Fallout Equestria: The Aberditch Chronicles

Hundreds of miles beneath the surface of Equestria, a frail old earth pony with a finely-brushed, long grey mane and flimsy old cardigan hobbled through the doorway of a large office—assisted by the rubber bluff of her polished metal walking cane. Her tangerine eyes peered across the scattered amenities contained within the room. A desk, two chairs, several paintings, one locker. All of which only barely illuminated by the hauntingly-dim glow of sectored green ceiling lamps hovering over her head. The mare’s eyes travelled, then found their prize in the form of a lone computer terminal resting against the very back of the half-oval-shaped room. With a resigned huff, she trudged further inward to sit down in front of the blackened monitor, stabbing at the floor with her walking cane as she moved along.

Swirling currents of bitter air caressed her faded butterscotch coat, welcoming her to rest herself upon the stuffed fabric cushion of the chair as she reached the monitor. Then, with a rigorously-trembling hoof, she activated the terminal and selectively pecked away at the attached keyboard. A centuries-old audio recording appeared on-screen, radiating a soft basil light as it awaited further investigation. Cold circuits of contemplation, as well as a pre-existing notion, found newfound prominence in the foyer of her foggy mind—capturing her focus for a moment before she resolved to bring her hoof down on the keyboard one last time and play the message.

“Hello! My name is Scootaloo. If you’re listening to this message, it means...it means the worst has come to pass, and Equestria has been destroyed by zebra megaspells. Most of the population will have...damn it...most of the population will have perished in the initial blasts, and what wasn’t hit will have likely perished in the resulting radiation. You, however, have been spared this end and granted entry into one of our many patented stables.

As you may already know, stables are state-of-the-art safehouses that are designed to protect the ponies inside from anything on the outside that may pose a threat to their health or safety. This includes things like radiation, unauthorized intruders, and even a close-proximity megaspell detonation. Many Stables are what we like to call ‘Control Stables.’ These are your as-advertised shelters that protect and secure residents from the dangers of the outside world. On the other hoof, there are other Stables that are specifically designed to cater to long-term social experiments. We’ll call these “Experimental Stables.”

You see, here at Stable-Tec, we realize the importance of identifying our generation’s mistakes so that our descendants can live in safety and coexist in peace. We recognize the need to spend this time away from the surface finding a better way to live, so that this...never happens again, and we need your help to carry out our mission. Damn it, how the hell did it even come to this?”

The voice of Scootaloo went quiet for a moment—the pain having been clearly present in her tone. Shifting her gaze to the floor, the mare in attendance wiped a tear away from her brittle cheek as her heart filled with empathy for the former Vice President of Stable-Tec. Scootaloo’s voice eventually cut back in, but bearing a stark new heaviness that the mare knew could only come from a deeply shattered heart.

“Sorry. Believe it or not, I really am trying to stick to the script on this one. Getting...back on track here...it has been decided that you and your Stable will participate in one of these undisclosed social experiments. As Overmare, your duty will not only be to ensure the safe cohabitation of those living in your Stable, but also to see to it that your assigned program is effectively carried out. If at any time your program threatens the safety or continuity of the populace, you are to cease all participation and instead resort to Contingency-A, which you will find detailed in conjunction with this recording.

We here at Stable-Tec would like to thank you for your efforts in ensuring the longevity of our species, and...and for trusting us to keep you and your family safe. I...no you know what, to hell with the stupid script. Look, whoever ends up listening to this, I just want you to know I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I’m so sorry for all of this.

We weren’t bad ponies, you know. I mean yeah, we made our mistakes, and we definitely made a mess of things, but in the end we were just scared and...we never found our way out of the dark. I know that doesn’t amount to much, but if you could humor me, I want to ask you to do something. I want to ask you to do what I’ve already asked you to do...find a better way. Ponies deserve to be happy—they deserve to know the kind of peace and joy I knew as a little filly. Don’t stay underground forever. When it’s safe, go out into the world and fix what we broke. And don’t forget about us, please? We existed. We all tried, even if we failed. Just...don’t forget that we were here.”

Another brief silence subsided before Scootaloo’s voice cut back in. “Okay, yeah. That’s all I’ve got to say. Good luck, Overmare. Goodbye, and...thank you for trusting in Stable-Tec, I guess. May you all find the future ponies truly deserve.”

The basil light of the computer terminal blinked out, glowing a faded, dull grey. The mare sat completely still. She let out a long sigh, nerves shot, and steadied her breathing before finally looking up at the monitor—fear, sadness, and determination battling for emotional dominance.

“Maybe it’s time,” she whispered, shifting a little and letting her cardigan slip off to reveal the number fifty-four emblazoned on the back of meadow-green Stable barding.

With resolution in her heart, she got up from her chair and made her way out of the dark, ghostly, emerald-cast office. The door closed behind her. The air grew still, and the abandoned terminal shut off with one final click.

***

Stable Fifty-Four. To describe it as “not the friendliest place in Equestria” would be criminally understating just how horrible life was within that shelter’s color-coded corridors. So let me see if I can put this into perspective.

The first thing you ought to know is that there were three factions everypony in the Stable had a chance of being born into. Red Faction, Blue Faction, and Green Faction. Ponies had to absolutely despise and outperform those outside of their faction, and there was no being reassigned—which meant you could have very well been forced to hate your own mother if you weren’t fated to live in the same colored quarters. This didn’t happen often. The Overmare was usually pretty good about keeping families together, but if the faction in question had a bulging population, the foal would inevitably be separated from his or her parents “for the good of the stable.”

Outside of this, ponies assaulting ponies outside of their own factions—while not allowed under any Overmare’s rule, was something that happened all the damn time. So much so that security would often turn a blind eye to it unless you were about to outright kill somepony. Attack rates peaked during times of political unrest, so it was decided early-on in the stable’s lifespan that a curfew would be put in place to stop ponies from ambushing each other in the dead of night.

If you were to ask me what everypony had in common, regardless of their faction, I would say not much of anything. The only thing that really comes to mind is that we all had our own pipbuck...for reasons I’m still not quite sure of. You’ve probably seen them, out there in the Wastes, and if you haven’t? Well, I guess I can summarize them by saying pipbucks are clunky personal terminals worn around the forehoof that map the environment, tune into radio frequencies, manage your inventory, and activate the “Stable-Tec Arcane Targeting Spell—SATS for short.

The latter of these functions is where I came into the picture.

SATS was predominantly used by stable security to assist in combating criminals, when they could be bothered to do as much. My friends and I, however, used SATS to assist us in the stable soccer matches. I was on the adult mare’s team for Red Faction, and every match was a cathartic, high-octane thrill ride for me. The team was like a second family, and I made one lasting friendship through soccer that I treasured far beyond the gift of life itself. Unfortunately, the happiness that came from my athletics was heavily overshadowed by my life on the homefront—particularly by my father, the duly-elected Red Faction loyalty inspector.

It was his job to investigate claims of ponies going AWOL from their responsibilities to our scarlet pedigree. “Tilters,” was the colloquialism for them. He firmly believed that the faction was only as strong as it’s weakest link, and that those pulling everypony else down in one way or another should be made to pay for their transgressions. “Made to pay” meaning he’d pay a guard to keep his trap shut while he beat the shit out of the offender...and that was something I was expected to support. I was expected to meet every expectation, regardless of what it was, or what it entailed. I was, grotesquely enough, expected to be the example my father’s victims could learn to follow.

If I were to describe Stable Fifty-Four as being “not the friendliest place in Equestria,” I would be criminally understating just how horrible life was for just about everypony ever born there. A faction was a lifetime brand. Your pipbuck was next to impossible to get off without the proper tools. Not carrying your weight in responsibility came with severe consequences, and nopony could leave the stable under any circumstances. You were trapped, in every single way, and you were eventually going to die there.

At least that was the way of things, but everything changed the day somepony set forth a whole new apocalypse...and gave me the opportunity to stretch my wings.