Toola Roola’s Off-Road Madness
Author's Note
Like everyone else on this site, it’s always been a dream of mine to write epic Spintires fiction crossed with Gen 3 of MLP. I was distraught seeing that a Gen 3 tag didn’t exist….but thank GOODNESS we have a Spintires tag. Crisis averted, am I right???
Ice Star, this is about the closest you’ll ever see to me writing a real “troll fic”
A Good Concussion
Five years of grueling freight transportation in the Siberian wastelands really changes a pony, Toola Roola thought to herself. She couldn’t believe there was a time that she used to miss snow.
Months upon months of long, eighteen hour drives up and down snowy mountains and costal tundras of Krasnoyarsk had transformed the once cheerful and optimistic beige-colored pony into a cold and cynical russkiye. Nearly gone were her aspirations of painting beautiful landscapes meant to inspire - the only lands she saw now were the same snow-covered hills and trees, over and over again. Also fading at this point were the memories of her friends back in Ponyville. No, in fact - all memories of the entire life she left behind had begun to disappear altogether.
As her gigantic MAZ-543A plowed through the the thick trees and snow ahead, roaring and guzzling fuel, she let out a deep sigh, recalling one of the few events that she could never forget.
“Sweetie Belle’s magic brings a great big smile, huh?” she spoke sarcastically to herself. It was such a random freak accident - an accidental teleportation to another reality, straight from her home in Ponyville to the center of a Russian village named Khatanga on a planet named Earth, suddenly surrounded by dozens of creatures named humans in a cold and freezing environment.
Sweetie Belle was trying to put icing on a cake.
Thankfully, the natives of Khatanga had been relatively kind to her - after the initial shock had worn off, she was warmly welcomed into society, and began learning all about her new home. Initially trying to make the most of her situation and find outlets for her passionate painting, she soon gave up, realizing that in such a remote, small community, everyone must contribute for the greater good to remain as equals. She had rather quickly picked up the skills required to drive a large truck, something that she had a surprising knack for despite its difficulty. She had gone through several models before earning her baby, the MAZ-543A. A decommissioned military vehicle, this absolute behemoth of a truck was powered with a 525 horsepower engine, and boasted a carrying capacity of over 22000 kg.
“Boasted”, she thought to herself, as this ridiculous fact was actually one of the few things she actually could still boast about. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Her feelings were more concrete, however, about the giant, toppled-over tree directly in front of her path.
She let out an audible yelp, spinning the wheel as hard as she could, not something one would do with a several-ton truck in the middle of the snowy forest if they were of a calmer, sounder mind. Immediately realizing her mistake as the truck started to shift its weight, starting to heel to port.
Thinking quickly, she slammed the e-break, causing the massive truck’s wheels to slam still. Immediately, there was an extreme reaction. In the quick moment of silence as she was half airborne, time seemed to slow to a crawl, the truck nearly teetering to its side, her mind racing with competing thoughts of her life flashing before her eyes and the confidence to persevere. In this new, slow-motion time, she went over and confirmed her plan in her mind.
As time began to speed up again, she let out an audible noise that was like a grunt mixed with a shriek, throwing her entire weight to starboard, smashing against the metal door as hard as she could, while pulling the lever that tilted the barrel in the back of the truck towards the grounded side as well. For just a few unbreathable moments, the truck continued to skid through the snow on only one side of wheels, before she felt the merciful gravity pulling her down, slamming with an ear-shatteringly loud thump - now level on the ground and just having barely dodged the tree in the road. She exhaled a sigh of relief - a sigh so extreme, it could only be compared to a sigh she exhaled once before, having stopped herself from careening off a cliff.
This job sucks, she thought, the slow roar of the engine harmonizing with her load in the back rotating back to normal. This job really, REALLY sucks. But…at least she belonged. Trying her best to return her breathing to normal, her mood slowly transitioned from near-death experience back to the same general apathy she felt all of the time. The methodical swip-swip-swip of the windshield wipers slapping away snow harmonized with the droning hum of the vehicle, and she began to fall back into her trance.
How much longer, she thought? How much longer until she could be herself again? To paint, to live… How much longer till they come?
Can they come?
Would they?
Her mood, however dim, lifted a bit as she saw the familiar outline of her checkpoint station ahead in the blizzard. Pulling up to the gate, she lowered her window, pulling up her snow-coat to cover her face a bit as the snow began blasting into her cabin.
“Привет, Toola Roola!” came a familiar voice from inside the kiosk, with a tone that sang years of friendship.
“Привет, Ivan,” replied Toola Roola, the slightest smile creeping across her face. Ivan Sokolov - the gatemaster at this station - was probably her best friend in all of Russia. She had long since given up on learning the Russian language, learning only essential words for conversation, like the casual greeting Привет.
“How was the road?” asked Ivan, in a thick, shaky accent - but still completely understandable. Ivan, on the other hand, had taken it upon himself to learn English, finding quick success to a startling degree, in order to communicate with the pony. Though his accent wasn’t quite natural yet, Toola rarely had a hard time understanding him, and appreciated the effort.
“It was fine, Ivan,” she spoke warmly, not wanting to worry her friend, “I’m just passing through.”
“Ah! Wonderful. That’s a good concussion, yes?”
“Concussion?”
“Ah, how do you say…? A result, you know, the end of something…”
“Conclusion?”
“There it is! Yes! A good conclusion, yes?”
The pony couldn’t help but let loose a full-on smile now.
“Sure, Ivan. A good conclusion.”
