Fallout Equestria: Last Days

***

Short Sell sighed, adjusting the red tie around his neck. It didn't seem to want to lay flat, no matter how hard he tried.

Fiddling with it for a few more moments, he let it drop, shaking his head. Deciding to come back to it later, he reached across the desk with a hoof, pressing down on the small button next to the speaker that had been built into the mahogany panel.

“Miss Maripone?”

The tinny sound of a mare's voice on the other side of the intercom crackled to life.

“Yes, Mr. Sell?”

“Cancel all my appointments for the day.”

“Yes, Mr. Sell. Right away.”

“Thank you, Miss Maripone.”

The mare on the other end of the intercom coughed once before breaking the connection. The blue earth stallion didn’t comment on it, sighing as he leaned back into his chair.

It had been one of those days. The leather felt cool beneath him, though. Comfortable. Padded. It had cost him a small fortune, after all.

He ran a hoof across the wrinkles beneath his eyes. Through his graying mane.

He wasn’t a young stallion anymore, that much was certain. Those days were well behind him. It had been over two decades since he’d taken over the family business—Quick Sell Firearms & Ordnance.

Granted, the industry had changed pretty substantially since his grandfather’s time. Even since his father’s.

Firearms weren’t just oddities that hobbyists used from time to time anymore. For sport shooting or custom order confetti canons. They were weapons of war, now. Munitions. Demand in recent years had doubled. Tripled. Quadrupled. And then doubled again.

Allowing the company to get absorbed into Ironshod had been the right call. He’d seen more than a few of his colleagues from the early days—other, small scale munitions dealers—driven to bankruptcy and snapped up for loose bits.

Getting in with the big ponies as early as he had—it was probably the only reason he hadn’t ended up out of a job himself.

Instead, he’d worked his way to Vice President of Operations in Ironshod's Fillydelphia Branch. About as lucrative a position as a pony could hope for.

He could count on his hooves the number of ponies in the company that had a higher annual salary than he did. There were probably only another dozen or so in Equestria outside of that. He’d peaked. Made all the bits he’d ever hoped for. Twice over. And then some.

He leaned forward, resting his hooves on the desk.

He couldn’t help but feel he’d gotten a little lost somewhere along the way, though.

He’d been ambitious in his youth, sure, but coin had never been the driving factor. It wasn't something he hadn't enjoyed, of course, but accolades had been the primary draw. The promise of challenge. Becoming his own stallion. He remembered how he’d felt when his father patted him on the back after closing a sale when he first started working.

It wasn’t until the acquisition that his goals had changed. When he’d seen the raw numbers of bits flowing in—all the zeroes that were there and could be there in the future—something in him had changed.

There'd been a constant feeling of discomfort. Want. Dissatisfaction with what he had.

He’d pushed. Shoved. Schemed. Plotted. Sold out those that got in his way.

His wife had divorced him a few years back as well, leaving with their daughter in tow.

At the time, he honestly hadn’t cared that much—two less distractions to worry about—but looking back, he wished he’d made more of an effort.

His relationship with his wife was a lost cause. That much he’d come to accept. The two couldn't so much as stand in the same room without arguing. But his daughter, a teenager at the time, had tried to reach out to him even afterwards. Sent him letters. Made calls.

He’d had his secretary take care of most of the correspondence. He’d been busy at the time. Playing family didn’t bring in bits. Eventually, though, his daughter's communications had wound down to a trickle. Then stopped altogether.

The last letter had been from Hearth’s Warming last year. She’d sent a picture. A letter. Said she was joining the Equestrian military after school. As a medic.

She'd said she wanted to help keep everypony safe. That she hoped he was doing well.

Short Sell turned his gaze to the side, looking at that very picture on his desk.

He could see his daughter, Rose—Summer Rose, after her mother—smiling back at him next to a couple of her school friends. A black graduation cap sat atop her head, a diploma in her hoof.

He brushed the picture frame with a hoof—tracing the crack that ran lengthwise in the glass. The way the thin cracks spread out beneath his daughter’s eyes, it almost looked like she was crying, despite the grin on her face.

He shook his head.

It would have been nice to see her again. One last time.

With a sigh, the stallion sat back up, leaning over in his chair. He reached for the bottom drawer on his right side, pulling it open with a hoof.

Inside was an old fashioned revolver—one his grandfather had owned—polished iron with brass inlay along the muzzle grip and barrel.

While not exceptionally expensive in make, the piece was an antique. Worth a fair few bits to the right buyer. It was a family heirloom, though. Short Sell had never considered selling it.

The stallion picked it up in his hoof, flipping the cylinder to the side with a practiced flick.

Though it was against employee policy to carry loaded weapons in the executive offices, he could see the six bullets staring back at him.

While disgruntled employees turning violent was a rare occurrence—particularly in a heavily policed munitions office complex—the chance wasn’t zero. It had been easy enough for him to have his secretary bring the weapon to his office for him, though. That was the sort of thing he’d been paying her six figures up until now to do, anyhow.

He flicked the revolver back in the other direction, snapping the cylinder back into the frame and giving it a spin.

Quality craftsmanship. His grandfather had always strove to sell the best, after all. A pony ahead of his time.

Short Sell shook his head.

Oh well. All good things came to an end, eventually.

The stallion stood, glancing out the windows behind him.

Fillydelphia wasn’t quite Manehatten, but its skyline was impressive nonetheless. The view from his executive office on the top floor overlooked the city center. The beating heart of Equestrian industry.

Short Sell could feel a cold wind blow past him through the shattered glass.

That same city center was little more than a massive, empty crater now—jagged towers of concrete and metal jutting upwards like massive, twisted pikes toward the darkened sky. Constant fires and smoke clouds billowed out from the buildings that hadn’t been flattened, the city itself bathed in a pulsing, green glow radiating outward from the point of impact.

Short Sell glanced down at himself.

His blue coat was mottled and dead looking, large sections of it burnt away to reveal cracked, radiation-scarred hide beneath. A faint glow permeated his form, similar to that which he could see pulsating in the city center.

He wasn’t sure how he’d survived the explosion. Most ponies who'd been caught up in it seemed to have been vaporized by it or burnt beyond recognition. Even his secretary in the other room didn’t seem to have much time left. Her coughing over the last hour had been growing worse.

The stallion shrugged, spinning the barrel in his hoof once more.

Oh well. No use thinking too hard on it. Not like there was much value in figuring things out now, anyhow.

He frowned, glancing down, shifting his hoof awkwardly around the revolver’s mouthgrip.

That was one of the downsides of traditional pistols. Mouthgrips were far from a perfect means of handling firearms. Battle Saddles—or better yet, unicorns with proper training—opened up a lot more options for ease of use. Being an earth pony himself, though, his options were limited.

Short Sell nodded as he managed to adjust his grip, his hoof pressing awkwardly against the trigger from below.

Ah. There. The "lazy-hoof" grip. Just like his father had taught him. There were some earth pony trick shooters that specialized in it, actually. He remembered taking his daughter to see one once. When she was a filly.

The stallion lifted his hoof, pressing the revolver to the side of his head.

He wondered if she still remembered that.

He smiled at the thought.

If she still did, that would be nice.

Straightening his tie one last time, he pulled the trigger.

***