Fallout: Equestria - Parallelism

"We should have taken our transport," 'Berry', or Lemon Star, complains over the radio, watching the perimeter while I try to bring Bear to his senses. "Your wreck is breaking down every hour. At this rate, we won't make it to the mountains today."

"Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?" I ask, and I levitate my tools and periodically work my magic on the failed parts of the transport. There are too many breakdowns. Too many worn out parts. There's only one good thing about all these repairs: training my repair magic.

"No. But if delays can be avoided, why not?"

I don't answer.

It's just me and Lemon on this reconnaissance mission. She only took me on the mission. I've never been able to get a coherent answer as to why it's just the two of us in this romantic setting. Something about my unicorn abilities, my experience breaking into a Stable, my magical repair and hacking skills that would come in handy when exploring Stables, being able to sense the flows of magic, thereby detecting magical traps, and so on.

To the northeast of the base and southeast of Vanhoover rises a mountain range called the White Shell. According to the Steel Rangers Intelligence, it is known that a Stable is located somewhere there. If its exact coordinates are not known, I understand the information was found in some old note, letter, or terminal of pre-war citizens of Equestria. For example, they got the news that they finally got a place in one of Stables, and they naturally wanted to share this wonderful news with family and friends.

The Steel Rangers sent scouts to this placer of mountains repeatedly, but to no avail. Lemon assumed she would be the lucky one.

As I understand it, the White Shell scouting is only done in the summer. Because this is the time of year when there is not much snow in the mountains, and in winter there are solid, feet-long snow drifts, it is physically impossible to pass through them. Unless, of course, you know the spell of snow walking. Constant snowstorms, the temperature is always below freezing. You get snowed in on a hike at a time like this... and that's it, you don't thaw until spring.

Eh...

How much longer do I have to fix you, eh?

I poke irritably into one of the cylinders with a screwdriver.

I'm already bored, and repairs will take some more time. What should I talk to Lemon about? She's the Star Paladin of the local chapter of the Steel Rangers. She knows a lot. She won't give me secret information, but she should be aware of the big picture.

"Lemon, can I ask you some questions?"

"It's a free wasteland. Ask away," she also answers over the radio. "I'm sick of staring at your tail anyway."

"Just the tail?"

"Everything else is hidden under the cloak and armor."

"You'd better watch the perimeter."

"Stop being afraid. My armor tracking sensors are powerful. It's just you and me here... I almost forgot. Make a habit of saying my nickname outside the base, not saying my real name."

"Understood, accepted, processed."

Her armor sensors, however, are impressive. Not to mention that in addition to the aforementioned sensors, her armor is also equipped with a high-frequency radio capable of transmitting signals over long distances.

I asked Steel Rangers for parts and components so I could build a radio in my helmet. I didn't remove the old one, just attached this module to it. I would try to modify the Pip-Boy, but that would be dangerous. That would require changing all of its guts, and I can't take that risk, since the implants and the stealth-field generator depend on it working properly. He's already partially transformed as it is. I'm afraid I might mess something up if I start messing with him. I'll have to use the local PipBuck... I wish I'd brought one with me from the Stable 44.

Speaking of radio frequencies. Lemon informed me that somewhere in the mountains north of Vanhoover is a huge tower that creates a kind of dome around the Vanhoover region. It is a mixture of magic and radio waves that blocks signals from the outside, and also prevents signals from spreading beyond it.

The Vanhoover Jammer Tower.

The Steel Rangers do not know the original purpose of this tower. According to Lemon, the tower had a very different purpose. The tower is under the control of Vanhoover, Prince, Kings, and the Five Families.

"Why would Prince have created some sort of dome blocking incoming and outgoing radio waves?"

"No idea. Maybe he wants as small numbers of ponies as possible to know what's going on here."

"And what's so special about that?" I ask.

"Well... Prince wants to control everything. Trying to eliminate potential dangers as early as possible."

"So why hasn't he eliminated you yet?"

"He can't handle us," Lemon laughs.

"And vice versa."

"Yes..." she sighs.

"Will you tell me about the most interesting and dangerous places in the Vanhoover Wasteland?"

"Of the significant places: the Crater, Stable 66, and Green Island."

"The Crater? Is that where a megaspell exploded?"

"That's the name of the affected area that includes the ruins of Red Spark. It's located northeast of Vanhoover, right at the hoof of the northern mountains."

"What's Red Spark?"

"A pre-war town, second largest after Vanhoover. There's a river running through it on the mountain side, dividing it into two parts. Vanhoover's masters have robbed and explored many small prewar towns and villages in the vicinity. They slaughtered a lot of the scum and various mutants that were there. So the raiders went to the ruins of Red Spark. Because of the radiation, the overwhelming majority of the masters, and Steel Rangers, don't stick their necks out there.

The radiation scares away many marauders, with the exception of ghouls. The lack of marauders, I think, is what attracted the raiders to the city. Lots of warehouses with pre-war food. But they will pay a big price for that. Eventually most of them will become ghouls because of the radiation doses. I suspect that underground rooms like sewers and drains are home to a large number of wild ghouls, whose ranks are joined by raiders. All in all, a dangerous ecosystem has formed there.

"Can't you handle the radiation and the raiders?"

"Hardly. There are several reasons for that. The radiation levels there allow us to stay safely in and around the ruins, the power armor will provide us with adequate protection, but the bottom line is that the place is like a labyrinth. The shock wave of the megaspell caused almost all the buildings to collapse, piling up many of the streets and forming a labyrinth of sorts. "

Ah, so that's it... Heavy infantry like Steel Rangers are hard to come by. It's easy to get lost in the ruins, and then there's the raiders, who must be holed up in the surviving buildings, shooting everything that moves but their own... Well, most of the time. A real hornet's nest. If the Steel Rangers openly go in there, they'll be shot out of every building like radcrackers. With a plan of the ruins of Red Spark, they could sneak through that labyrinth and hit them hard.

And yet...

"If the raiders can easily penetrate your armor with their shitty weapons..."

"It's not that simple," Lemon interrupts me. "These raiders are heavily armed. They cleaned out Red Spark's armory. They're not all as good with armor as they are with guns, but try hitting them. They also know those places like their four hooves. Lots of secret passages. Can attack from any corner and window, go around and surround us.'

"So every raider is a well-armed foe, and they're also helped by their surroundings?" I ask angrily.

"Yeah... Raiders have no clear hierarchy or order, so you have to try harder to run into an organized group. Experienced raiders with good equipment and knowledge form a gang of weaker raiders and try to keep them in line. Sometimes these gangs roam the Wasteland in search of victims and caravans of slave masters from the farms and mines. Some groups band together for the sake of more successful attacks on larger caravans."

"I think," I begin, "it's fun to watch them fight each other over their prey later."

"Only if they can do it, because the guards, mostly griffons, are no strangers to attacks. But lately, attacks on one family's caravans have increased. Caravans are mostly attacked by skilled groups of raiders. Their organization has improved too much in the last couple of months, which has worried the Five Families."

And Lemon can get into long monologues. Tells everything in such detail, and with explanations, too. It's not bad at all, it's just... unusual for her to be so open with me.

"Then why don't they raise a small army and knock the raiders out of Red Spark if they're beginning to pose a threat?"

"They certainly can, and their losses will be many times less than ours, but they're too much lazy. Besides, if I were them, I'd try to find out why they're organized first, and then act. Vanhoover has everything: food, water, electricity, strong walls, drugs, entertainment and cheap sex. They don't intend to risk their necks, much less with their newly increased efficiency."

"And they're just sitting around waiting for intel?"

"Well... I suspect Prince has sent someone out on reconnaissance. Also, from observation, extra resources have been allocated to make sure all the goods are transported across the railroad tracks."

"So why hasn't the city switched to rail transportation from the beginning?"

"Fuel. It's needed to run the heavy haulers. Since everything revolved around coal—it even started the war with the zebras over it—before the war, several instances of heavy haulers were created that used gems, of which there were plenty in Equestria. The Five Families had depleted all the supplies of the mine they had found. They began to grow new gems, but there aren't enough of them to use the train all the time, and on top of that there are many other areas of the city that use gems... not to mention infrastructure."

"Is there an energy problem in Vanhoover?"

"Only with gems. Electricity, as well as water, is extracted from the dam to the north."

"What about trains that run solely on electricity?"

"Nothing is known yet."

Perhaps Prince doesn't want his city to be dependent in any area on anyone else, so he's severed ties with the outside world. Problems do indeed abound here, as I see it.

"Tell me about the Stable 66."

"The Mysterious Stable is northeast of Vanhoover, a few miles west of Red Spark."

"Mysterious?"

"Those who entered this Stable were never seen again," Lemon says grimly.

Wow, that's the coldest and most fear-filled tone I've ever heard from her.

"Ooh..." I howl long and jokingly, from under the hood of Bear. "How scary."

"This isn't a joke!" Lemon yells.

She clearly has something to do with that place. It might be a sore subject for her personally. I shouldn't have made that joke.

"I'm sorry," I say.

I hear a deep and bitter sigh over the radio.

"Let me tell you something. About eighty years ago, this Stable was discovered. The Vanhoover masters and the Steel Rangers tried to explore it, but those who crossed the Stable never returned. Communication with our Steel Rangers who had gone there to explore was cut off as soon as they crossed the threshold of the underground shelter, and they were never seen again. After our unsuccessful attempts to penetrate it, Vanhoover's masters undertook to explore it. The same thing happened to them as to Steel Rangers—they never returned. Since then there have been fewer and fewer attempts to infiltrate this grim place."

"Yet there were always brave and enthusiastic individuals who attempted to infiltrate alone.... and no one else saw them?"

"Yes... Almost twenty years ago, the Steel Rangers attempted to infiltrate again, sending fifteen of our experienced brothers and sisters... no one ever returned," Lemon's voice nearly breaks at the last words.

"Were there any ponies close to you among them?" I ask, distracted from the mending. I focus my attention.

"Yes. My parents were in that unit."

There is a brief pause—it feels like the wind has died down around us. I've never seen Lemon depressed or at least sad in the time we've known each other.

"I'm sorry again—I really didn't mean to rub salt in your wound," I say in a guilty tone.

"It's okay. You didn't know what the Stable meant to me," she inhales deeply and then exhales to calm down and go on about this painful subject for her.

"Maybe if it's hard for you to talk about it, then..."

"No, it's okay," Lemon interrupts me quietly. "What was also strange was that when this Stable was first discovered, the main doors were not locked with any kind of cipher or code. However, the inhabitants of Stable 66 and even the overalls with two sixes on the back were not found around."

"A strange Stable indeed," I pondered aloud. The main doors are unlocked, hence the inhabitants must have come out to the surface. Either someone had discovered it before and managed to crack the cipher, but there are only a handful of such hacking experts. "Tell me about Green Island."

There's still a little bit left... I almost fixed it, Bear.

"Green Island, or just The Island, is very close to the shores of Vanhoover, about half a mile away, and the only way into its territory is over a surviving highway bridge. This island is remarkable because its vegetation is extremely tall and highly concentrated."

"In low temperatures and frost, is that impossible?" I ask.

"In part. The point is that the plant species found there are not adapted to the cold conditions—and after all, half the island lies in a perpetual layer of snow, even though it's a mostly mountainous part..."

"And what was the island before the apocalypse?"

"A tourist reserve, a zoo, if you will, for rare animal species. A second megaspell fell on it... You see where I'm going with this?"

"I can imagine," I answer understandingly. But radiation alone couldn't have caused so many mutations on its own, especially ones this strong. I can say with certainty that there was something else there.

Reserve to the east, the one the griffons have now taken up, fleeing the Enclave's surprise attack on the remnants of their kingdom. Its vegetation could not be due to radiation alone. There can't be two coincidences in a row.

"Green Island is teeming with dangerous creatures," Lemon continues, "but hunters are not deterred by this, for them the island is a hunting ground, rich in meat, all sorts of pelts, and just a sporting pastime. Just over the bridge connecting Vanhoover and the island is a small pre-war town, Phoenix Threshold."

"What is Phoenix Threshold like now?"

"A pre-war township. It's a safe zone, but when you step outside its walls, be prepared for either a pack of wild animals or dangerous insects to jump on you. And not just big insects..."

"Been there?"

"No, and I don't recommend it to you. I only know from intelligence that there are several kinds of small insects that can paralyze you just by stinging you. There are also poisonous ones. So you'd better not have any open spots on your body—otherwise, if you're traveling alone, you're screwed."

"You said a megaspell fell there. Is it full of radiation?"

"The northern part is pretty high, where there are mountains and snowdrifts. You can only get through the drifts in places where the vegetation is stronger than a thick layer of snow. Griffons sometimes explore this island from the air, but because of the dense vegetation it is difficult for them to see anything, almost impossible. The vegetation..." Lemon snorts. "There are even predatory plants there that will grab and drag you into their jaws with their huge vines."

"Interesting..." I mutter. Green Island really is a dangerous place.

Hunting plants? Small but dangerous insects? Many varieties of predators? Mutations?

"So all these places are not worth going into?" I ask, thinking about the opposite. Oh, every one of these places makes me want to take at least one look... There's just too much to look at. Perhaps this place interests me even more than Reserve with griffons.

"Only if you want to kick back. In fact... Stay out of that Stable."

"Why should you care?"

"Not that I care, but you seem like a nice pony: sensible, not insensitive, considering that besides our brothers we're surrounded by nothing but lazy and gluttonous slave-masters who only think about satisfying their own primal needs. I don't like it when good ponies just die like that."

"Hmm," I hum, smiling. And I sigh heavily, remembering my past filled with crazy events. "I can't promise anything in this matter. I am too curious. Twenty-seven years I haven't betrayed myself in this."

I've almost finished the engine. Just a few more moments and it's done.

"How you ever managed to live to this age... It's unbelievable."

"What, I almost caught up with you being so reckless?"

"You're five years behind me..." she says and hushes, as if she's starting to regret what she said.

"You're thirty-two years old?"

"Well, yeah... why?" Lemon replies in a wary and slightly embarrassed tone.

"You're pretty young for the Star Paladin."

"Worked hard. Thank you. So, if you're more judicious, you might live to be my age."

"Life should be fulfilling. Why would I want such an old age?"

The heavy metal hood drops sharply onto my helmet. My head jingles from the impact, I barely manage to keep my legs on the ground, but I still bend from the weight coming at me and almost hug my chest against the old and worn out engine. All of this is accompanied by a painful groan and a long 'fu-u-u-uck'.

I doomfully sigh.

I guess... I shouldn't piss Lemon off and make jokes about her age, especially when I'm in a vulnerable state.

***

After a few hours of travel, we decide to make a stop at one of the abandoned houses in the tourist town, as evidenced by the 'car graveyard'—numerous trailers and other abandoned moving vehicles standing rusty empty caricatures of themselves; their important parts were long ago stolen by enterprising skillful ponies. From here, tourists were on their way to view the beauty of the snow-capped mountains of White Shell.

The idea to slow down here was suggested by Lemon, who said that even though it is summer, there is a strong hurricane in the mountains at night, which can cause an avalanche or a rockfall that bury my Bear. The best tactic in such conditions is to walk or drive during the day when there is no snowstorm. Already from here I can see a layer of snow in the mountains. Even though this road is difficult—not everyone will overcome all the trials of the way—but the night snowstorms cover the tracks so well that no expert, even with a microscope, can detect them. Therefore, these mountains are an excellent place to hit the trail. It's worth noting that hard, perennial snow lies only within the mountain range, and the road to the mountains leads higher and higher... this is good and to some extent encouraging, as dangerous predators are rarely found among the rocks, but even here we should not let our guard down.

The one-story wooden tourist cabin we occupy has nothing but old furniture, cool air, and a creaking wooden floor covered with age-old dust. There's also a fireplace with a thick layer of dust, meaning no one has lit it since the war.

I set up makeshift alarms in the vicinity in the form of old tin cans and grenade traps... a grenade in the shape of apple. Still can't get used to this shape of grenades in this world.

I sit down on the broken couch—it's strange that it didn't fall apart completely as soon as I sat down on it. Lemon finds an old abandoned mattress in the corner and looks at me with an expression asking if I want to sleep on the mattress. I reply that comfort is needed for a mare. She takes this as an insult, saying that mares think only of themselves, demand royal comfort in all situations, and throws a small wooden desk at me. I manage to slide down from the couch just in time, and the table flies just above his back and hits the wall behind him, breaking one of the legs. I get up and look behind the couch, at the just-damaged furniture, and slowly turn my head toward Lemon.

"What you've done? You've ruined such a consummate work of art. You can't even properly aim. If you want to throw things, why don't we have a pajama party and have a pillow fight?" I mumble ironically.

"I don't mind, but there aren't any pillows here that I'd stuff bricks in for... more fun," the Star Paladin replies with a chuckle.

"If you want to sleep with bedbugs, be my guest," I say, settling down on the couch and opening a packet of potato chips. I don't take my eyes off the way Lemon is about to pull the mattress out of the corner. "You move the mattress, fall asleep on it, and in the morning you find yourself lying on the mattress in the same corner you took it from. Bedbugs don't like a change of environment, you know."

"There can't be that many..." Lemon mutters confidently, turning over the mattress, which turns out to be full of moving little bugs underneath. Apparently, it's not just bedbugs. An abrupt pause indicates that she has clearly regretted her confidence.

"Look what you've done!" I exclaim with feigned indignation. "You have destroyed the only shelter for these small and peaceful creatures. You're a monster!"

"Very funny," Lemon says, flipping the mattress back to its original position. "I'd rather take a nap on the floor."

"Totally agree. For you'll break the couch if you sit on it," I smile as I keep prodding her. Her head turns slowly and menacingly in my direction. I can swear that her gaze says 'Do you want to get punched in the teeth?' Then, without taking off her armor, as if she had forgotten all her worries, she lies down beside the couch and falls asleep. Apparently, she was so tired that she forgot to turn off the speaker in her helmet—a few minutes later I hear her lightly snoring. Ah, the careless soul.

Having finished my chips, I also, without taking off my armor, spread out my sleeping bag, put my gear next to it and lie down. It's so soft and cozy... The last thing I hear before I fall into a sleep is the sound of a storm in the mountains outside. The thought of it makes me huddle in my sleeping bag, as if I wanted to hide in a warm place from the storm.

***

The 22nd of the Month of Bread, Redday. Thirty-second day of my stay.

I wake up and look at the Pip-Boy—I've been asleep for eight hours, no less. Turning my head toward Lemon, I see that she is still dozing. That might seem strange, considering she's sleeping on the cool wooden floor. I smile weakly. It's very simple—it's not cold in the power armor, the internal systems keep it warm.

I roll over onto my back and contemplate the rotten ceiling, realizing after a while that it disgusts me to look at it: a gross sight. Just as I'm about to stand up, I hear Lemon's power armor servos start up.

"Morning," she says lazily, yawning.

"Likewise. How about some breakfast? We've got a tough wander in the mountains ahead of us."

From the SUV, I bring food to the lodge, as well as a bottle of berry juice left over from the griffons of Reserve.

I drink the whole cup.

"Want some?" I ask, seeing that Lemon's head is turned in my direction longer than usual. "'Berry' is going to drink berry juice?"

Lemon barely audibly chuckles, but shakes her head.

"Why?"

"Well... I just don't want to..."

"Then why did you keep looking at me while I was drinking?"

"No, really. I don't want to."

Her voice sounded kind of... insecure. Embarrassed. It's like she doesn't want to answer like that, but somehow she has to. Maybe she's afraid I'm trying to poison her.

I defiantly pour myself another cup, and drink.

"You sure you don't want one?"

"No..."

"Come on... what's confusing you? That I might poison you?"

"What?" her voice sounds genuinely surprised. So I was wrong about the poisoning.

"Then... why don't you want to?"

"I don't want to take my helmet off... in front of you."

Oh... There's no way I was expecting that. I don't even know what to think.

"What are you afraid of?"

"That you..." she sighed heavily, "will look at me with contempt."

"Well... Yeah, most ponies look at Steel Rangers with contempt. Taking technology away from those who need it. Fucking with toasters."

She laughs awkwardly.

"No, that's not what I mean..."

"Then what do you mean?"

Her head lowers. She sits in silence, apparently looking at her power-armored front hooves.

"Promise you won't laugh?" she asks without raising her head.

"I'll bet my horn I won't."

Lemon laughs. After hesitating for a few seconds, she raises her hooves to her helmet, turns it around. It makes a barely audible click. Flanking the helmet with her front legs, she lifts it up. The green hair of her mane reveals itself from underneath it... yellow fur... and slightly chubby cheeks.

Oh... I've seen her... On the way out of the Discharger of their bunker. She still disappeared out of sight with embarrassment.

Now her green eyes are avoiding the direct gaze. They move sideways slightly, and her lips are pressed tightly together. She gives the impression that she is ready to turn off the weight-reduction matrix in her power armor and fall through the wooden floor.

"Oh... so you and I met when you weren't wearing your armor."

"Yeah..." she says awkwardly, still avoiding a direct look.

She looks... pretty cute. I don't even know why I think so. As I pointed out earlier, she's a long way from the residents of Tenpony Tower in terms of being overweight. But she clearly stands out from her physically fit 'brothers and sisters'. At least in her face. Her rounded cheeks and... that confused look make her extraordinarily cute.

"Yes, yes," she continues. Her voice is thin and quiet, like it's about to crack. "The Star Paladin of the Steel Rangers, what should be a role model, is... a fat barrel."

"I've been to a place... full of chubby ponies. You'd still have to eat a carload of sweet buns and do not move to outgrow them."

She smiles awkwardly and lowers her gaze.

"You know..." I say, and she looks up at me with interest. Lemon seems so fragile now... One wrong move or word and she'll shatter.

The fact that she takes her extra weight so personally tells me that she gained it recently and is not used to the way someone looks at her.

"You know..." I go back to the beginning, as I am lost in thought. "It makes me want to hug you for some reason. Such a cutie."

"Fat cutie..." she says and turns away.

"I just wonder how you managed to stay the Star Paladin with your..."

"...size?" she finishes the sentence for me. "I've relied more on brains than combat before, but I've kept my form within limits. This... happened recently. About a year ago. I overcame some kind of viral disease, which caused my thyroid gland to malfunction; I gained weight in a short period of time after that. The doctors have diagnosed the disease, but the therapy takes a very long time... And the Elder knows all this."

"Hm... So why are you embarrassed? You're obviously not the problem. Literally a problem with your thyroid has caused you to gain weight."

"Yeah... You're right, but still... A lot of ponies don't realize that. They mistakenly assume that I've neglected myself and I'm not taking care of myself. Every time I have to explain... I'm tired. Tired of seeing their contemptuous looks. Ashamed in front of my husband... ".

Now I understand why she prefers to hide behind her helmet, why she spends her meals apart from the others. She is uncomfortable among her own and...

Oh...

I think I understand now why she chose to go on a scouting expedition only with me. I didn't know she was overweight at the time, so she thought she looked like a respected member of the Steel Rangers in my eyes. So it is easier for her to be in my company, even though I am a stranger.

"Well... now you know..." she turned away bashfully. "I shouldn't have shown my face. I shouldn't have done that. I wish you hadn't seen me..."

I rise to my feet, walk up to her, and, looking into her surprised eyes, put my hooves around her neck. Releasing my embrace, I look up at her.

"I feel I respect you more now," I say.

"Uh-oh. Uh... W-why?"

"I can see that it's important to you, and yet I'm not afraid to tell you about it. That's strong."

Her lips stretch into an awkward smile again.

"Thank you... I... I didn't even think you'd be so... so understanding about it."

"Should I have acted differently? Besides, being overweight is a sign of affluence in the Wasteland."

"Right..."

"So... now I don't know if I can offer berry juice with your health."

I give her a new and clean cup, pour the juice in it, and bring it to her lips.

"Yes, I'm allowed. Thank you," she says and opens her mouth. I bring the cup closer, and she wraps her lips around its edge. The blue magic of my telekinesis lifts and tilts the cup, and the bittersweet liquid pours into her mouth. She begins to gently swallow. She looks at me furtively with strange eyes. She sincerely enjoys the drink. She likes it.

The look in her green eyes. The whole thing is... It feels strange. There's a sense of impropriety about what's going on. No, there's nothing wrong with giving a mare juice. It's the way I'm giving it to her right now. This moment feels so... intimate.

Why did I do it this way in the first place? Why am I holding a cup for her?

I also think her cheeks are flushed.

Lemon's soft lips release the cup, and she licks her lips with an embarrassed look.

"It's delicious... I've never tasted such yummy stuff before. Will you give me some more later?"

"And present the cup to your lips the same way?" I ask, restraining my desire to smile.

"Well... Not necessarily," she smiles awkwardly, looking away. I notice out of the corner of my eye that her rump and hind legs seem to twitch slightly.

I quickly shift my gaze to the wooden wall of the cabin behind her. I hope she hasn't noticed that I've been paying attention to her twitching rump. It looks extremely... No, I don't want to think about it. I'd rather focus on something else.

"Now we can have breakfast," I say.

I pull out my provisions: jerky, tomatoes, a can of corn. I offer Lemon something from my kit. She agrees to the can of corn. Before I have time to eat my piece of meat, Lemon has already eaten half of it.

The wind whistles—an apple-shaped object flashes before my eyes. A hot apple.

The devil!

I toss away the piece of half-eaten meat and manage to jump over the couch; there is an explosion. I hope it didn't hit Lemon. I peek out from behind the couch and look at her: she's not hurt. She was just caught in the shockwave, judging by the angry face smeared with the contents of the can of corn.

"Lemon, this is no time to take rejuvenating vegetable masks," I say, picking up my helmet and putting it on. I hide near the window, trying to look out and assess the situation. "It's about time we let our guard down," I add reproachfully. Then I look at my compass—about six red marks.

"What the f..." a voice comes from outside; there's an explosion.

The tin cans clang wildly, the shockwave blows the last remnants of glass out of the windows, someone's torn leg flies in through the window and lands on the floor with a nasty smack, and something strikes the door with a thud and enormous force—the dust rises near the walls.

One of the three grenade tripwires has gone off as the bandits decide to see if the blast killed us. One down. Five to go.

I look out the window: the grenade tore one raider—it was her leg—and her own mutilated body flew onto our door. The second raider, wounded, crawls away, leaving a dark red trail behind her. After a few seconds, she breathes out from heavy blood loss. The others take cover behind old cars and trailers.

Correction. Four to go.

It's lucky there's no magical fuel left in those cars, or there'd be a big goddamn explosion.

At that moment, Lemon takes shelter under a nearby window. As soon as we try to look out, bullets and curses fly at us, with something about necrophilia in them.

"They're behind the cars."

"I see them," Lemon replies, ducking his head with me after the volley. "Use a grenade. You're more accurate than I am."

She pulls a grenade from the compartment of her armor and throws it to me: I catch the 'apple', pull off the pin, and toss it into the rusted trailer where the raider is hiding. His panicked screams are heard, he tries to react: he runs away, but the explosion catches him, wounding him badly, and he is now incapacitated.

There are three left.

The confusion sown allows me to grab Whispering Night and activate the thermal imager; I look out the window and activate the VATS. Time slows down as if it stops altogether. I aim at the raiders' figures, specifically their heads.

One raider gets the top of his skull blown off. The second, with a leather headdress made from the skin of some animal, the bullet hits the eye hole and goes right through. The last third pony gets a bullet through the top of her head as she tilts it in my direction, hiding behind cover.

Large caliber sniper rifles do terrible things.

"Done," I say, hearing only the lazy rustle of the wind.

"Let's check it out," Lemon replies.

I carefully look around for danger and check my compass. Without anyone noticing, I am the first to leave the house. I hear a distant rumble, and almost at the same moment I am greeted by a bullet in my right shoulder, piercing my armor and tangentially passing over my shoulder; the bullet tears off not only some of my armor, but also my skin.

"Fuck!" I howl in pain.

The force of the shot makes me fall to the wooden floor. Lemon doesn't hesitate to drag me back into the house: just in time, because in the next instant a second bullet hits where I was lying, leaving a huge hole in the wooden floor...

The pain is intense and searing as hell.

"Are you okay?" Lemon asks worriedly, gazing for a second at the hole left by the bullet.

"Alive..." I say, gritting my teeth in pain. How unbearable it is!

"You need medical attention!"

"Really?" I say through gritted teeth. Speaking and thinking are difficult. "You'd.... better make.... sure you.... don't get shot. I'll... take care of myself..."

"What about you?"

"Watch... your... own ass!" I almost scream in pain. "He think... I am dead."

"Not if he shot you a second time."

While Lemon tries to divert sniper fire without getting hurt, I self-medicate. The searing and sharp pain makes it hard to use telekinesis, but I still reach in and inject myself with a dose of the painkiller. I feel like I missed a bit. Fucking pain!

The pain gradually subsides. It does not disappear completely, of course, but it already allows me to control my thoughts and actions.

I remove the element of armor on my shoulder and treat the wound with disinfectants, and then drink a strong healing potion. A pleasant warmth spreads through my body; I feel a burning sensation around the wound and a tingling sensation. The potion begins to take effect. In a few minutes, the wound is almost healed: the potion has worked, stopping the bleeding and slightly repairing the skin. All that was left is a nagging pain, which is not the first time I've had to endure it. The regenerating implant would eventually heal the wound completely. There should be no scar left.

Only a 50 MG bullet could penetrate my armor with such ease and force. Apparently, it was the local equivalent that wounded me. No wonder I didn't catch the enemy, considering how far a anti-materiel rifle reaches its target.

"How's the combat and political situation?" I ask, looking toward Lemon, hiding by the window and occasionally firing off the energy-magic weapon on the back of her power armor.

"Stagnant for now," she answers, panting, constantly changing her position at the window. "Apparently, after firing two shots, he has moved elsewhere," she adds. "Since the bullets flew at different angles. He keeps changing his position, and so do I, and my compass can't get a fix on him at all—he's too far away. So I run back and forth!" Lemon yells out at the last words, another bullet skips through the wooden wall and whistles millimeters from the front of his helmet.

The sniper could shoot us at any moment, and good riddance. Well, at least the wooden wall slows the bullet down a bit, and the power armor will protect Lemon. But not me! I look at the compass—nothing.

"I'm having the same problem locating it," I say frustratedly. A bullet whizzes past—splinters are falling on me. That was close! "I'll have to go up to him."

"How do you pull that off?" Lemon asks, ducking from another volley.

"It's as easy as a walk in the park. All you need is a StealthBuck, and you try to divert fire on yourself, just don't overdo it, or I'll be scraping you off the floor."

"That's what I wanted to tell you. I hope you have a StealthB—" Lemon says halfway through, seeing that I've disappeared from view.

"Did you also get close to Bubblegum like that? It's a spell?" Lemon asks. "How many more surprises do you have hidden?"

"Lots," I reply longingly, stepping out of the house and slowly making my way toward the sniper.

I move cautiously between trailers and other vehicles with the thermal imager on, looking for the enemy. Along the way, I bump into a surviving raider, caught by a grenade given to me by Lemon. His eyes are filled with fear of death and suffering. He doesn't want to die. No one wants to die. Everyone just wants to be put out of their misery.

It's not your fault that you became what you are. But that doesn't excuse what you've done.

I'm wringing his neck. Quickly, so he doesn't suffer anymore.

Though sometimes I wish some particularly violent raiders would suffer before they die.

As I move farther away from the house, I notice that a mark has appeared on Pip-Boy's compass.

"I've spotted the sniper," I say over the radio. "He's on the southwest hill."

"Don't report back to me every time the situation changes, just act!"

"I thought you'd be interested..." I mutter, jokingly offended, and pull out Whispering Night.

"I understand," Lemon begins, while I set the larger barrel on the rifle, "that you're joking to-"

Another shot rings out at her position.

"Damn it!" she yells over her radio to me. "You're joking to control your emotions in combat, especially after being badly wounded..."

I take aim at the sniper, paying attention to all the factors that can affect the trajectory of the bullet.

"...But please concentrate and finish him off quickly," she mutters with intense anxiety and fear in her voice.

He shoots again.

"Daniel!" Lemon screams in panic; the suddenness makes me twitch, magic accidentally pulling the trigger. There's a muffled, squelchy sound. Through the telescopic sight I see the bullet almost immediately blow the shooter's head off.

Lucky... Oh, I'm so lucky.

"Don't freak out," I say. "He's done."

"Yeah?" Lemon says, as if she can't believe her ears. I hear her sigh freely. "Check... Is there anyone else left," she says in a slightly shaky voice.

I move around the surroundings for a while, alternately waiting for Pip-Boy's charge to recover so I can reactivate the stealth field.

It's been about twenty minutes.

"I've checked it out. Clear as the power armor of a decent Steel Ranger," I hear her chuckle in response over the radio link.

"Okay," Lemon chuckles. Her old confidence has returned to her. "If I die from a raider's bullet you didn't notice, hang yourself so I can strangle you in the afterlife."

I approach the sniper's corpse early, then Lemon arrives as well.

In front of me lies a decapitated raider in good battle armor, a large-caliber sniper rifle next to him. I can see his skin on the exposed parts of the armor.

Apparently this is the veteran raider, given the signs of gulification that mean he's lived a long time in the Crater and has had a lot of experience under his belt. He does have powerful weapons. A anti-materiel rifle would pierce through power armor like a pencil through paper.

"His brains are scattered around," Lemon examines the sniper's weaponry closely. "Oh! An anti-machine rifle? Rare, even for veteran Crater raiders. Even rarer to see him this far from their territory."

"Do you mind if I take the rifle?" I turn to her. "I'm the one who eliminated him, after all."

The Steel Ranger doesn't answer anything, probably pondering my words. I want to get my hands—or hooves—on at least one sample of such a rifle, for I love a powerful, long-range weapon with a sliding bolt. Oh, that sound and feeling when I pull the bolt... I feel like a real hunter. Confident. Dominant. Damn! I'm just obsessed with it—but not as much as I am with the inner workings of guns.

I shake my head.

Don't overreact.

"Okay," Lemon sighs heavily after some thought, but then adds sternly, "Just don't flash her to Steel Rangers."

I guess I'm really not their prisoner or suspect of anything, since they let me borrow this kind of technology.

"No persuasion required," I say, pleasantly surprised.

"First of all," Lemon begins, "like you said, you got shot and you killed him. Secondly, I'm not going to take away a rifle by force, albeit a technological one. Third, as the Star Paladin, I won't get anything for not taking this or that technology. I don't search for technology, except for a few exceptions. If an important technology exists in only one instance and is of interest to me, then I can take that technology away by force if necessary—but that's unlikely, because not many things in this world can surprise and interest me."

For some reason I suddenly want to tell her that I'm from a parallel world with its own physical laws, which have no magic as such. Here she will be freaking out about the possibilities of technology similar to the one here, but without the interference of magic.

"Is that a threat?" I ask gently.

"No. Just a friendly warning."

"Since we're such friends..." I take to searching the murdered pony. "Tell me... Why were you so persuaded to go to your base?"

"You must have thought we took you as a prisoner?"

"Uh-huh," I agree faintly and tense, waiting for her answer.

"It's simple. We need allies."

"Interesting, but what's in it for me?"

"Access to our workshops, knowledge, and even some resources. For the caps, of course. You, if they want, can be taught something by other Steel Rangers. As far as I know, you've already proven yourself well to the Head scribe and the proctor for the Order of the Quill. Tried what it's like to use our knowledge and tools, at least."

The Steel Ranger workshop really impressed me. Thanks to it, I was able to quickly get a local radio signal receiver into my helmet. Even if it only works over short distances. And a lot of other things, too...

"Yeah, it's really cool with you guys," I say.

I think it's worth hanging out with them after all.

"Not everyone gets that kind of offer," she explains.

"And what am I supposed to do? Drag every piece of technology I find back to your base?"

"We'd be happy to. But Steel Rangers are hoping you'll at least do what's in our best interest. Or at least without harming us. If we want to keep in touch with the ponies of the Wasteland, we need to have allies among them."

"I suspect you must have allies besides me."

"You are the first so far, as far as I know."

"How so?"

"There have been previous attempts, but they've come to nothing," Lemon says in a sad tone.

"Huh... well... that's to be expected."

"You... frankly, pleasantly surprised a lot of Steel Rangers."

"Good to know."

She nods and heads off to inspect the bodies. I continue to examine my sniper.

My shoulder is still aching from the recent damage. Every movement of my shoulder reminds me of it. Apparently, it will last for several more hours. If it weren't for the regeneration implant, it would take much longer to heal.

The results of appropriating the veteran's belongings: the anti-machine rifle, which I disassemble for convenience, ammunition for it, a couple of grenades and healing potions, a bag of caps (a total of about one hundred and fifty caps). As I search the rest of the corpses, I appropriate an automatic rifle in pretty good condition, a couple of medium-caliber pistols with ammunition for them. I also disarm the tripwires I put up and take the grenades.

Lemon takes only medical supplies and caps.

I put all the valuables I find in Bear.

***

We've been driving around the mountains along the hiking roads for half a day now, but we find nothing but colorful scenery and shallow rockfall.

"Bo-o-o-oring," Lemon wearily stretches out, sitting in the front seat. "Do you see anything?"

"Lemon, I see 'anything' all the time," I answer indifferently, concentrating so we don't fall off in this huge thing like Bear. The slippery snow can make that happen. "Be specific about your question."

"Well, I don't know... A hidden trail, a secret conspiracy, signs pointing to the existence of aliens," Lemon ponders sarcastically. "Anything at all that would point us to a Stable. You're kind of observant and have visited more than one Stable."

Signs pointing to the existence of aliens... I can barely keep from laughing. There he is! The alien is sitting right next to you, in all its glory and uniqueness. I doubt that humans have ever wandered into this world.

The engine starts making those familiar popping noises. I have to hit the brakes and go check what's wrong with it again. The snow crunches under my shoes as I walk to the hood.

Repairs again... Problems again.

Lemon walks around and inspects the area more closely, now that the opportunity has arisen.

The repairs don't take long. It's lucky the breakdown was minor. I close the hood. It's time to call Lemon and move on.

"Huh... what are you doing?" I ask over the radio, looking at Lemon, who is groping an inconspicuous rock nearby. "Are you trying to seduce it?"

"Yes, with Cypher code," she replies. "It's one of the famous ways of seduction. I read about it in the old Steel Ranger archives... Jokes aside. Actually, Cypher code is a way of sign coding, if you don't know. A method used in telecommunication to encode text characters as standardized sequences of two different signal durations, called dots and dashes, or dits and dahs."

"Okay, but why do you apply it?"

"Because my sensors picked up some strange activity. I suspect it's some sort of door that opens with the right sequence of taps."

Seems far-fetched, but... I don't know this world, hence, nor do I know how common the hidden doors in the rocks are here.

"And how, any success?" I ask, walking toward her.

"If there was success, I wouldn't keep poking around with her, I'd be inside."

"Why would Stable-Tec hide the entrance to a Stable behind a secret door?"

"No reason," Lemon continues tapping out various combinations on the rock. "Such crap is useless given the local mountain scenery. Almost no one's walked here anyway, except pre-war tourists."

"Then..." I begin, but Lemon hastens to answer my question before I can ask it.

"It could have been installed after the war. Those who definitely wanted to hide from someone... Vanhoover masters, for example. After all, the slave trade has its antagonists."

That's right. I didn't think there might be slavery haters in Vanhoover. But someone must be fighting for slave freedom.

"And... judging by the way," I say, coming up close to Lemon, "how you bang on that rock like a drum, the antagonists of slavery are hiding in some bunker. Most likely in some kind of Stable. It would be foolish to place the central headquarters right in a hornet's nest, in Vanhoover itself."

"An-n-nd..." Lemon suddenly speaks in the tone of some pre-war lottery announcer, "we've got a winner! That's right, my dear friend. Your deductive reasoning has not failed you. And now your prize! Information! To the best of my knowledge... As far as the Steel Rangers know, ever since the rebuilding of Vanhoover, there have been antagonists of slavery who liked to ruin things for the slave traders. They stole slaves, changed their appearance, and erased their memories. Their agents were found, their memories checked, but they never could find out the location of their main lair. In the end everyone agreed that they were outside the city and somewhere underground. Still searching."

"The situation hasn't changed at all?"

"I suspect that their activity has decreased over the past decades. At the very least, cases of kidnapping have decreased significantly. After all, slaves are so brainwashed from birth that it will take years to retrain them to a free life. The exceptions are the slaves who became one as children or masters, who still have some chance of quick rehabilitation."

"Sounds like you're working with them," I grin.

Her thoughts sound too believable. She understands the situation too well. Or so it seems to me.

"You live here for a couple of years, get to know the local scene, you'll know what's what and why... This rock pisses me off!"

"What, are you running out of options?"

"I've tried every word associated with freedom, struggle, and liberation."

Hmmm...

They've been fighting Vanhoover masters since the rebuilding of the city began. And that's more than a hundred years. And in recent decades their activity has declined. So many years of fighting, but to no avail, and slavery in Vanhoover, from Lemon's descriptions, is spreading like mushrooms after the rain. Not without the help of skillful brainwashing, of course. They seem to have begun to give up.

I'd probably give up myself if I could see that a concerted effort has gone nowhere for over a hundred years.

"Try the words associated with hopelessness, despair, and doom."

"Why?"

I express my thoughts, and she nods understandingly.

"Our situation is similar..." she adds sadly. "We, too, have been less active lately than we used to be. Vanhoover wins us all over with its restraint."

After a few tries, the rock comes into motion: it rustles loudly and pulls back.

"Hopeless," Lemon replies.

She turns on the flashlight on her helmet and then steps into the cave; I turn on mine and follow her. Our hoofsteps echo throughout the cave, the light of our flashlights cutting through the darkness around us. We walk about twenty feet and find ourselves at a huge steel door in the shape of a gear with the numbers '53' on it. Behind the door is the muffled hum of a generator and other equipment in the Stable. Lemon immediately approaches the door console and begins fiddling with it.

Suddenly, the mare's threatening, metallic voice echoes through the cave. It comes from the console's speaker, and only now do I notice the security camera with the familiar flashing red light. "Step away from the console!" the voice commands.

We obey and move a few steps away from the console.

"Who is she?" Lemon Star asks.

"The Overmare of this Stable. I advise you not to make any unnecessary moves, or these two turrets..." two large turrets emerge from under the black metal floor by the door, one with a missile launcher, which means badly, "...will make a sieve out of you."

"No, just one, because the other one won't leave us a wet spot," I interject.

"Don't show off!" the Overmare says in an indignant voice. "You can't leave this cave unless I say so."

"Come on..." I start smugly, but then I turn around at the noise behind me and see that the rock is rising into its usual position, cutting off our escape route. All that's left is the light from our flashlights, the buttons on the console, and the red glow of the turret and camera aimers. Fucking hell, I wanted to take the edge off with jokes, but ended up just heating it up.

"You're prowling around looking for the Stable. I can't let you in, much less let you go, or you'll give away our location."

"Wait," I say hastily. "Can't we reach a consensus? I understand that you're hiding from someone here, judging by that rock. I don't give a damn who you are. Yes, we're looking for 'a' Stable, but not in terms of technology, but in terms of finding one thing that might be in the underground bunkers. It's very special and you won't need it, most likely, since only we can appreciate its value."

"What guarantee is there that you won't give us away... to others?" the Overmare asks skeptically. She does not choose to point to specific individuals. Either the hesitation is due to the fact that she is simply withholding who they are hiding from.

"What are you afraid of?" I ask curiously. "You live underground and haven't been out on the surface, so why the prejudice against strangers? And what makes you suddenly think we're looking for 'the' Stable? Yes, I've visited more than one Stable, but none of them had an extra secret entrance with a code. Besides, this place is perfect for hiding from outside eyes. The mountains create little radio wave interference, and it's even stronger in this cave, which prevents us from being able to transmit a radio signal far enough."

At my last sentence, Lemon looks at me, then, as if finding evidence of it, says over the radio link, "Indeed."

The Overmare doesn't answer.

"Your silence only confirms my hunch that you have been on the surface more than once and are hiding from someone. Rest assured, I have no advantage in giving you away. I'm only looking for the thing."

"Again, what guarantee is there that you will not give us away?" the Overmare repeats.

"Only my honest word," I reply, bowing my head and pulling my right hoof to the side.

"Just so you know," Lemon begins, "I have a tracking sensor in my power armor. If I die or leave the armor, the main base will know about it... especially my location. We take care of our soldiers. So they'll be sure to survey the area. And then you won't get away with it. Otherwise, we'll just take what we need and leave without saying a word about you. So at least try to believe us, and you can go on living in peace in your Stable. What have you got to lose?"

"The hay..." the frightened voice of the Overmare comes. I don't know if Lemon was telling the truth, but she sounded convincing enough. Considering that power armor is also valuable technology, the loss of which would not be tolerated. "All right, but the thing you're looking for, I can't just give it away. A friend of ours got into trouble in Vanhoover a few days ago. He was captured by Prince himself. Name's Dodger. You'll have to get him out of Prince's hooves. The main thing is to free him: we'll know about it."

I wonder how she will find out? I think she's just leading me astray. I haven't even been to town to know what's going on. Well, she doesn't know that I haven't been to Vanhoover and that I haven't been in the region more than a week. If her friend captured by Prince himself, there's a very good chance he has more than one pair of eyes watching him twenty-four... twenty-six hours a day. And the ransom—if, of course, his plan is to sell him as a slave—will cost an astronomical sum that I won't be able to collect in a short time.

"All right," I reply, realizing that there is no other option. I'll see what I can do. First we need to get to town, and then we'll see. And I can get there in no time by myself.

"Very well," the Overmare says, cheering up. "Your friend will stay here for a while, and then we'll let her go. I have a few more things to clear up. Good luck to you."

"Leaving me, huh?" Lemon says in an offended tone over the radio as I walk toward the exit. "Will you wait?"

"I don't know how long she'll keep you here... so no. I'll go without you."

"Ratbag!"

"Somebody will pick you up anyway. You're a walking radio station. And I'd like to be alone. I've been in someone else's company for almost two weeks now. Anyway, I'll see you later, and if I haven't drunk it by then, I'll get you drunk on berry juice."

***

The 23rd of the Month of Bread, Orangeday. Thirty-third day of my stay.

It's getting dark...

After leaving the cave that was the entrance to Stable 53, I return to Bear and head further north along the ravine. I use the map I got from the Steel Rangers to orient myself, and I get to a big gorge that runs almost perpendicular to this one. Then I turn left to further reach the flat terrain.

After reaching another gorge, I go up high into the mountains, which is damn hard on this clumsy and heavy Bear. An unforgettable landscape unfolds before me—across the gorge to the west, I can see in the distance a large city with a population of nearly three hundred thousand people; also on the opposite side I can see the passage in the distance, through which I drove to get here. Along this gorge runs the railroad, along which I ride.

The railroad is open in places, but most of it is hidden in tunnels. Fortunately, they are not blocked and I can drive through them.

After getting through the tunnels, surviving several vehicle breakdowns, and exiting the White Shell mountain range, I get to more or less flat terrain.

It's worth noting that right at the exit of the last tunnel in the White Shell mountains, I notice a trail of sorts. It feels as if, before the war, trains stopped here to drop off passengers at something. I'll have to check to see where it leads.

I make an appropriate note of it in my Pip-Boy.

At some point along the way I regret that my Pip-Boy isn't capable of catching local radio frequencies, something I don't want to mess with lest I accidentally ruin the whole device due to a partial transformation. There is usually a radio station of some kind near a major city.

That's when I remember that Bear has a radio installed. I turn it on and quickly tune in to the first radio station. There is some pretty good music playing on this frequency, and to my surprise, there is no Red Eye style propaganda or the same Ashur and Eden style propaganda. After a while on the radio I hear the voice of the local DJ, Oscar, as he calls himself. He is a stallion with an extremely charismatic and smooth voice. The style of his speeches doesn't sound like Three Dog or Mr. New Vegas. And since no propaganda is being broadcast, what is the radio for? That's right. PR, publicity and news.

On the radio, the DJ is not distinguished by any particular manner of speech, but his phrases are not standard. Sometimes there is rhyme, jokes and wit in his speeches. It is not boring at all. Perhaps the reason for this is his charming voice.

In his commercials, he mentions places that offer goods or services of all kinds. Frequent references are made to brothels with the hottest mares and stallions to be found in the Wasteland. Major sales of both goods ('Oasis' is often mentioned) and services (the Softhooves family is often mentioned). DJ just names them, making no opinion or special comment about them. Just... sponsors.

Here comes the news, DJ puts his two caps in almost every news story. It becomes obvious that only the most interesting and important news (in his words, of course) is selected. The news mentions local squabbles, robberies, murders (of which there have been many), pursuits, holidays and events... The city is living life to the fullest. So full and independent of the Wasteland that it strikes me to my core. The news even mentions 'law and order' more than once, but it seems to me that in a city of slave trades and clans, corruption is rampant with an equally rampant bureaucracy.

Speaking of families. Over my journey to Vanhoover, the Five Families are mentioned: the Softhooves, Steelmane, Waterfall, Falcon, and the Meadows. What each family does exactly is hard to say. Too many areas of activity are mentioned in this flow of information that is difficult to sort out.

What strikes me most is that the DJ goes on the air every two hours. The airings take about twenty minutes. The airwaves cover news and commercials. It seems to me that DJ Oscar is not alone in this business, that's for sure. I doubt he can get on the air every two hours... Twenty-six hours a day every day.

Surely Oscar is just a persona that several DJs work under, while changing his voice with magic. No wonder why I found his voice enchanting. It's artificially created, or maybe based on the prototype of some pre-war record pony. This probably explains the lack of a distinctive manner of speech: because of the presence of several DJs, it would be erratic anyway. Slightly, but it's felt nonetheless. However, the concept of multiple DJs itself is quite handy.

The engine begins to wheeze and 'cough' longingly, like Lilac. I turn away from the road, drive behind the nearest rocks and set up for the night, and bring the engine back to life. I don't light the fire to avoid any attention, and after dinner I go to sleep.

***

The 24th of the Month of Bread, Yellowday. Thirty-fourth day of my stay.

I gradually approach the city and feel more and more of its grandeur: tall brick walls of two or three stories, closer to the center the buildings get taller and taller, and they look remarkably good.

It is hard to imagine that such a huge and developed city is a giant of the slave trade. Looking at this metropolis reminds me of another slave-trading city, the Pitt. I first heard of the Pitt in the Citadel of the Brotherhood of Steel from the paladin Kodiak. It wasn't until I got there that I realized how terrible it looked. Strange as it may sound, I was in that city of my own free will—to save all the slaves from their masters' power and to find some cure.

How naive of me. Even though I was still reeling from Brisa's death.

Wernher, the man who sent the signal for help, asked me to find a cure for the disease. It was a disease that turned a human into a bloodthirsty mutant trog. A man infected with it lost his mind and attacked everyone in a row from ambushes and dark corners. Trogs are nimble and fast, fleeing from them is equal to trying to dodge a bullet. The only thing left is to put up a fight against these creatures. If that's the case, at least there' s a chance.

They've contracted TDC, Troglodyte Degeneration Contagion, poisoning anyone who's been in Pitt's territory or breathed Pitt's air for too long. The first signs of the disease were sores on the body, which later grew bigger. It was a terrible sight. Worst of all, the disease affected the brain, so over time the infected would degenerate into savages or worse, trogs. It was vital to find a cure. For the sake of it, I endured the mockery of my hosts.

I was in the Pitt for about a week before rising to soldier status. Then I had recently lost Brisa, and I was indifferent to my own fate. I didn't care that much about what would happen to me. I no longer remember why I decided to suffer in this place. Perhaps the physical pain didn't feel so terrible against the mental pain. Perhaps it was because of the cure for others. Perhaps I just wanted to free the slaves. I was lost. But I knew one thing: I had to do something to distract myself. I endured the beatings of overseers and masters and saw that some slaves were no better than their oppressors. Some slaves seemed to be beasts—could beat and rape another, no matter what sex they were. I realized that there was almost no unity among slaves—only a few held together as a group, but otherwise it was almost every individual for himself.

It was at the Pitt that I learned how to survive in the most difficult conditions. When I was picking up steel scrap and almost dying, I was saved by a friend. She was living alone in the factory yard. The rescue turned out to be accidental. My nearly breathless carcass happened to be near her hiding place, she was about to search me for useful supplies, but found, to her surprise, that I was still alive. Unconscious, but alive. Perhaps that was what surprised her, and so she decided to help, to heal me, and to teach me many self-defense techniques: how to survive in dangerous situations, to be less visible, to defend myself more effectively. Her past turned out to be one of the hardest things I'd ever heard, and I told her about mine. We didn't become friends, we were just good acquaintances. Besides, she wasn't looking for strong connections, not wanting to make connections with people who might end up in some ditch the next day.

After winning the Hole, the slave fighting arena, I got a chance to talk to Ashur himself and join his army. I met with him, and he told me of his plans for this city and of the cure that was his child. I did not expect such a thing. Ashur himself wasn't a megalomaniac psychopath or anything like that. In fact, he was a good guy, doing what was best for the city, even if not in the brightest of ways. He himself was not happy with the way his subordinates treated the workers. He was responsible for them all.

I, on the other hand, was not capable of killing a child's generally normal parents in order to get a cure for Wernher. Who knows what they would do to him. Would they be able to get the cure under inappropriate conditions? Doubtful. Ashur himself wanted to cure his entire population, and not just his masters. He also had the resources, the cleanliness, and the care. If I had given the child to Wernher, it would have taken many times longer to find a cure under these conditions.

Wernher... As it turned out, what he really wanted was power himself. And his bravado about liberation was only to lure into his plans 'knights on white horses' who would take his side no matter what, as he tried to free the slaves and find them a cure. He spun me around like a puppet.

I made an attempt to change Ashur's mind about the workers, taking advantage of the fact that he himself did not like what his subordinates had become. He agreed—albeit not immediately, since it wasn't easy to do. Some of his subordinates simply might not have heeded his request to treat slaves not as soulless livestock. It would be better to receive harsh punishment for those slaves who treated their own kind in a swine-like manner.

As I spoke to him, a riot broke out between the workers and their masters. He asked me to find Wernher and stop the riot in return for better conditions for the workers. I went in a moment to find Wernher, at which point Ashur appealed to those who had the slightest compassion for the workers and were willing to live and work side by side with them to shut themselves up in the Haven until things had settled down.

Wernher was stubborn: he wanted Ashur dead, and the power, with my help, passed to him. I killed him without the slightest doubt of my decision. He turned out to be a rare bastard. In fact, he was partly telling the truth—just paraphrasing it to his own understanding.

With Wernher's death, the slave riot ceased, for their leader was dead, and Ashur fulfilled his promise: the slaves became real laborers on an equal footing with their masters. The slaves received more acceptable living conditions for the Pitt. The better one worked, the better food and treatment. The masters became common guards.

The workers toiled for the good of the city while the guards went out into the Wasteland or searched Pitt's own ruins for supplies. It had been like that before, but back then they kept almost everything for themselves, and gave the slaves leftovers or about... nothing: they ate some crap.

It had been over a week since the riot. During that time I helped solve a few dangerous problems—mostly fighters and trogs who disagreed with the new regime.

And then I left town and never came back.

I wonder... What would be waiting for me here, in Vanhoover? In a town that is a mix of Vault-City, the capital of the New California Republic with a touch of New Reno mafia families and the global slave trade, like the Pitt.

The engine grunts again and stalls in the middle of the road.

I irritatedly punch the steering wheel and get out of the transport.

***

It is still morning and I find myself very close to the city.

On my way I encounter a small caravan and a small group of explorers. As expected, they had no reaction to me other than simple wariness.

In the distance I see a train moving along the tracks.

And then I stop at the main gate with a neon sign that reads 'Vanhoover South Gate'. The gate is guarded by ponies and griffons that are clad in heavy armor. They carry rifles with telescopic sights. Nearby are machine guns. In addition to the flesh-and-blood guards there are the non-living ones—at least three robots of the Sentinel class. All of the guards, except for the Sentinels below, are on a concrete and brick wall.

No 'who' or 'why' to me? Interesting. The gate is wide open so any vehicle can get in. On the gate, in small print, it says that the entrance is open from six in the morning until ten in the evening. From there, they only let masters in and out for a hundred caps. This is supposedly the cost of electricity to open and close the gate.

Only after crossing the threshold of the city, I am already amazed at the exterior condition of the streets and structures opened before me. I take off my helmet and look around with my own eyes. There is no disgusting stench of urine and excrement, no garbage, and to some extent no dirt. There are no boarded-up windows and doors—all the houses and buildings are being used for their intended purpose: as places to live or establishments of some kind. The inhabitants go about their business and are not dressed in dirty rags like tramps or settlers from the Wasteland. They all have decent clothes... as well as those with electric collars around their necks. The slaves here, thanks to good conditions and brainwashing, don't look tormented. They follow their master faithfully and reverently (though not all of them), carrying his belongings as a servant or as a guard.

Among the masters about a quarter are griffons. They exist among both masters and slaves. Though there are considerably fewer of them among the slaves in proportion to the ponies.

I see a four-story building at the city wall on the right side of the street. A sign looms over it—'Vanhoover South Gate Police Station'. Next to the structure are several ponies wearing the same armor as the guards on the walls at the gate. I stop Bear at a designated spot, where several vehicles are already staying—among them are wagons drawn by slaves. The parking space is supervised, so I leave my vehicles there without fear and go to the local police building.

Once inside, I find myself in a kind of lobby. A soft green unicorn sits at a desk with a terminal. She's flipping through some prewar Griffon's Paw magazine with a picture of a griffon and her raised clawed paw; the unicorn won't even look at me, just asks, "What do you want?"

This magazine and cover style reminds me of something, but what it is, I can't remember.

"Can I see the head of police?"

"Fourth floor," she says, still not looking up, "take a right down the hall and her office is at the end. If there are no more questions, I'll take care of my business."

***

I knock on the door of the office where the administrator sent me. After getting permission to enter, I open the door, go inside, and close it behind me.

Inside, there aren't too many luxuries. There are only a couple of paintings and potted flower plants. There are file cabinets along the walls. In the corner there is a metal cabinet with weapons and ammunition for emergencies. In a large, soft-looking, slightly worn armchair, covered in some kind of material of a dark red hue, behind a wide redwood desk sits a griffon. The plumage of her body down to her neck is dark blue; the plumage of her head is white, but with small strands of blue. She is dressed in a bulky (underneath it, apparently, some protective plates) uniform, shimmering blue and black tones. She looks at me without any interest, and is once again focused on her papers.

It's a good thing I'm already used to the company of Reserve griffons eating ponies for breakfast. It's not perceived as imposing.

"What's the occasion?" she asks without much interest. "And sit down," she points to a chair in front of her desk.

"This is my first time in town and I'd like to know what's what. The rules and regulations there, let's say..." Her gaze is suddenly fixed on me, and interest flashes in her eyes.

"You're not from around here?"

"I'm from another region of the Wasteland. Recently made my way here."

"Then I feel compelled to introduce myself to you, though many in this part of town know me," she says animatedly, then clears her throat for a solemn presentation. "I am Ice Ground, the captain of police for the south gate of Vanhoover and its environs. This is your first time here, and I'll tell you the most important thing—Prince is in charge of everything. If he asks you personally for something, break your neck, but do it. So, next..." she ponders, scratching her yellow beak lightly. "The usual: no stealing, no killing, no fighting, no touching another master's slave without permission, no breaking someone else's property, and so on. You can get more details on the laws and their clauses from the public relations officer. For the most part, almost all the rules deal with business bureaucracy."

"No different than other places in the Wasteland," I express my opinion.

"Almost. Decide to kill someone without solid evidence and a good reason, and they make you a slave. You don't get off with jail time or a quick death. It's guaranteed. They'll either send you to the mines, or to Meadows' medical experiments, or put you at the personal disposal of some sadistic griffon who will pound you in the ass in the evenings. We have enough of them, by the way, that like to personally train slaves to their preferences."

"What about the Families?"

"They handle the economy and industry of the city. Each Family has its own business. They lend money, provide security and cover for their own territories, i.e., stores, warehouses, factories, and other things. We don't get into it much, though we should."

"Prince and Kings—what powers do they have?" A fleeting disgust flashed across Ice's face at the mention of Kings.

"As I said before, Prince is in charge of everything here. He can demand anything from you. Even your life or ass, but he rarely shows his face in public. For the most part he is in Stable 68, which is home and headquarters for both him and his... Kings."

Once again there is barely concealed disgust. She shows quite vividly her attitude about Prince and Kings. Does this essentially dictator really allow anyone to speak out like that?

And now I know where to start looking for Dodger I was sent here to find. Stable 68.

"Prince has the power to demand anything, but he rarely uses it. He deals with other matters for the good of the city. His 'will' is done by Kings. They behave like assholes and narcissistic jerks. Without physical evidence they can kill anyone just to do the Prince's bidding. There's always another way, but they choose the easy way—to deal with it on the spot without justice."

Although... No. She only speaks negatively about Kings. She always seems to be itching to discuss them with someone and express her disdain. It's like the politically passionate individuals who love to criticize their opponents. The New California Republic is full of them because of the many political movements. They get into monologues, a fountain of shit, just to mention their opponents.

It's a good thing I'm not on the side of Kings. Otherwise, shit would have been flying in my direction, too. I'd better play along with her. Besides, I don't know anything about the situation. Maybe her words are too close to the truth.

"Don't Kings' radical actions outrage the inhabitants?"

"Rarely. They don't want to mess with Prince. Kings have great influence and connections, not to mention threats to displease Prince. I can't recall a time in my life when Prince has personally come to deal with someone for disobeying a King. Almost everyone falls for it, even most of the Family members."

"Such as?"

"The Father or Mother of the Family, the big businesspony don't fall for these threats. The others, however, as soon as they hear that Prince himself will deal with them because of disobedience, they will immediately bent over and let themselves be fucked, so as not to displease Prince."

"What about Prince himself?"

"He doesn't seem to care, as long as ponies and griffons aren't outraged about a King. They can kill a King, of course. Kings don't have immunity, but they'll probably be afraid to kill them for two reasons: Prince's displeasure and his personal interference."

"What other advantages do Kings have besides free decision-making? And how many are there anyway?"

"No more than thirty. As a newcomer, I advise you to know them by sight... If you don't want to get in trouble with them. In case you say something wrong and I find you dead in an alley later. And the offended King will make excuses," Ice begins to gesticulate vigorously, raising his clawed paws in the air in a fit of drama, "that you threatened Vanhoover's safety, so him or her had to act quickly."

"Wow... with that kind of leeway, the selection for Kings must be harsh."

Ice looks at me like I'm the naive fool for offering her a fork in exchange for an Anti-machine rifle. She's about ready to laugh.

"Huh... It's all clear with you," she waves away with a clawed paw. "Get connections and caps, bribe the right personalities... and you can advance to Kings, as most of them have done."

"Is there anyone with fighting skills among Kings?"

"Yes... A smaller fraction of them are fighters who have been put to the real test of combat, having mostly gained fame in the Arena. Of course, in addition to combat skills, they need a high reputation."

"And where do I get it?"

Ice's eyes narrow as she looks at me. Long and thoughtful.

"What, you can't wait to be one yourself?" in a voice as cold as her name, she asks me. And she lifts up in her chair, leaning toward me.

I feel as if the chair beneath me has gone cold. Griffons know how to intimidate.

She obviously hates Kings... And would like to do something about them.

"Just... Curious as to how things work around here. Nothing more than that. I'm just a traveler."

She slumps back in her chair incredulously.

"Anyway, it's none of my business... If you are vouched for by a few well-known personalities, such as influential rich master or Kings—though one of the heads of the Families would suffice, which has hardly ever happened... which you can't even hope for... and if you're famous among a certain fraction of the ordinary masters, you'll be a King. Also, a twenty percent discount on all goods and services, and a comfortable apartment in Stable 68."

"Nice carrot. Where's the stick? What's the catch?"

Ice Ground's beak stretched wide in a smirk. So sweet and luscious that the mere sight of it might raise my blood glucose levels.

"You'll run errands and tasks for Prince, but he won't pay you."

What?! I certainly wasn't expecting that.

"How so?"

"It's a good thing Prince doesn't spend even more caps on them. Too many privileges as it is. Kings sustain themselves. For the most part, it is those who engage in big business that are Kings. I think that's why Prince wants to make sure that Kings will be interested in the stability of what's going on in the city and not pissing off the population with their freedom. Trying to give them... a sense of responsibility for what they do."

That's an interesting way to motivate. While yes, the privileges look too good, you don't get a cap for completing tasks from Prince. You have to earn it yourself. And when you have a business in town, you'll be interested in keeping things smooth.

On the other hand, there's obviously less desire to take assignments from Prince—unless he threatens or something threatens their business.

"Business..." I say aloud. "Isn't that what the Families do?"

"They do, but... It's complicated. But blood relatives claiming leadership in the Family are forbidden to become Kings. I think you can see why. That's why I told you not to get your hopes up about being vouched for by the leader of one of the Families, because they rarely do favors for anyone outside their circle. It would have to be something out of the ordinary. In order to avoid... abuse for the sake of one's Family to the detriment of another Family. The sense of responsibility will be for the benefit of their Family, not for the sake of the city as a whole."

I nod. It's hard to disagree with her conclusions.

"So...what services do Kings provide if they don't particularly go outside the city and risk their lives?"

"The only ones who take risks are the ones with combat skills. Who live for the feeling of adrenaline rush and the sound of blood in their ears. The rest... help someone advance in their line of work. Oh, rotten eggs!"

Ice looks preoccupied.

"Gave her emotions a free pass again because of Kings. I've got my workload to deal with," she explains.

"Oh... But I have more questions concerning the city. For example, a map..." Before I can finish my sentence, Ice starts rummaging through the drawers of her desk and in a couple of seconds puts a map of the city in front of me. It's pretty detailed, showing street names and even house and building numbers, as well as names of establishments, stores, and other things.

"What else?" she asks impatiently, resting her chin on her crossed paws as if on a stand.

"Well, someone who could tell me a little bit about the city. What's in it and so on."

"Would you like me to sell you a slave—since you're not from here, I'll give you a small discount?"

"What would your slave know about the city?" I say skeptically. Though if her slave can really tell me about the city, let him.

"Lots of masters come to me, reporting and complaining about this and that. The cleaners can always hear something interesting. There's one cleaning pony here who's very nosy and sticks her nose where it doesn't belong."

Something begins to swish behind the door, and then slow and distant hoofsteps are heard. It's as if someone has walked by.

"Hear that?" Ice smiles. "I'll give you a beak it's her. She's a good cleaner, but she's too nosy; besides, I have enough cleaners, so there's not much time for them to do, and it takes budget caps to feed them. And I don't like anyone eavesdropping outside my office, either. Even though she behaves calmly when my subordinates get laid with her, I can sell her for a thousand and a half caps. She's sterile, like all slaves."

"Why so expensive? At least drop it to a thousand two hundred. You said yourself she was curious and used."

"All right. Have it your way," she says, pulling out some paper and a bracelet. She takes a pen and wants to write something down, but she looks up at me expectantly. "I forgot to ask what your name is, didn't I? And yes, tell me your full name and how you got here."

"Daniel Evans. I got here in a SUV."

"In that case, I suggest you also read the rules of the road within the city. They're in the book you can get for free from the receptionist downstairs."

Ice writes something down and gives me the piece of paper and tells me that I have to sign too, which I do. She gives me the bracelet, and I give her almost all my caps. I'm left with less than fifty. Okay, I need to sell the junk I found right away.

"Now you," Ice begins, handing me everything I need to own a slave, "are responsible for her actions."

Oh... what have I done. Why did I agree to this? Now I... I should never have bought her. Totally responsible for the life and well-being of another individual... a pony... I just can't.

"What?" Ice notices the change in my face, "Change your mind?"

What do I tell her? Cancel the deal? What's my excuse for cancelling?

"I... What does it mean to be responsible for her actions?"

"All her actions will count as your own. This is in case, for example, you order your slave to kill someone. Or the killing was unintentional. The slave is like a part of you. So keep a good eye on her. Or do you want to refuse?"

I had already taken the colt to the Tenpony Tower. It took me a week, but I brought it safely to safety and found a caretaker. I will do the same with this slave mare. Yes. I'm only temporarily responsible for her.

"No. It's just... was a little confused. Not used to me being in charge of everything a slave does."

"Those are the rules," Ice shrugs, "and I stand by them."

"By the way, why are slaves so expensive? Even though she was used by your subordinates?"

"A slave, even the cheapest and 'freshest' one, costs at least three hundred. And as for using her by my subordinates, that's so they don't get bored and think about getting off their shifts and flushing the caps in the brothel."

"Whatever you say," I say indifferently, walking out of the office. Ice locks the office and follows to the other end of the hallway, where the cleaning pony in her thirties, a pink earth pony with a short, lingonberry-colored mane, is minding her own business. She's cleaning, but upon noticing us, she clearly begins to worry.

"Flow," Ice begins, ignoring her worry, "this is your new master, Daniel. This ends your work here," she says sternly, then turns to me. "Before you go, make sure she gets her work tools and uniform back. They'll give her the rags she was wearing before she got here. Have a good day."

Ice leaves for her office, and I'm left alone with Flow. It suddenly occurs to me that this Flow could tell me a lot of interesting things about Captain Ice. So why did she sell a potential 'talkative tongue'? Or is it, on the contrary, a way to keep an eye on me? Or perhaps Captain Ice simply has nothing to hide.

"Flow, right?" I ask, and smile slightly.

"Yes, master," she replies with a slight nod. Her worry is almost gone as soon as she sees my smile.

"Okay, let's give you your gear, and then let's get out of here," I mutter, walking toward the stairs.

"Okay, master," is the reply.

"Oh. Can you not call me master?" I tell her half-turned.

"As you wish, ma... I mean, yes."

"That's good," I smile. My smile makes Flow noticeably calmer.

If I ask her questions, she begins to faintly worry. Maybe she's worried about making a better impression on her new master. In fact, this is no small point in the first meeting. If you make a good impression, you can win the favor of the person you are talking to. Apparently, seeing me smile, she thinks she's doing the right thing. That wasn't really why I was smiling. Smiling is also an equally important part of communication.

After taking my work gear, which doesn't belong to Flow, I take the little books with the local rules, among which are the rules of the road. Afterwards, we go outside.

In addition to them, I flip through the rules for operating the electric collars that Ice gave me. After reading them, I can tell that it is more advantageous to use this type of collar than explosive collars. After all, if a slave tries to escape, his head won't explode: instead, his body will be penetrated by a paralyzing electric shock. The power of the current can be set on the bracelet, as well as the range of the collar—from six feet to one thousand. If a slave goes beyond this limit, he will be electrocuted. After that, the slave will think twice before going over the limit. My anklet, on the other hand, has a radius of about a hundred feet.

Once outside and looking at the map, I get in Bear with Flow, pay the guard fifty caps, and we drive to Stable 68. To get Dodger.

I don't know if I can get him free. I'll see what I can do. But... should I interfere and set him free? I need to get to the next key card one way or another. I need it to get to the Project Dome, because that's where I have the best chance of finding my way home. I'll have to interfere and try not to influence anything.