodly, unfathomable evils in between, the wasteland is hell. It tears your soul into tiny pieces and blows them away with winds and rain, pulling you to become more horrible than you could possibly imagine. My name is Staff Sergeant Appledrop, and I've made these recordings, these...memory orbs, to show you just how bad it is...or was.

I was born in a Stable, giant underground communities, designed to shield and protect those who were lucky enough to get into one. That was the hope, at least. Hope, heh, there’s a word you won’t find in the wasteland all too often. Anyway, I’m getting off track. Stable 46, that was my home until I was 6. You’d think that getting your cutie mark was a cause for celebration, but on the day I got my cutie mark, I was banished. Banished from my home, separated from my friends and family, left to fend for myself in the irradiated shithole that was once Stalliongrad; Mightiest land in all of Equestria. Or so they thought. But even at age 6, with my knowledge of arcane sciences and dark magic, I could survive. Hell, I didn’t know it when they threw me out, told me I was too dangerous for the stable, but I could.

I feel I need to explain myself here, about the dark magic, and how I learnt about it. Zebras used to have spells, enchantments, which had the power to heal or to destroy. Nopony knows where they got this magic, these…curses; all they know is that the Zebras chose the latter outcome. About 100 years ago, giant nuclear missiles fell upon all of Equestria, plunging the land into its darkest hour, engulfing ponies, zebras, dragons and all manner of other creatures in Balefire flames of brightest green and deepest yellow. Sure, we had shields and protections, but how long can a shield withstand hundreds of apocalyptic, death bringing missiles? Almost all of Equestria was annihilated. That’s the story we’re told.

Now that I’ve been around the wasteland, been through what some of you people couldn’t withstand for a fraction of the amount of time I have, I know that was a lie. The zebras weren’t the only ones at fault. Our largest flaw, the biggest blemish on the wool sheet our teachers call pre-apocalyptic Equestria, is that the zebras were the only ones to launch death and destruction upon their enemy.

Sure, Equestria may not have wiped out their entire race in the space of an hour, but I’ll be damned if they didn’t try. ‘The ministry of Morale’, that’s what they called it. Ironic, considering the ponies who worked there were the worst of all lying, cheating, stealing scumbags. They spied on their own citizens remorselessly, tearing memories painfully and forcefully from a witnesses mind before handing them over to the Shattered Hoof prison facility. Yeah, some morals they have there.

The Ministry of Image. It may not seem like something you would consider necessary in Equestria. All of our brightly coloured, multi-talented earth ponies, pegasi and unicorns should cover that right? Look more closely. Seen any news about the MoM lately? Seen any mention of zebras that isn’t negative? Heard of the atrocities going on behind our backs? Didn’t think so. The MoI was the biggest liar the world has ever seen. And the worst part? It was commissioned by Princess Luna herself. Our very own ruler decided to turn us against the zebras in the worst kind of ways, plunging the land into hatred and ignorance.

But all that doesn’t matter now, all those despicable ponies are long dead, and they deserve it. All…except one. Legend has it that Fluttershy, Ministry mare of the Ministry of Peace, wandered into the Everfree Forest, turned into a tree. To be perfectly honest, with some of the fucked up stuff I’ve seen in the wastes, I wouldn’t be surprised.

But like I said, that doesn’t matter now. What matters now is that ponies are dying. They’re out there, they’re fighting, and they’re dying. All over the land. Some of them are innocent bystanders, slewn by the raiders and slavers who seem to thrive on blood, gore, and violence. Some of them travellers, merchants, caught somewhere they shouldn’t be, butchered alive by the vicious Hellhounds that roam freely throughout the world. Most of them are heroes, trying to do good by themselves and by others. Marching into battle, trying to save at least a scrap of themselves, but getting torn apart by the wasteland itself.

Oh yes, the wasteland is alive. By some definition it’s alive. Whether it be the radiation which kills most, but heals few, or the constant rain, hammering down on your very being. The wasteland is your enemy and it is very much alive. But I’m rambling. Let’s get on to my first important memory, my banishment…