Chapter 1: A Modest Living
Chapter 1
A Modest Living
“Goodbye home. We’ll be back”
“This is DJ Pon3 and that was *vzzzzsck* with their hit ‘I got my mind on *vszzzzverrr*’. As for news today we’re getting reports from *vverssscchh* action is picking up near Ponyville. An increased amount of gunfire was heard overnight near the old Ponyville bridge. If you’re ou-” The radio hummed as it fell asleep once more.
“Goodnight radio, I’ll miss you” uttered a sweet voice, kissing the speaker as if it were a foal laying down for the night.
Daddy always told me that the sky was never supposed to look this way. For as long as I could remember the sky always looked like the underside of a skybandit. Perhaps with a little bit less rust than the scrap heaps we take apart alongside the road. He’d tell me that the sky used to be as blue as my eyes, granted I’ve only seen them a hoofful of times.
I found him right where he usually is before a big trip, staring outward. He stands and looks out at the clouds and the land, watching. I wait for him to see what he would do, but he’s still a statue. Usually, he’ll make an excuse about how he’s looking for raiders or mutants moving around. I want to believe him, but sometimes I think he dreams of the sky he remembers… I wish we could’ve seen the same sky.
“Looks like it’ll be a breezy walk. Hopefully the weather holds for the whole trip, 11 hours of rain would soak us to the bone,” said my father, Pudding Punch. No matter his dismay for the skies, he still struck a pose to ruffle his feathers. Dad had always been a showoff, yet he was a humble stallion at heart.
He would feign weakness when we would race in the sky at night, just enough to let me win. Those icy breezes broken up by warm fronts as we would whip around in the field alongside our house were my fondest memories. I’ve always wanted to try it during the day, but scraphauling is a full-time job.
“Honey, you got your gear on yet?” Dad called, breaking out of his stoicism. “By the time we’re ready a storm could blow in!”
“Ope, okay! I’ll get it, one sec!” I chirped back.
It’s always hard leaving the house for a scrap haul. I’ll lay by the campfire during our trips and miss the creak of the floorboards and the must of the wood. Dad always said it wasn’t much, but it was ours. It took a long while to get the house standing. During the nights without the wood house, there was so much out there I couldn’t see. I remember trembling underneath Dad when we would walk for what seemed like forever, just to find a place to sleep. The nights were scary, but Dad could always comfort me enough to get some good rest. It’s been the two of us for a while now. Dad was there when I was born, which is when he said mom died. He says I remind him of her.
Walking across the room I glanced over at Dad’s trinkets. Their glistening appearance glowed in the candlelight of our rooms. Colorful ribbons adorned them and gave them a beautiful look. I tried to get Daddy to wear them once on our trips so we could match. He says they’re worth a lot of caps, so we have to hide them in the house. It’s a shame, but I understand. They sit in a goggle box tucked under his bed. The box also contained leather patches from places I’ve never seen before.
Trotting over to our kitchen table, I grabbed my cap pouch, satchel of refined scrap, and my wing bindings. Ponies have always been scared of those who could fly, and we don’t want to scare them. Dad told me tales of the Dark Horses who flew over the wastes, maiming and hurting ponies. We aren’t like them, but if somepony saw us flying they might think we are. I got the leather straps nice and snug, prancing to the door.
“Goodbye home. We’ll be back” I murmured as I clicked the rebuilt door into place.
The wastes were especially desolate today; not even the usual pack of stray dogs. I liked to imagine them as our neighbors. I used to lay on the patio and watch them run across the fields and play. Sometimes they kept us safe by eating the ponies who wandered near the house. They’re messy eaters and sometimes it makes me squeamish. If they’re far enough away I can pretend they eat just like us.
Dad was already down on the road now, latched up to the scrap wagon. I caught a glimpse of him earlier putting our brush guns into the wagon, so I must’ve kept him waiting extra long this time. Oops.
“Well hustle now, we gonna be late!” Holstering my scrap sack, I pranced my way down to him and strode alongside, clanking and rattling in stride. I used to be in my father’s shadow on these trips, always listening to him whistle or sing his favorite songs as I layed in the scrap wagon. Once you found the right spot, the metal didn’t hurt too bad.
Daddy was a good singer, so I’d make him sing the songs from the radio. Nowadays we don’t sing as often, but I get to walk alongside him as we make our way to the markets.
“You know what one thing I’m gonna miss from our trips? You singing the songs on the road to-”
“Now what do you mean by missing? You wanna fly solo now?” snickered Pudding Punch.
“No… I love you dad, but I’m a grown mare now! I can do just fine, you’ve taught me enough to-”. He broke stride so fast I almost tripped trying to stop with him. He flipped his mane from his eyes, wearing a somber face as he looked at the shoulder of the road.
“I get it…” We locked eyes as his lower lip shook. Time felt as if it stopped on that road. “No, I get it. Your old man…” Then I saw it. That sneer. “... would just ruin your chance at bringing home a coltfriend.” My cheeks were berry red, that jerk!
“OH MY CELESTIA DAD STOP!” Our pace returned as we giggled along the road.
“I always knew that my role as the stallion in your life would soon be up. Nothin’ more than the changing of the guard.” He always messes with me this way, ever since we had the house. Colts and stallions would ask about me from time to time while we were hauling. Most of them were kind young bucks that Dad knew from work. He’d try to give a fatherly nudge to talk to them but I never did. Being the apocalypse there were some bad apples out there, but Dad kept me safe. When I was just a filly, there was a time where we were harassed between stops…
******
We were drinking at the Cowhide Saloon during a rest from our haul. I remember I was still a young filly, because Marea would still give me a Sparkle-Cola when we passed through. Snark also helped run the place, and he’d always comment on how well my dad could braid my mane. Marea was the backbone of the bar. She served drinks to all the caravans that passed through Whispering Oaks. Her warm, motherly demeanor contrasted by her husband, Snark.
Snark was more of the strong, silent type. My father told me Snark’s business was a bit in the grey area. Snark never asked Dad for any help, but was more than willing to have my Dad around. I think they saw eye-to-eye on some things, but not most. Walking into the saloon was stimulation overload as a young filly. The place always had the radio turned up, and the drinks overflowing. The bar was a bit rowdy for a young filly, but it was one of the only places I remember hearing ponies laugh and dance.
“Evening Marea. The usual if ya wouldn’t mind?” said my father, rattling his cap pouch onto the bar. I flopped mine up as well, even though Marea never made me pay.
“The usual as well please!” I hollered over the noise of the saloon.
“Awe, well don’t you worry sweetheart. As for you Puddin’, I’ll have that out in a jiffy,” beamed the happy mare. Dad ruffled my mane and we talked about our latest escapade with the scrap hauling wagon. Marea brought our drink back over to us while we were still laughing our butts off.
“Here ya’ go hun’, Apple Whiskey. As for the little lady, a Sparkle-Cola on the house.” Suddenly I felt some magic ruffling my mane and pulling my tail a bit, immediately getting my Dad’s attention.
“Wha-Whatcha thinks makes you so special to have a fine piece of ass at the bar *hic* huh?” I wanted to shrink away at that point, as I crossed my front hooves and felt my face get hot and began to get teary-eyed. Daddy looked calm and collected, but I could feel the anger radiating off him. He slammed all of his low baller of Apple Whiskey, then gently set the glass down onto the bar.
“Marea? Could you show my daughter the wild mutfruit in the back? She’d love to learn that drink you wanted to teach her.” I was then engulfed in the much friendlier amber glow of Marea as she hoisted me over the bar, trotting to the backroom.
“The fuck’s the *urp* idea tough colt? You think I stuttered?” slurred the drunkard from the bar, his voice growing more distant.
“Watch your tone,” growled my father.
“Well ain’t you a prissy lil’ bitch, huh?” The confrontation was cut off by the backdoor gently closing, muffling the outside world. Marea set me down to tend to a burner, flicking it on with her magic. She always looked so sweet, like those pre-war posters of the waitresses in the fancy diners. Her clothes were faded, but complete.
Outside the door, the muffled noises changed tone. There also was a thudding of some sort. I was a little scared until I looked back at her. I lost my mom long ago, but I like to pretend sometimes that she was my mom. After rolling her eyes at the noises outside, she perked up at me.
“Now, have you ever heard of a Honey Mutfruit Fizzler?” What? That sounds like the most delicious thing I have ever heard!
“Nuh uh! What the hay is that?” Snickering at my foalful glee, she used her magic to pull a box from over my head.
“Well you’re still a young filly, so you’ll need your dad to help you. But you can melt Honey Drops in an old Sparkle-Cola bottle with a tiny bit of water. After you get ‘em to melt you’d just pour it into half a Sparkle-Cola. The lil’ treat helped me feel better whenever I was scared.” The muffled noises outside sounded like they moved away for the time, but my attention was stolen again when Marea handed me the golden bottle. After the first sip, the sugary goodness rejuvenated my body and spirit.
“Ms. Marea this is amazing!” I chugged the rest of it as she giggled with me. It was like happiness in a bottle the way the honey combined with the soda. The spritzy cola taste with the smoothness of the Honey Drops was pure bliss. I savored every drop. Somepony knocked on the door twice, and Marea placed me on her back as I sipped on the drink once more. We exited the backroom.
“Dad! You gotta try this drink Ms. Marea made for me!” My dad was walking through the batwing doors, wiping his forehead with a red handkerchief.
“Well now, how about that Marea? Seems like you got yourself another loyal patron!” She blew some air at him, looking much less worried than when we left. She placed me on my dad’s back and he thanked Snark.
“Thanks for the drinks and hospitality.”
“Wasn’t my hospitality, but happy to help” said the brooding stallion. I began to notice my father’s heavy breathing, which didn’t make much sense in my head at the time.
“Dad, why are you so tired?” I prodded the back of his ears with my hoof, petting the soft hair.
“Well… ya see we just did a bit of cloud gazing… that’s all.” Cloud gazing? At night?
“All that matters is that you are safe.” Dad cuddled the side of my face with his own as we backed our way out of the saloon.
While we trotted off to the local inn, I saw a familiar face. It was the unicorn that touched my mane and tail. He was in the alley between the barn and the saloon. He looked like he had fought a diamond dog with how his maroon coat now was spotty all over. Not to mention he had fatter lips and eyes than when I saw him briefly while in Marea’s grasp. I watched curiously as he limped off back behind the barn as he noticed we were looking at him. I was beginning to suspect that my Dad and him were not cloud gazing.
******
Sometimes there were shady characters, but that’s just how life in the wastes works. Dad’s always had some pushback about me doing things on my own because of that. He kept me away from the messier sides of the business. My father isn’t a fan of killing ponies needlessly, but he kept some guns in the wagon for us. The brush guns were perfect for killing the nasty critters of the waste. Sometimes he used it to spook the raiders, which was always funny. Dad was always better with guns than I, but he trained me up to be a half-decent shot.
Hoof-to-hoof was much more of an even match. Training for that was more rigorous as well. Dad often told me during our lessons that flying and fighting are one in the same. Everypony has their own style. The way dad taught me to fight was like a dance, there was a rhythm to it. Sometimes if we wanted to be really funny we’d turn on the radio and practice. We’d practice fighting while DJ Pon3 played hits from the wastes. Sad songs were lessons of meticulousness and deliberate impacts. Happy songs were lessons of agility and fluidity of your impacts. Those were some of the hoofful of times that we used our wings. Dad taught me how to shoot and fight both with and without my wings. We would never know when somepony would need our help.
My train of thought came full circle just in time to realize we had finally arrived at Whispering Oaks. Returning to reality, I glanced at my father with glee. Civilization once more! Dad had cut the whistling that I drowned out with my thoughts to look for our usual customer, but was perturbed to see he was not at his usual post.
Being a small town, the residents of Whispering Oaks had fairly reliable schedules. We’d see the same folks in the same spot most of the time. Speck, the client Dad was looking for, loves tinkering with the sheet metal we bring him from the wrecks of the wastes. Speck actually helped my Dad put the roof on our house. That roof has been there since it was built about nine or so years ago, so he’s the real deal.
“Where’s Speck at? Don’t tell me he’s still asleep at the bar…” inquired my father of one of the local denizens. She clicked her jaw, spat out a gangly wad of seeds, then rasped out three words.
“Gone radillo’ killin’”. My father looked as if his knees buckled under the weight of her words.
“Dusty, put it in gear! The old coot will get himself killed.” The wagon rattled to life as scrap jolted into place. We kicked up dust through the dry western town. What a thrill! Granted we have to go save somepony, but the wind in your mane never gets old no matter where you’re going.
What we saw would’ve been comedic, like something straight out of Sword Mares (love those by the way, dad would read them to me when I was a filly). Speck, that old, stout geezer, had somehow put himself on a ledge within a sinkhole. A pack of raddillos was below, waiting for the cliff to give way. Were he not in mortal danger, this would’ve been amusing.
“Etz a cave in, ya brick head! Ya think eh be here for mah health?!?” We scratched our heads, trying to find the best way to get to him, but they were all grim. The shifting sands showed that there was much less rock beneath us than we thought, and walking over to give him a hoof would turn us into radillo dinner. Speaking of dinner, the sun was setting soon. Walking back to town would give the more fierce hunters of the wastes time to prey on Speck. There’d be no chance he survives nightfall.
A cave mouth was about a six minute walk away, but that offered little help. There was a dead tree nearby which we stowed our scrap wagon next to, but we didn’t have any spare rope that we could tie to it to lower ourselves down. Believe it or not, it’s hard to find reliable rope in the wastes. The humor of the situation turned sour as dad and I locked gazes.
“Dad, I think we gotta- uhm dad?” My father was still as stone. He seemed to be staring way out past the hole in the ground. I could see his panicked eyes as they swept back and forth.
“OhDusty, I don’t know. It just isn’t right”. My mouth was so agape you could fit a bloatsprite in it.
“What do you mean? We can’t just leave him! He’s our fr-”.
“KNOCK ETZ OFF, YER PISSIN EM OFF!” Speck hollered with a slight echo. The radillos seemed intent on having their meal for four and the sun was now caressing the horizon. We have no time left to choose. Dad was still frantically scanning the horizon when I removed my cloak and hat.
“I’m flying,” I spoke aloud to see if Dad was paying attention. Dad shook his head, biting his lip.
“Princess above forgive us…” He bit at his shoulder to pull his cowl off and sat on his plot to nibble the latch of the binders. I quickly followed suit and in a moments notice we were perched above the hole, filling our wings with the now cool night breeze.
Speck was too preoccupied with pushing small rocks onto his would-be predators to notice us swoop him from above. One of us could’ve done it but Speck was a bit heavier than most, so it was a two pony job to hoist the stout pony. I would’ve thought the shock of being lifted into the air would’ve given him a heart attack but he seemingly froze in place, like a kitten being picked up by its mother.
After a refreshing fifteen pace flight, Speck was gently set on the ground, where he promptly crumbled upon the rocks and dirt.
“You-you-, no wait, wait! I had no idea! Please, you can take what you want! You were always my favoretz vendors, yanno? Always good price-”
“Speck, keep it down!” barked my father, in a tone rarely used. Poor Speck was shaking even harder after that.
“We aren’t like them, so keep it down and between just the two of us, alright?” My father helped him to his hooves and was brushing him off with his wing. Speck was scared half to death of us.
I scanned the wastes behind us. It was real dark tonight. The rocks were stoic statues in the night, sometimes looking like slumbering manticores. One of the rock piles was not normal shaped though. Just as I noticed, I felt a breeze above us and looked to my father. In a shared horror, all three of us looked up and saw circling figures above us. Dad tossed Speck aside as we lunged for the brush guns within the wagon.
Readying them, we swung to the loudest sound in unison. A stern, yet sharp female voice.
“Pudding Punch and Dusty Hallow, lower your arms immediately.” My hind legs quivered, my heart became as cool as the midnight breeze. The Dark Horses were in front of us. Eyes of amber and shoulders of molten green, pointed right at us.
Footnote: Level Up.
New Perk: Jinxed! -- Everypony around you has more critical misses in combat, but so do you. You also have strange occurrences in combat
Author's Note
Thanks for reading the first chapter! After knocking off the rust of my creative writing skills, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Thanks to my editors OceansBreeze and Memeancholy, who will be supporting me throughout this work.
