Fallout Equestria: Dead Tree - The Crimson Path

When the time to awaken came for Martini it wasn't with the chime of his watch, nor the claws of a nightmare forcing him from slumber. Rather it was the cry of a bugle through aging speakers.

The familiar rapid blasts of reveille piercing through the faint fog of dust flowing down the now-ventilating halls of the barracks wing, snapping up in his bed and throwing aside the sweat-soaked olive-drab comforter as he scrambles from the bed in an almost automated fashion.

Stumbling as his wing catches on the covers, the stallion pulls himself free as his bleary eyes race across the walls of the metal-paneled room, from the nightstand to his bag and worn Shadowbolts uniform to the large steel standard issue locker taking up the corner.

Unthinkingly, he rushes over to the Locker in a flurry of steps and throws it open.

Within he finds a trio of Equestrian Army uniforms in the usual Arid Scorpion pattern, a seemingly random mix of earthen colors ranging from a pale grassy-green to earthy brown and sandy tan, all meant to conceal a soldier in a variety of environments.

Each tabbed with a Captain's rank insignia, a blue uniform patch with white and red crossbar... and not one of the uniforms had a slot for wings. They weren't even in his size!

'These aren't my uniforms, why are a Captain's uniforms in my... wait.' Shaking his head, the stallion blinks and looks down at himself, still naked. Still bound with the scar Blackhawk had left on his chest with the Plasma Defender, and still bearing the weight of a cyberhoof.

Raising the mechanized replacement, he lets the four mechanical digits slip free of their housing on the cardinal corners of the hoof, and gently pinches the bridge of his nose with two of them.

"I'm... not late for formation, the wars over." He murmurs, gently shaking his head as the memory of the last month slowly returns.

"The wars over, and we lost." He sighs, lowering his cyberhoof with a click as the digits retract back into their housing.

Closing the locker, he slowly trots to the door and opens it. He pauses to lift the limp form of his Shadowbolt's uniform on the width of his wing and slip his three boots over a strong primary feather each as he steps into the hallway, gaze narrowed in discomfort as the warm lighting of the ancient bulbs finds his eyes.

The hallway seems oddly more welcoming with the power restored; the thick layer of dust that had been present on nearly every surface seemingly blown away by the waves of air flowing through the reactivated ventilation system.

Of course, this left a bit of a haze in the air and a tingle in the stallion's nose. But it was certainly good to get fresh air flowing through the facility again.

Two doors away, next to the hallway leading back to the main lobby, Rum Rush stumbles from her quarters with a bleary look of confusion on her hastily masked face. With a sigh, the crimson stallion makes his way up the hall with a dismissive wave.

"Don't worry, its not an alarm... its just the base playing the wake-up sequence. It must still be on automatic play."

The mare blinks, tilts her head for a moment, then nods in understanding. It takes her a moment to shake the sleep from her hazzle eyes, visible without the goggles to hide them. Raising her left hoof, Rum Rush taps on her right foreleg as she looks to the stallion.

'What... is she asking if I have a wa- oh... Ooooooh right.' Shifting his uniform from the tip of his wing to rest it across the back of his barrel, Martini smiles.

"Its Seven in the morning, the base plays that every morning at the same time."

Understanding blossoms in the mare's brownish eyes as she nods, looking over the stallion before her with a critical eye, and a raised brow. The expression earns a mirrored eyebrow raise from said stallion.

"What?" She points at him with the same hoof, then to the uniform on his back, then back to him.

"...I'm going to use the laundry, maybe find a uniform that fits me to wear in the meantime." The mare lowers her hoof, blinking in a clear lack of understanding.

"...a Laundry, you know. A place with machines for cleaning your clothes?"

...

...

The blank stare and silence he receives in turn leads the stallion to understand that Rum Rush does not in fact, know.

"Err... follow me, i'll show you. Its actually pretty useful." Raising his left wing in a beckoning sweep, Martini continues on past the mare, with the muffled hoof-steps of Rum Rush following close behind. He doesn't lead her very far.

Not even a dozen hoof-steps in fact. Walking straight up to the wall of the hallway running beside the mares chosen quarters, the stallion points out something that she likely hadn't noticed... something he hadn't even noticed in his first pass.

Namely, that the designers of this laundry room must have been from the Ministry of Image.

That, or they were just massive cunts.

Gripping a portion of the slightly protracted wall plating, Martini pushes, revealing that the wall panel is in fact just a sliding panel door. Made from the same material as the walls.

Economic, yes.

User friendly and identifiable? No.

Not even slightly.

'I wonder how long it took for the grunts to figure out this was even here?' He wonders sadly, revealing the realm of military wonder beyond.

Namely the Two rows of standard, boxy, side-loaded washing machines standing two machines tall, one of which took up the entire right wall of the room. Two Rows of similarly positioned dryers backed up to the rear of the free-standing washing machine row right up to the far wall, and lastly a set of six massive, olive-green cylindrical machines and a vast control box taking up the entire left wall of the room.

Easily large enough to hold a full-sized Hellhound if one tried to compare it. It was as large as a Motorwagon!

Staring at the array of machines, Rum Rush just gives the stallion a confused look. One he returns with a smile. "Don't worry, its alot easier than it looks... here, let me show you."

Trotting past the array of fairly normal machines to the vast unit at the end, the stallion gives it a gentle slap. "This, is an Equestrian Laundry Advanced System".

"Its purpose is to clean clothing to such a degree that even things like radiation, biological agents, harmful chemicals, all that stuff... gets filtered out while applying a protective coating to make our uniforms more resistant to those things."

"On top of cleaning off dirt, stains, and all the other stuff that these normal machines~" He motions to the standard laundry equipment, smiling as the mare's stare widens with surprise.

"~are already capable of doing." Pulling a red-hued latch to unlock the single circular hoof-thick glass door of the machine, the stallion pulls it open and tosses in his uniform followed by each boot in an arching yeet.

Closing the door with a reverberating thud of armored steel and the clack of the latch being locked into place, Martini strides up the line of machines to the control box. The mare following hesitantly behind.

Stopping at the control box, the stallion raises his right wing and taps on it to draw Rum Rushes attention to the vertical array of buttons and dials taking up the right side of its surface, while a large screen takes up the left. Resting a primary feather against the topmost button he says.

"So, this first one is usually used when there's a few hundred uniforms going in at a time, usually. It just repeats whatever the last operation was... so we won't be using that."

Moving his primary feather from the first row to the second, the stallion adds a second feather to point at the small dial next to the button.

"This one allows you to set the time for a wash, generally you give it an hour, but this system can be run up to twenty hours... In a rush you can wash stuff for half an hour, which is why there's forty little pips on this dial rather than twenty."

The mare nods in understanding, staring at the panel with a visible sense of wonder... though she does motion to her clothed foreleg and make an itching motion, while mocking a look of discomfort.

"Oh right, itching. Don't worry I'll get to that. This third one just controls water temperature, but we're in a base with Water Talismans. So, we don't have to worry about the cold temperature regulations on that." He shifts his feathers down to said button and dial, tapping it for emphasis.

"Turn it left for colder water, higher for hot. Don't worry about burning anything though, it maxes out at ninety degrees for the water, and minimal temperatures at thirty-six. So, you won't go making ice cubes or boiling soup." He chuckles, earning a snort of amusement from the red mare.

"Now this forth row one is important. Load Size is determined by this first dial~" He rests one primary on the button, the second on the dial in question.

"Now, because of Ministry of Image requirements. Even this machine is designed to be used for individual laundry... so for you I'd recommend keeping it at the first pip. This second dial though... this is for the specialized applications." Tapping the second dial with a primary, he rather pointedly shifts his feather to where the pips should be on the surface... instead, there are a set of five small images.

"This first one, the one that looks like a sad pony? Thats normal application, just water. None of the chemicals." The mares snort shifts to a silent chuckle. "The sad pony with a little shield around him is standard decontamination and warding. It adds the specialized coating that protects against all those nasty things I mentioned earlier."

Shifting his wing from the sad pony pictograms to the next, he smiles but keeps his tone serious. "This happy pony is for the normal application, with some top-secret softener stuff... something the Ministry Mare herself came up with after she had to use one of these for laundry." The stallion smirks.

"Makes whatever you coat it in feel bucking amazing, same for the shielded smiling pony. Except that stuff is compatible with the warding compound... We call it Fluffle-Puff Stuff." A faint honk of choked air joins the silent laughter as the mute cackles.

Shifting his feather from the Smiling pony to the last pictogram, the stallion taps the Skull and Crossbones.

"This one is specifically for clearing the machine in the event something contaminated with high grade magical liquid, liquid balefire... or Goddess's help you, Taint, ends up in the machine. It's usually only used for cleaning dedicated Hazardous Materials gear, the stuff that you'd need Other Ponies in Hazmat Gear to handle. I doubt you'll need to use it anytime... we used to use it for removing the occasional stain from an idiot missing something in a pocket. At least before things got really messy with the Zebra..." The stallion trails off as the mare's laughter fades, she gives him a nod. Already aware of his Wartime nature.

"Right... anyway, this last button is just the start button. You dial in everything and lock it in with the buttons above, then press this button to start it."

Demonstrating, the stallion sets his to wash for an hour, sets the temperature to seventy degrees, the load to individual, the application to 'Happy Shielded Pony', and finally with a clank, presses the start button. Immediately the vast machine rumbles to life with a growl, the space beyond the glass window filling with oddly colored water and suds as the machine begins its cycle.

"...and that's how you use this type of machine. The dryer works the same way... and there three of each. So, you can get your clothes taken care of if you feel like it." He adds helpfully, earning a nod from the mare... then a pause as she looks down at herself, then back at him, then back at herself... before she taps her foreleg and makes a clockwise circle around the point on her leg.

...

"Oh... do you... are you not comfortable with other creatures seeing you naked?" The stallion asks, hesitantly at that. As though the idea that a pony would be bothered by a lack of clothes was unusual to him. The mare nods, shifting her eyes to the machine.

Less out of interest in the things it can do... and more to avoid meeting the stallion's amber gaze. "Oh. Well, I'll let you be then. Sorry." Turning his back on the winged bounty hunter, the stallion moves through the line of standard machines to the other side of the room until he stumbles upon the packaged bundles of laundered uniforms meant to be picked up by soldiers.

Cleverly hidden out of sight by the driers row, it doesn't take him long to find something in his size. Whispering a prayer to the uniform's previous owner, Martini hopes Sergeant Black Wing didn't suffer when he died.

He was probably still in the barracks with the rest of his ponies... lying there.

Something in the stallion's heart clicked, a small switch of sorts. An urge... a need even. A sense of purpose as he let his gaze rise from the sacks of uniforms. Looking down the line of laundry equipment to the hallway beyond.

Finding himself a set of socks and hoof-boots, the stallion tugged them on, using his teeth and cyber-digits to tie them before finally recovering the last piece of clothing he intended to take. A field cap, taken from Sergeant Black Wing's bag. Putting it on and adjusting it to cover his eyes, the stallion stepped forward.

His cadence slipping into an old and familiar stride as he marched down the line of dryers, sparing only a glance in the direction of Rum Rush as he steps out the door. He only caught a flicker of a red hoof and part of her flank as he stepped around the corner and into the hallway proper. Heading back towards the T-junction leading to the main lobby.

Rounding the corner at the end of the hall, Martini continued on past the passage leading to the lobby, instead continuing on up the other side of the 'T'. Rounding yet another corner he came to rest at the door to the Medbay, it would have what he needed.

Even if the shelf-life on body-bags was a hundred and forty-give years past their due date. They would still do. Opening the door, the stallion could only sigh in despair at the sight before him.

"Scopolamina... if I ever see you again, we'll have words." His hiss carries over the destruction coating the med-bay. Sure, the medical tools and equipment was present. But the cabinets for holding the various medicines, surgical drugs, and variety of other key elements for any medical operation had been thrown open and ransacked.

Even the Medical variant Mister Hoovsie was gone! Shaking his head in a mix of disappointment, and disgust the stallion got to work.

Locating a simple four-wheeled medical cart, he layered the pre-rolled black, rubberized bags in the cart. Stacking up sixty before running out of room... then with a grunt he gripped the handles of the cart and pushed.

Trundling the wheeled stretcher out of the med-bay and back towards the barracks with steady steps. Only to pause at the T-junction, his gaze resting on the sealed blast-door. Nudging the cart up against the wall, the stallion made his way up the turret-strewn passage into the main lobby, crossing it silently as he moved to the door and ran his Holotag over the scanner.

Access Granted, Second Leftenant Martini Markerlight.

With a pneumatic hiss the door separates into four sections once more, withdrawing into the wall. Beyond the lip of the door a number of craters line the parking lot from Wild Lightning, but nothing too abnormal... Leaving the door open, the stallion steps out and takes to the air rising up above the edge of the building as he takes in the sight of the base grounds.

Staring down at the base, it's easy to see why it remained undisturbed given its location. Tucked into a ridge and built to outwardly appear as an old factory, there would have been very little reason for anyone beyond scavengers to check it out. Assuming they got past the forty meters of barbed wire and landmines that served as the base's outward defenses.

Then either got over or through the chain link fence without getting fried by robotic defenders. Anyone that managed that much would've found themselves out of luck at the door to the base... and while the stallion hadn't checked out the Motor Pools door system, odds are it was just as formidable.

Still, despite the overgrown nature of it, there was a fair amount of relatively clear space still to see. To the left of the road leading to the main gate of the facility was a large area of crabgrass and dried dirt.

Mentally measuring out the area, Martini dipped his wings and glid back down to the open blast door... today was going to be a long day.

When Rum Rush eventually found him, more than an hour had passed. In that time the stallion had procured himself an entrenching tool and was up to his hind-legs in a hole roughly the size of a pony, surrounded by a mist of condensed air as his wings flared and curled behind him, shaping the thin fog with his weather magic.

With a grunt, Martini jams the edge of the entrenching tool deep into the dry dirt once more, unaware of his watcher as his right wing pulls a portion of the fog down against the flat of the shovel and squeezes it into place, forcing it into the dry soil beneath.

Shifting his grip, the stallion shoves down into the now-wet soil and hefts it up and over his shoulder to join the pile that will eventually fill the hole he's digging. Heaving a relieved breath, the crimson pegasus straightens up and stretches his forelegs, using the E-tool to support his weight.

They were hardly deep enough to call true, proper graves. But three feet deep and long enough to fit the average pony... they would work far better than simply leaving the skeletons in the barracks.

'Four down... a few hundred to go.' He sighs, pausing at the sound of a clearing throat.

Glancing over at the confused form of Rum Rush the stallion... nods. "...I, couldn't just leave them all in there. So, I'm digging graves for them." Turning back the stallion pulls himself out of the hole, moves three feet to the side of the newest shallow grave.

The small bank of fog flowing around him curls tightly to his wings as the pegasus shifts position, Martini hisses with effort as he drives spade and weather magic alike against the ground.

Once...

Twice...

Thrice...

He hardly even noticed Rum Rush slip away.

Not that it was that big of a deal, he had a duty to handle... Sunrise and her crew hadn't been willing to stay and help bury the bodies, it wasn't worth her valuable time after all. But ensuring his comrades in arms found some peace, even over a century late. That would at least ease some part of the failing this place represented. Another hour, and five more graves would pass as Martini worked, before Rum Rush would return... with company.

So caught up the act of digging, the stallion almost missed the slow approach of pneumatic limbs, the rough 'Clomp' 'Clomp' of motorized hoof servos, and the creak of long-since expired rubber insulation, until it was nearly on top of him. Snapping his head in the direction of the sound, the stallion expected to find himself facing a combat robot, maybe a Guardian Ponytron unit that had been missed?

Instead, he found the beaming grin of a familiar pegasus mare holding a full-sized shovel while a set of holotags glittered from her neckline. Behind her marched a full six Ponytron's in the faded yellow of construction or engineering models. Complete with the faux hard-hat addition to their sensor casing.

One of the units, marked with a white addition to its 'hard hat' hissed harshly as its vocalizer malfunctioned, clicked, then reset, a synthetic monotone echoing from its scratchy speakers as it steps forward.

"Audio Systems Restored. Work Detail. Reporting. For. Duty. Second. Lieutenant. Markerlight.

For a moment the stallion just... stares, stunned for just a few seconds, but stunned non-the-less. Turning to Rum Rush Martini tries to find the words to reply, only to receive a sly smile in return. Shaking off the shock, he nods.

"Ponytrons. Burial Detail, I need three hundred and nine graves in this area... make your parameters uh, three feet deep, two and a half feet wide, and six feet long. Model pattern off of Wartime Inspection Formation for this post."

The Ponytron Foreman stands still, the red lights beneath the decorative hard-hat covering glittering dimly as it processes the orders, the body of the machine leaning forward as if contemplating how to accomplish the goal. After a minute of silent contemplation, the unit straightens up.

"Parameters Understood. All. Right. Boys. Let's. Get. Digging. Raising its left mechanized leg, the hoof separates to reveal a reinforced trowel.

"Please. Stand. Clear... Ponytron. On. Duty... This. Is. An. Active. Construction site."

Trundling forward slowly, the Foreman unit approaches Martini, who smoothly steps clear as it buries its trowel into the dirt he had previously been digging with industrial efficiency. The rest of its detail slowly advance on the field, deploying tools from armored ports as they waddle.

Turning to Rum Rush, the stallion can only bauk at the impishly large grin on the mare's face as she snickers. Holding a hoof out to Martini, she gently... very gently, lifts his jaw back into line with the rest of his mouth. Much to the grumbling annoyance of the stallion.

'How long was I just standing there like that... and, How?' That second question he verbalizes.

"How? I thought Sunrise and her crew destroyed all the bots when we came through?"

Tilting her head, the crimson mare presented her right foreleg. More importantly though, she presented what was on it. A simple steel contraption made up of a screen, a dozen buttons, and a small stylus. Not too different from a PipPad, aside from the great big insignia at the top of it.

Robronco

"Is that a control unit for them?" The mare nods.

"How did you find it?" Tilting her head slightly, the red pegamare simply shrugs with a smile. Waving a hoof dismissively she simply adjusts another set of settings as she takes the stylus in her lips, carefully typing out something.

Before I can ask just what she's doing, the Foreman's speakers crackle to life again. "Addition. Support. Units. Allocated. Parameters. Uploaded. With that last vocalization a glint of movement catches the stallion's eye.

Emerging from the doors of the now open Motor Pool marched a full twelve additional Ponytron's. Each clad in the same hazard yellow coloration, each baring a deployable shovel... and each advancing towards the field across the open parking lot.

Leaning against the Entrenching Tool in his hooves, Martini watches the wave of lumbering automata, a grateful smile gracing his lips as he looks to Rum Rush.

"Thank you... Rum, I... I don't know how long it would have taken without these guys. Thank you."

With a wave of her hoof to stave off his thanks, the mare presented the stallion with the longer handled shovel. A gift he shied away from as he tapped the entrenching tool beneath his hoof with a clank of metallic hoof on military-grade steel.

"I'll keep using this. It's what I'm used to~" Trailing off the stallion straightens up as he looks to the dark-grey clouds above.

Even as the late morning approached, the darkness covering the wasteland remained a constant. Coating everything in an inky grey-black of depressive shadow, only occasionally broken by blinding cracks in the Cloud Layer.

Turning to start on yet another grave, the stallion let one darkly thankful thought pass his mind as his E-Tool slammed home in the soil.

'At least I don't have to worry about the sun's oppressive heat in this new hell.'

Beneath the engorgued Cloud Layer near Cloudsdale the concept of day and night is easily determined in the soul-sapping greyish darkness of the wastes. When you can see, its daytime. When the land is engulfed in the deathly blanket of blackened shadow, its nighttime.

This sadly makes the concept of using the Sun as a guide for the passage of time all but impossible for those who call this section of the wasteland home. Fortunately, Rum Rush's newly acquired Robronco Workhorse came with a programed clock in its software for work assignment timing.

For five long hours of toil in the dusty soil, five long hours of ripping into the ground with shovel, wing-guided magic, and the strength of trained flesh. Until finally, thanks to the ceaseless efforts of the mechanized engineering unit, where once there stood an empty plain of flat ground.

There now stood three hundred and nineteen shallow graves, each headed by a single railroad spike provided from the internal production banks of the venerable, cumbersome machines.

The design of the gravesite matched the exact parameters put forth by the crimson stallion. Broken up by platoon, three sets of one-hundred graves stood waiting. Each baring two graves out of line and slightly ahead of each 'troops' soon-to-be resting place.

A space for the Lieutenant and his second in command, with only a single grave resting just before the concrete divider of the new grave site and the parking lot breaking the mold. This grave was special in its purpose, for it would hold the commander of all those who had fallen within the base. The Captain of the three-hundred strong force.

Nestled off to the side of the macabre formation stood the last nineteen graves, each separated by at least five feet. These graves would hold the hoof-ful of non-military workers who had died with the soldiers. Looking over the carefully placed rows of shallow graves, Martini let his chin rest upon his dirtied hooves. The easy part was over, now all that remained was to recover the remains and intern them.

Flaring his wings to stand bipedal, the stallion leaves the entrenching tool buried in the soil as he drops back to all four hooves and turns his attention to the two rows of engineering Ponytrons and their delighted work-mistress. "Rum, I'm going to start preparing the bodies for burial... I'm, going to need you to have two Ponytrons to carry each of the bodybags as we go. Can their programming handle that?"

Tilting her head in contemplation, the mare nods after a few seconds. Typing out a series of sequences with quick pecks of the stylus between her fanged teeth. For a moment it looks like she's spacing out and ignoring the question, until at last her left wing rises in the ever-clear 'Feather Up' signal.

A single primary feather jutting up from the wing, while the remainder ball up beneath it in a Paradym of a gryphon's talon. Lowering her stylus for a moment as she examines whatever she'd applied, the mare nods to herself and levels one final tap to the Workhorse pad. Behind her the rows of hazard yellow machines lean forward as the orders transmit to them.

Work. Order. Received... Honor. To. The. Fallen... Gentle Touch Protocol. Enabled.

As one the machines straightened up as the mare made her way back to Martini's side. A hint more confident now that he wouldn't be handling his duties within alone, the stallion strode towards the Motor Pool bay doors.

Behind him the quiet hoofsteps of Rum Rush were lost in the synchronized clatter of more than a dozen Ponytron's moving to follow the pair. Across the cracked asphalt of the lot marched the strange procession as they entered the first bay, passing by the fallen remains of the two Engineering bots that had accosted Martini in his first exploration of the base.

Entering the hall beyond, the stallion motioned for Rum Rush to halt as his eyes fell upon the opened vent. "Wait here... I need to get body bags."

With an understanding wave of her wing, the stallion departed. Sweeping back up the hallway to grab a bundle of ten bags off the cart he'd abandoned. It only took a minute, but as he returned to the vent.

Martini wished that it had taken far longer. Leaving the bundle behind with Rum Rush he entered the tight embrace of the maintenance corridor once more, hooves carrying him back to the isolated resting place of the Gunnery Sergeant.

With great care the stallion swept down the rungs of the ladder to the bottom of the shaft, unrolling the matte black body-bag with a crinkle of old rubber. The zipper groaning loudly in the confined space as it descended the length of the bag... with a small smile, the crimson stallion noted the old Ministry of Image adjustment enchantment runes on the interior seemed to still be intact. So, with a touch easing close to veneration the pegasus gripped the shoulders of the uniformed skeleton.

He hardly had time to recognize the whispers closing in before they engulfed him. A dark shadow clouding his vision as a voice called to him, strong and stern. '~n you hear me?'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

May 23rd, 1035 ALB
Heartbreak Facility
2LT Markerlight, Ministry of Awesome

"Sorry Gunny, I was setting a memory start point. That... agh I don't think I'm going to get used to that anytime soon." Blinking as his eyes readjusted to the dim environment of a sterile room, the stallion could feel the painfully hard steel table beneath his back. Above him his hooves were resting on the uniformed shoulders of a dark brown earth pony stallion, his greying goatee and auburn mane fixed in a stern but forgiving frown.

"Yeah, yer not the first one tah say that... they say setting y'r first Point is the worst, but yah ain't gone and Chuck'd up on me. So, I'd say yer doing fine so far. Come on then." The strong hooves of the stallion gripped the pegasus, lifting the lighter pony to a sitting position. Blinking away the blurry after image, Martini found himself staring down at the familiar form of Gunnery Sergeant Master Metal as the latter helped him off the table and kept him from swaying on his shaky legs.

"I don't right know how a fell'ah like yerself can do it Leftenant. But good job, you ain't dead... well, the permanent kind anyway. Just remember not tah let no-one hit yah in that box'ah yours with no Plasma, er lasers... 'n yah should outlast us all." The older stallion chuckled, his thickly muscled foreleg tapping the pegasi's bare chest with what was likely a light tap for an earth pony of his skill, but to the young officer it might as well have been a punch in the lungs.

"N-noted. Gunn-ry Sergeant. Agh."

The laughter paused for a moment as the older pony looked the Shadowbolt over. "Son~" Even with the thick southern drawl, there was no hiding the fatherly tone the aged Non-Com used as he regarded the junior officer. "You can call me Gunny, Gunny Master, Sergeant Metal, or Sir~... I know you outrank me, but you gave up on the comforts of a proper chain of command the moment you stepped your hooves in the Project." The stern tone wasn't harsh, or unforgiving. Merely informative, comforting... in an odd way.

"Of course, Gunny... so, who am I being assigned to this time? 15, 10?" For a moment a small flicker of concern passed through the stallion's teeth at the mention of the even number, before fading away under the hard back-thumping pat provided by the older earth pony.

"Son, ah couldn't tell yah. But I know it's an Agent... and they're down a Dirk. So, until yah get replaced on 'ere team. Just remember yer train'n... and for Goddesses sake, remember: Your weapon is your life, don't lose it." But rather than offer some form of weapon, the stallion simply tapped the pegasus on the side of the head.

"This, this right'er. Is the greatest weapon yah got, never fer'get that."

Nodding in understanding, the pegasus waits for the old stallion to continue... only to stumble as the supporting weight pulled away. Stumbling for a moment Martini barely managed to keep from planting his crimson snoot into the floor as he regained his footing.

"Well, come ah'n now young'n. Ah'll get yah kitted back up... we gotta be quick'bout it though. Word is the Stripes are plann'n something big... big enough tah have miss Blue an' Rainbows herself runn'n around in'ah tizzy. You'll be the last soul outta the base until we figure it out."

"Uniforms on the floor, ah'll be wait'n by the elevator on yah."

With that the older stallion made his way out the door, leaving Martini alone to examine the steel examination table behind him, the wall of stasis-crypts for holding the bodies of the fallen... and lastly his replacement uniform.

The familiar royal purple and pastel yellow of the Shadowbolts battledress drawing him in with ease. Unfolding the uniform, he grasped the zipper with a wing and pulled~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blinking as the sound of the zipper carried over Martini's ears, the stallion found himself once more in the dimly lit maintenance corridor. The empty eye sockets of Master Metal staring up at him sagely.

As if even in death, the old stallion was waiting to provide him with insightful wisdom. With a careful shift of his wing, the zipper carried itself over the Gunny's bony face, sealing him away in the embrace of the body bag. The bag itself seemingly deflating as the runes within activated, shifting the air within the bag into a condensed state.

Shriveling as it suddenly compacted into a vacuumed-sealed container, the bag took on a vaguely pony-like shape. As though someone had simply laid two thick black sheets over the body and pressed it perfectly flat against the surface.

Carefully, Martini lifted the body of Masters in his hooves, wings wrapping around the rungs in their stead as he climbed the shaft. Face white, as though he'd just seen a ghost. ...in a sense, he had.

While the memory was short it answered at least one key question: Was he stationed at this base in the past? ...yes. Unfortunately, it just raised more questions. What was a 'Dirk', beyond a simple and reliable close quarters weapon? Perhaps the answer was simple... he was a close-combat specialist after all. Maybe the designation was meant to indicate that? But if so, who was he assigned to?

Back in the hallway Rum Rush was kind enough not to comment on the paleness of Martini's coat, despite how amusingly pink it seemed. Fortunately, as soon as the body of the Gunny was hoofed over to two of the Ponytrons, the odd discoloration began to fade back to the normal crimson red the pegasus was known for. Following the stallion as he retraced his steps.

The pair and their accompanying host of automata made their way to the mess hall, which had finally had its stench degrade from toxic to merely uncomfortable thanks to the ventilation systems. Which also revealed the source of the horrid smell.

At some point in the distant past a meat fridge had been opened by one of the three skeletons lying on the floor within the kitchen proper, from the contraband alcohol bottles and Party Time Mint-Al's, to the desperate choking position of each of the bodies, it was clear that they had asphyxiated while trying to make something out of the meat, likely while drunk... add in the rot and lack of airflow, and it was no wonder that the rest of the Mess Hall became a cloud of unbreathable stench.

Fortunately, the Stasis runes on the remaining fridges were still intact. Meaning whatever was within them was probably still good, as were the cabinets full of preserved rations, canned goods... there was even a pantry stocked full of MRE's.

Enough that two ponies would never dent the available number housed within. Thanking Luna for small miracles, Martini carefully packaged each of the three bodies, and once more they were hooved over to the Ponytrons.

Despite their design, the machines handled the bodies with a shocking amount of care... Gentle Touch Protocol indeed.

From the Mess Hall to the offices the procession marched, bagging a lone officer who must have died napping at his desk. Then the body of the Duty Guard in the main lobby. By the time the Guards body was waddled out, the first Ponytrons had returned.

Moving towards the barracks the stallion felt a deeply seeded root of despair in his chest the moment the group rounded the corner leading past the laundry. He had collected one Holotag from each of the bodies within the three barracks as Sunrise's crew had gone about ransacking the place. Each of which laid in a bag within his saddlebags back in his commandeered room.

Gathering his courage, the stallion refused to break his stride as he hugged the left corner leading into the first barracks... but it still hurt to see the four ranks of beds, each topped with a ponies skeleton, aside from the rare few who managed to struggle from their beds in their last panicked moments. Lowering his head in shame, the stallion got to work.

The act of transferring the fallen to their new rubber-bagged tomb numbing the stallion as the number rose. He almost didn't notice that a Protectron was providing him with replacement Body Bags after a while. Instead focusing wholly on his current purpose, his current duty.

Minutes turned to an hour as the procession proceeded through the first barracks with grim efficiency, ensuring the chain of body-bags moving out the doors remained constant as Martini continued his disheartening work.

A brief flicker of distraction did present itself though as he caught sight of Rum Rush pausing one of the pairs of Ponytrons carrying a body out to open the bag, check something within, then reseal it... as he continued, he saw her do this with each bagged body to pass through the doors of the barracks. Uncertain what she was doing, the stallion opted to simply continue the ghastly task and ask her later.

Eventually, the final body of the first barracks was tucked away. With legs like lead weights the crimson pegasus checked the connected showers and relief area, noting the remains of an improvised alcohol still in one of the shower stalls.

With no further bodies in sight, the stallion moved onto the next barracks with the same dark determination. It took only around forty-five minutes to clear the bodies from the second barracks.

Not that any would view such a thing as 'Good'... some part of Martini's logical mind filed away his improved efficiency in processing casualties, but the conscious part of his mind retreated from the traumatizing work.

Soon, two barracks became three. The clank of machines moving in an unbroken chain to carry the fallen had long since become a simple element of the background to the stallion as he worked, unaware of the faint tremble to his wings with every bag he zipped up.

Every sniffle as he hooved them on to the Ponytrons... and every teary-eyed blur he simply blinked away as dust from the remains. Refusing to consciously acknowledge his emotional weakness. He had to remain strong, at least until the end.

From the barracks to the officers' quarters, bodies were packaged and carefully transferred. Even the second level of the base was cleared, only a hoof-ful of non-military workers in the large workshop space and the bodies of five scientists made up the entire population of that portion of the base.

Moving through the chemical mixing faculties and armor presses for the unnatural, spiritually resistant material still left the stallion a little uncertain. ...he didn't tarry there for too long.

Eventually the stallion ran out of places to look. From the lab facilities, workshops, and test range of the underground level to the more conventional bunker of the upper level of the base.

With great weight in each step, the stallion ensured that none had been missed in his sweeps. Which meant only one thing remained for the stallion to do... the one thing he dreaded but felt needed to be done. If only to offer the fallen some measure of peace.

It was with that in mind that his hooves carried him back to the bay doors of the Motor Pool, eyes blank as he crossed the threshold of the doorway into the chilly air of the Wasteland. Behind him he could still hear the faint clatter of hooves from Rum Rush, the mare having never broken line of sight with him throughout the entire process... Slowing his pace, the stallion let his gaze sharpen as he approached the graves and stopped.

The hooves behind him halted with his...

Stretching out before the stallion was each grave, positioned to his exact request, but with two key differences. Attached to the embedded metal spike at the head of each grave was a simple sheet of steel, a line only a hoof-wide and three hooves long, welded into place vertically. But more important than the metal addition was the characters burned into each sheet, as if by an arch welder.

He didn't need to see them up close, but closer did he draw himself until eventually the characters of the first grave made themselves known to him in painful clarity, even though his blurring eyes. For next to the Captain's grave was a second burial marking.

The name, rank, and serial number of Master Metal imprinted into its surface. Blinking away tears, the stallion shook his head and averted his gaze from the improvised headstone... until his gaze landed upon the entrenching tool standing naught but a few feet away from the pegasus, head buried in the soil as he'd left it.

Reaching out with a wing, the stallion shifted the tool to his left hoof, the cyberlimb shifting to release its mechanized digits and grasp the shovel as Martini adjusted it, resting the blade of the shovel against the bare metal beneath the name and gathered the moisture in the air around his wings.

With each slow whip of his feathers a layer of fog thickened around the stallion's form, directing it, Martini lashed out with the water vapor in the same manner he had to dig. But rather than cutting through soil and crabgrass, the water slammed strongly against the thin metal plate of the improvised grave marker.

Once, twice, thrice he struck until the metal gave, punching a fine line through the metal and leaving a fairly smooth hole.

Mirroring the position on the opposite side of the new hole, the stallion repeated the process, leaving the familiar lines of a single chevron in the steel... then he lowered the blade of the shovel and struck again, adding a second chevron.

Then a Third! Then and only then did he flip the shovel around and press it to the central line of these three chevrons, twice more he struck, leaving the mark of a Gunnery Sergeants rank punched through the plate of metal.

Rising, he moved back from the Gunny and Captain's graves to a position from which he could see the entire front line, and had ponies stood in place of the tombstones the entire front line would have been able to see him. Weary eyes trailing over the rows of marked dead; he straightens up as the warmth of the sun at his back suddenly illuminates the stallion.

His shadow stretched far before him by the dying light of the setting sun. Raising his gaze skyward, he can make out a break in the clouds centered on the gravesite. A coincidence? Some divine act?

He didn't know... but in this moment his voice, quiet but carried across the quiet surroundings rose, filled with sorrow, command, and finality as he turns back to the sun-lit burial site.

"Company!..." He stiffens instinctively at attention, and once more he could almost swear that he could see the outline of everypony he'd buried, their pastel-colored forms shimmering above the turned dirt that marked their final resting places.

"Your duty is complete~" The moisture that had grown at the edge of his eyes began to drip, slowly, steadily as it curves down his cheeks.

"Go now with the blessing of the Moon, may you find peace beyond duty."

"Dismissed."

With that first and final order his right wing snaps up, bringing the tip of his crimson primaries to his temple in salute. Silence reigns over the parking lot for a few seconds as the sunlight fades with a shift in the clouds, then the limb trembles.

The thin stream of tears strengthening as they trail their way down his cheek, collecting under his chin. He remains at attention for thirty seconds before the trembling becomes too much, and he lowers his head. Silently sobbing.

-----------------The Base Exterior----------------