Hunger.
You don’t think of it, not normally. You might get a little hungry around lunch, and think “Oh! It’s time to eat.” and off you trot to whatever cafe you and your friends have decided is the best spot for casual chit chat, maybe some flirting with a cute waiter. You don't really think about the emptiness in your stomach, all those fluids roiling around in on themselves with nothing to digest. True hunger isn't something usually experienced in modern Equestrian society.
Pity that Equestrian society ended a year ago.
Dutchie stood, cracking her spine. Her body ached and cramped from sleeping on a bed that was sagging to the floor, the springs and stuffing bursting through decayed seams. She ran her tongue over what was left of her teeth, feeling the morning gunk that had built up overnight. She grimaced at the taste in her mouth, searching her bag for a small bottle of water. Washing her mouth with pure water would be wasteful, so irradiated foulness spread across her tongue, hastening the painful breakdown of her teeth.
She sighed, staring out the windows at what had once been a small but bustling community, flourishing under a watchful noble eye. Some would have called it a backwater town, but it had its own charm. They had been sent here on some errand or another, a mission from Lady Rarity. A whisper here, a rumor there, a dash of poison in the right tea cup, and that Noble's little empire would have slowly collapsed in on itself, leaving the land ripe for the pickings of another rich pony to take over. A favour, Lady Rarity had said. One bad noble removed, a better put in his place. Dutchie snorted. A favour, bought and paid for by that so called better noble. She knew how it worked. The ultimate quid pro quo on a scale most couldn't dream of, and her squad was the shadows that moved on behalf of the broker.
Her squad. Tears would have filled her eyes, but they had long since dried in this arid wasteland of crumbling buildings and faintly glowing snow. She had come here only with one other, her beautiful friend who she had watched burn in an uncontrollable green fire which had rained from the skies. All that had remained was the dirty pink hat she always wore, which Dutched Cocoa now jammed down on her head. She had to go out today, the next town over. She had run out of food a month ago, but a band of wandering ponies had kept her trapped in this little village. They would come at night, screaming with radiation induced madness, seeking out survivors to torture or indoctrinate into their herd, taking the last of the food and water. It was amazing that it had taken less than a year for ponies to turn on each other after the sky had filled with bombs. Where helping and friendship would have rebuilt communities, instead the anxiety and fear that flourished during the war had tipped over, spilling across the land and engulfing ponies in its wake.
She was nothing but skin and bones after a month of no food, her once rich black and white coat now patchy and bare over her ribs. It was over this last month she had come to understand that as hard as her life had been before she was employed by Lady Rarity, she had never truly known what it was like to face starvation. Her stomach had stopped rumbling long ago, and now it was just a constant hollow feeling, an emptiness that cramped and gnawed at the edges of her mind. Dutchie didn’t have much in the way of fat reserves in the first place, she had always been thin, and now her body was weak in ways she hadn’t experienced before. Every movement was an effort, every moment spent hiding. The monsters that came at night had taken the rest, house by house, shop by shop. Now she had to move, get to the next town. Find food. Live.
Daybreak. Time to go. Stealthily she moved through the ruined streets, the ground pockmarked by debris that had rained down from above so long ago. Placing her hooves carefully so as to not dislodge any rubble, she moved slowly. The morning was cold against her raw skin, ashy snowflakes falling gently from the ever present blanket of clouds. She could hear the ponies, if they could even be called that now, at the edge of the town. It was like they never slept, but they wouldn’t go far from their camp while it was bright out. They were talking and laughing about something, she could smell their campfire. Good, that meant she was downwind. They wouldn’t smell her own stench, unwashed body and infected wounds. She kept moving, she would have to go close to them in order to get around the lake that the town was bordering. From there she could slip into the leafless woods, her dark coat would help to meld her body with the shadows.
One hoof in front of the other. One breath, stop, allow the shakes to pass, then next hoof. She could hear the fire crackling, and their conversation was becoming more distinct. They were talking about their breakfast, commenting on how juicy it was. Dutchie paused, her hunger stirring within her. The hollow feeling, once able to be ignored, now began to awaken, twisting and cramping. Her mouth began to water. Juicy? What could possibly be juicy a year after the world ended? Creeping forward, she peered over a wall at the flames in the hazy morning light. There was something on the fire, a spit being turned. Squinting against the glare, she watched the juices fall from the lump of food, sizzling against the coals. She began to shake, fixated upon the food. Something flopped down as the spit turned, waving to her in slow motion. Waving, like a...hoof. It was a pony. They were eating part of a pony! Disgust and revulsion overtook her hunger, but only briefly, only as long as it took for the wind to change and blow the scent of cooked meat her way. She had never eaten meat, ponies were vegetarians. But she hadn’t eaten in so long. So very long. It smelled savoury and sweet, like hot coals and fried apple skin. The shaking had stopped, and her horrified mind began to imagine sinking her teeth into the cooked lump of meat, tearing it away and drinking the blood inside, the fat coating her lips in a glossy sheen. She tried to shake her head to clear the unholy thoughts, but a fresh wave of the scent of cooking washed over her, pulling her vision into a tunnel. Ethics be damned, food was food.
Three ponies lay about the fire, discussing their breakfast. One had a leg or something and was waving it about, the others throwing bones into the flames. Dutchie could see them, smell them. She was weak, so weakened from hunger. In her prime she could have taken them all down, but now, she would have to be cunning. The smell of roasted meat filled her mind, and she was off running, racing towards the flames, cunning plans discarded in the desperation for sustenance. The hat of her beloved friend slipped from her head unnoticed. Shouts rang in her ears, but she was faster than them. Hunger spurred her hooves, casting the weakness aside. She leaped through the fire, grabbing the meat in her teeth. It was hot, burning her mouth, the heat singer her hooves, but she didn’t stop. She kept sprinting, the fatty juices running across her tongue in a tantalising and delightful torture. Swallowing against her own drool, Dutchie jumped on top of the caravan of the ponies, staring down at them. Weapons were aimed at her, but she didn’t care. She had food. Real, actual, hot food that tasted surprisingly good. Any queasiness she felt at the knowledge that this had once been a living, breathing pony vanished under the heavy flavours attacking her tongue. Hunkering down, she teared at the crispy skin, relishing the feelings of chewing and swallowing.. The ponies below fired a few shots into the air, and began to rock the caravan, shouting abuse and threats. She didn’t care, her mind, her soul, her very body, was consumed by the taste of the pony.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, what was left of the decent pony she used to be began to scream.
