Prologue
War. War never changes.
The apocalyptic ending to the Great War, and event referred to by some as Judgment Day, is the centuries old legacy of a long since departed generation, a generation that ultimately destroyed itself through greed, lust for power, and simple, psychotic rage. Though the carrion of their civilization still exists, the nightmarish depths that both sides sunk to before the end are all but forgotten by most.
Forgotten, but far from gone.
Now, nearly two centuries later, these nightmares begin to rise again. Driven by the same base urges and madness that consumed the world in balefire, these monsters are ultimately concerned with one thing: power.
This is a menace that only one pony can end. That he must end. For in the wasteland nothing, nothing, is ever as it seems. Equestria, Preacher, and you will never be the same.
Prepare for the Future.
Chapter 1: Alpha
“And that’s how Equestria was made!”
This whole shitstorm started with, of all things, a knocking at my door. I jumped up, nearly added another addition to my lovely collection of holes in the roof, and fell back down into the bed. I groaned, slowly opened my eyes, and judged by the way the starlight was coming through the aforementioned holes that it was about one in the morning.
They knocked again as I rubbed my forehead, and a mare’s voice drifted in through insulation that clearly needed to be changed, again.
“P-Preacher? Hello?” she paused, and then another mare’s voice cut in that was deeper, more commanding.
“Preacher! Ah know ya’ll are in there! Open up, dangit!”
“Ugh” was my witty response as I finally cast off my tangled blankets and trotted (a lesser stallion might say stumbled) in the vague direction of the entrance to my home, lighting candles as I went along. Hey, power’s expensive, and being the local priest doesn’t mean diving into a swimming pool of caps every day.
I opened the door, and lo and behold, there were two mares that were a study in contrasts. One was willowy, just growing out of the awkwardness of post-adolescence, her sad features set in a mask of quiet fear. Her cutie mark (not staring) was supremely suited for her, as cutie marks are wont to be: a closed rose, just about to bloom. The other was built like a tank, broad, tall and dangerous looking, everything but her face and hooves covered in combat barding that was hung with utility packs of every size and description. A wide brimmed black cowboy hat covered her uncombed, dirty blonde mane, and in a holster strapped to her right fetlock was a revolver of exceedingly large caliber, unsubtle and ugly, just like its owner.
I inclined my head slightly in greeting, trying to sound as friendly as could.
“Rosebud”
She twitched a little. Ponies do that when I start talking.
“Tex.”
The scars where Tex’s face should have been contorted into an expression of pissed-ness. Big surprise there.
“Ah already told ya’ll, Preacher,” she growled, “Mah friends call me Tex. Ya’ll can call me Texas.” Her expression softened, as it always did. “Or Miss Texas.”
The two of us shared a laugh. Don’t look at me like that. Friendly banter is what keeps Tex from killing everything that looks at her wrong. With our little ritual completed, I looked back at Rosebud, and saw her twitch again. Ponies do that when I look intently at them.
“What seems to be the problem?”
She stuttered and blanched, her red coat becoming a sickly looking shade of light red.
“Th-the ch-ch-church. Somepony has-something has-“she lowered her face to the ground and became violently ill on my welcome mat.
Tex and I shared a look for half a second, before she picked up Rosebud, who by that time had fainted face down into her own sick, and carefully set the poor mare onto her back as though she weighed no more than a newborn. I scrambled back into the house and started tearing through the general clutter of the place, grabbing a bucket and some damp rags while Tex put Rosebud onto my comfiest couch. I passed her the bucket, which she set on the ground near Rosebud’s head and wiped the sick off her face. Texas sorted through her pouches with commendable speed, and broke out some smelling salts as I eyed her, arching a brow.
“You carry smelling salts?”
She looked at me as though I had just stated that bullets go really fast and hurt things, snorted, and waved the stuff under Rosebud’s nose. The mare shuddered and came to looking fearful and nauseous.
“Relax. Control your breathing and tell us what happened, if you can.”
She just shook her head violently and said nothing. I suppressed a growl of frustration and turned to Texas, who, worryingly, had taken out her massive freaking revolver and was checking it with an added dose of conviction. She spit the thing back into her fetlock holster and said “Ah’ll get the doc over here right quick, an’ then meet ya’ll at the church.”
“Wait a minute. What’s going on? What happened at the church?” I met her steely gaze, “What aren’t you telling me?”
She faltered, averted her eyes to the floor, and spoke in hushed tones, “Ah haven’t been inside. Th’ ponies that have been all come out like Rosebud over there, soilin’ themselves with a fear like Ah have never seen.”
Her quiet tone, to be frank, scared the crap out of me. Texas was the original tough girl, and prided herself on never showing weakness for anything other than alcohol. Something that could stun her into silence could make other ponies literally pass out in fear. Then that apprehension boiled away, suddenly replaced by righteous fury. Something had come into my town, harmed ponies that were under my protection, and worked some blasphemy against Goddess-consecrated ground that had everypony losing control of their bodily functions just by going inside. My words almost came out as a snarl as I said “Okay. You get the doctor. I’ll make sure Rosebud is comfortable, get my gear and meet you there.”
Texas simply nodded, and fairly galloped out my home, leaving me alone with a mare frightened out of her wits, a shitload of weapons and ammo, and a hot red pepper of rage stuck firmly in my sphincter muscle.
*.*.*
The church wasn’t Sanctuary’s largest building, but it was close. It had always been there, as far as I or anypony else in town knew, weathering over two centuries of neglect as if the Great War had simply never happened. It had stood there, watching decades of inspiration and progress spiral into chaos, corruption, and eventually a cataclysmic exchange of magical weaponry that scoured the lands down to the bedrock. Sometimes, after the congregation had left and I was closing up shop, I’d gaze at the statues of the Blessed Sisters and the beautiful stained glass windows depicting the Ministry Mares, weeping silent tears for a past that could never truly be reclaimed. It was always so quiet then…
It sure as hell wasn’t quiet now. Townsponies stood around gawking and pointing at the flashing red and purple lights from within the building, while the Sanctuary Militia was busy cordoning off the area with all the speed of a constipated rhino. I growled and muttered something unpriestly under my breath as I saw one of the idiots try to flag down Tex, who was galloping toward me at top speed. Even though Tex barely clipped the stallion, he still got spun around pretty badly and landed in the dirt in a shocked heap. Don’t mess with Texas.
She reached me without so much as breaking a sweat, stopping in front of me in a controlled skid. Every inch of her looked primed for combat, and she was shaking a little from adrenaline as she retrieved her whisky from a bottle shaped utility pack and slugged half of it down without a second thought. I couldn’t resist teasing her a bit.
“I assume imbibing alcohol leaves the mind clear, focused, and ready for action?” I asked.
“Damn right it does.” She replied, her steel grey eyes flashing in the dark. She took another gulp of the stuff, capped it, and slid it back into the pouch. She spun around, planted her rear end on the ground, and squinted at the multicolored lights shining from the windows of the church.
“What do ya think is goin’ on in there?”
“Nothing good.” I replied, readying myself for what could prove to be a lethal experience, which you have to admit, is an odd way to begin your day (or in my case, night). My gear was considerably less overt than Tex’s, if no less deadly. Rugged combat barding similar to hers was concealed beneath my nearly floor length pre-war trench coat. Strapped to the left side of my coat, within easy grabbing distance, was my trusty katana blade that I had salvaged from some nameless ruin. Along the steel was inscribed several characters in the language of the zebras, the first of which a traveling scholar had translated roughly as “faith.” It was good enough for me. The masterfully crafted semiautomatic pistol strapped to my fetlock also had writing carved into it in what I believed to be ancient Equestrian, but I have never had a direct translation. I just called it “hope.”
Once I had made sure my weapons were in roughly the same positions I had left them in, I sighed, shuddered, and asked Tex for her scalpel. She winced, genuine worry turning the areas of unscarred skin on her face (there wasn’t much) pale in the moonlight.
“Ah hate watching ya’ll do this to yerself. Are ya’ll sure you don’t want me ta go in there?”
I told her I was sure. She nodded; features still laced with concern as she pulled out a scalpel from her endless rows of utility packs, and sprayed it with some disinfectant before handing it over. I opened my jaws as wide as I could, and slashed the skin that joined them in a horizontal cut that I had done countless times before. Experience didn’t make it any less painful though, as I fought not to scream in agony as I methodically cut the two halves away from my teeth, leaving them exposed to the cool night air.
You see, my face, like the rest of me, is a little unusual. My features, such as they are, resemble a superhero’s mask more than a normal pony. Instead of properly formed lips, I have a smooth membrane of skin covering my teeth, which means I have to mutilate myself to eat, drink, or use mouth operated weaponry.
Not that I’m bitter about it or anything.
The teeth themselves are all canines, which, while helpful when chowing down on a brahmin steak, are considerably less useful when consuming normal pony fare such as daisies, carrots, and what have you. Luckily, my stomach likes a high-protein diet, so that’s not really such a problem. Oh, and they’re also positioned in a hideous rictus grin that, when combined with my six small, pupiless eyes, make for an unsettling, if not downright frightening sight. And before you ask, no, I have no idea how I enunciate properly without lips. I chalk it up to earth pony magic.
Once the pain had subsided from truly unbearable to merely agonizing, I tried to blink away the tears and focused on the figure shouldering his way through the crowd, slowly but steadily making his way in my direction. He was dispensing standard militia lines like ‘move along’ and ‘nothing to see here’ as though somepony had merely spray painted graffiti on the old building’s walls. As he trotted closer, his tear-blurred form resolved itself into the rotund shape of Sheriff Doughnut. Over five long years of living in the same town as him, I had learned that Sheriff Doughnut did not like crime. Or aristocracy. Or poverty. He did not like zebras or ghouls. He did not like the militia, the civilians, or indeed much of anything.
(Sheriff Doughnut did not like religion.)
(Sheriff Doughnut did not like Texas.)
We got along just famously.
“Howdy, Sheriff.” Texas hauled herself to her hooves and waved with an entirely false air of friendliness. Doughnut grumbled something that I pretended I couldn’t hear. It was better for everypony that way.
“So, Preacher,” he said, making my name sound like a particularly unpleasant fungus, “I hope you’re about to give me a damn good reason I’m awake at this hour. I’d hate to have to haul you out of town by your ears and then demolish your building.” He scratched his mustache, enjoying the thought. “For the safety of the population, of course.”
“Ah’m getting tired of yer bullshit, Sheriff. If anypony’s gonna know what’s going on in there, it’s Preacher.” Texas stepped in front of me like a mother protecting her foal.
“I wasn’t talking to you, mule.” Doughnut spat. I didn’t miss the nervous glance he flicked back at the church though. Tex immediately went rigid, her muscles tensing as though they had all cramped at once. Her eyes narrowed almost to the point of squinting, and when she spoke it was completely devoid of any accent except fury.
“What did you just call me?”
Oh, crap. I hated it when Texas got like this. When I was around, her temper was manageable. When I wasn’t, anything that called her a mule ended up either in the clinic or in the ground.
“Hey, hey, Texas calm down.” I said, in my most soothing tone of voice, while moving between her and the overweight sheriff. I fixed her with my six-eyed stare, and she shuddered, blinked, and came out of it looking mollified. She stared intensely at the ground, ashamed. She took one look at Doughnut, snarled wordlessly, and stomped off. I rounded back onto the smug-looking Doughnut and stuck a hoof in his face.
“Sheesh, Doughnut. She has enough episodes without anypony shamelessly goading her on like that. You should be ashamed.” I lowered my fetlock, absurdly feeling like a kindergarten teacher. I looked over at the mare, who put a hoof on a large rock and effortlessly crushed it into dust, muttering all the while.
“Not my fault she can’t control her temper.” He said, lighting up a cigarette. I shook my head, my unkempt mane falling into my eyes. I brushed it away.
“I keep telling you it’s deeper than that, you jerk. Way deeper. It’s an impulse control problem.” I tapped my head. “It’s psychological. I keep trying to help her, but it just--” I clamped my jaws shut and swallowed what I was about to say. Texas had enough problems fitting in without her best friend painting her as some kind of psychopath.
“So, what, you’re a shrink now, too?”
“It’s called empathy. Look it up.”
He growled, changing the subject. Finally.
“Whatever. Something’s going on in your damn building. Everypony I’ve sent inside either comes out shitting themselves with fear or doesn’t come out at all. The last one looked like she’d seen Nightmare Moon in the flesh. I could order more of the militia in, but morale was already piss-poor before ponies started getting devoured by fucking churches.”
“Wait a second. You were sending in your forces piecemeal before Texas and I got here, and now you’re worried about morale?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand the intricacies of commanding a law-enforcement organization.”
I.e. I don’t have a freaking clue what I’m doing, I mentally added.
“Okay, I get it. I’ll go in there, find out what’s going on, and put a stop to it. I’ll save everypony and then gallop into the sunrise straight back to my bed.” Honestly, at this point I’d rather hooffight a hellhound than continue talking to this pony shaped waste of functioning organs.
Doughnut sniffed, evidently satisfied. “I’ll tell the militia to let you through.”
Texas came trotting back toward me, calmed by the act of smashing innocent rocks. I felt the time had come to state the stupidly obvious.
“I dislike him.”
“Ah wouldn’t spit in that ass’s direction, much less talk ta him.” She agreed. She then gave me a look that said: I didn’t need your help. I just gave her a similar look that said: Not the time, not the place. After a few seconds, she subsided and once again eyed the church. “What’s th’ plan?”
“Simple. I’m going into the church, putting a stop to the fireworks show, and going back to bed. If I fall asleep before I get there, could you drag me home and tuck me in?”
She gave me a cross look.
I sighed. “I’m joking.”
“Ah’m not thick enough ta appreciate yer humor yet. Gimme a couple more bottles of whisky an’ Ah’ll be rollin’ with laughter.”
See what I mean? Banter. It solves problems.
We marched up to the large, intricately carved wooden door of the church, everypony (including Doughnut) backing away a little when they saw the scowl plastered across Tex’s scars. She turned to face the sheriff, a smile that would’ve made a dragon jealous etching itself onto her features.
“Hey, Sheriff. Too afraid of messin’ up yer pretty pink coat ta go inside yerself?”
The look on his face was priceless. He immediately blushed, looked around at the ponies surrounding him, and all but screamed in a shrill voice, “It’s not pink! It’s lightish red!”
I pulled Texas aside, swallowing laughter as best I could.
“We are so going to pay for that later.”
She chortled in response, before pulling herself together long enough to whisper loudly, “Worth it.”
Alright, fun time over. There was work to be done. Texas settled herself into position next to the door, indomitable as a mountain. I took one last look at the carvings, steeled myself, loosened Hope and Faith in their holsters, and went in.
*.*.*
If you’ve lived in the wasteland for any length of time, you know there are horrible things out there. Things you don’t discuss with anypony in a casual setting. Things that make you forget that there is still light and hope in this world, that every sentient being alive carries with them a spark of the Divine. Things that shatter faith as easily as glass.
This was one of those things.
The doors slammed behind me with dread finality, leaving me with the surreal feeling of being completely, utterly alone. Oh, sure, the rational part of my mind knew that there was a whole crowd of ponies just outside, one of which was my best friend and loyal protector, but that part wasn’t holding the reins at the moment. My instincts were all screaming at me that the building I had stepped into, the church that I had ministered for years was absolutely wrong on some nameless, primal level.
Then I noticed the bodies. Then I started screaming.
Dear Celestia, there were so many. Ponies, of every size, shape, and color all sat lifelessly in the pews, some staring directly forwards, dead-eyed, at the podium where I usually stood, others…posed, heads down, their hooves together as though praying. This no longer was a church. It was a slaughterhouse.
I tried to gather facts and analyze the situation, anything to keep my mind from focusing on the sheer magnitude of the evil in this room. Every single one of their throats was slit, and I got the feeling that whatever awful violence had been committed to these poor ponies, it hadn’t been here. Such a sickening slaughter would have left blood dripping down the walls and pooling on the floor, not to mention the gruesome smears from being dragged about and set up in the seats. In a moment of horrific intuition, I deduced what this was.
It was a calling card. Neat, tidy, arranged. A psychopath’s greeting, a monster’s ‘hello.’ With a sickening lurch in the pit of my stomach I realized that this message, whatever it was supposed to mean, could only have been intended for me.
So many emotions were running through my head at once it felt like it was going to explode. Hate, for whatever had committed this atrocity unto the Goddesses. Grief, for these ponies that didn’t deserve to die. Fear for my friend, the innocent townsponies in this monster’s path, and for myself.
I was so distracted by the tumultuous battleground that was my mind that I didn’t even notice the huge, terrible, beautiful thing that was standing behind my podium until it started talking.
Hello, pious one.
I snapped immediately out of my daze, nearly jumping out of my skin as I did so. The voice sounded as though it had come from somepony standing directly in front of me, even though it’s a long trot from the doors to the podium. My vision was wavy, unfocused, but eventually I managed to hone in on the source of the voice.
The first thing that struck me about the creature was that it was a Goddess. I stared in horrified fascination as the divine being stared back, a catty smile on her lips. She--it was of the same size and proportions as the Alicorns that I worshipped, with a long, flowing, multicolored mane that waved with magical power and a horn bigger than any unicorn’s. Wings sprouted from its shapely back, and were currently folded against its sides
That’s where the resemblance to the Sisters ended. Pupiless, milky white eyes, devoid of anything resembling equinity, stared at me with a kind of cruel sentience. The thing’s coat was a bizarre sort of off-white, as though somewhere along the line it had spilled light purple paint on itself and tried to wash out the resulting stain without success. It wasn’t a true Goddess, then. Well, not one of mine at any rate. Righteous fury born of piety won out then, and when I spoke, it was with the cold tone of a born killer.
“Who are you,” I said, “that you blaspheme against the Goddesses?”
It just stared, never blinking, its seductive smile growing wider. All pretense of civility left me then, and with a roar of pure, unadulterated hate I drew Faith from its scabbard and galloped toward this thing, this abomination that had dared to threaten my home and murdered ponies for no other reason than to send me a damn message. I reached the podium, knocking it aside with a grunt of effort, and aimed a diagonal slash directly at this bastard thing’s throat.
I might as well have been moving in slow motion. It simply blurred, disappearing from sight, before I even had time to aim the strike. Stupid, I thought to myself, realizing it had deliberately goaded me into attacking as recklessly as possible. It couldn’t have teleported away without leaving a distinctive flash of light behind, which meant it was simply fast. Damn fast. Way too damn fast. How could something that large even move like that?
Before I could even process all these thoughts together, I heard a whistle from behind, and felt the things eyes on my back. I whirled around, panting, and it was just standing there in the aisle surrounded by the ponies it had murdered, wearing that same maddening, sexy grin it had this entire time.
Wait a minute. Did I just think that? Did I just think that the damn smirk on this thing’s inequine face was sexy?
I tried to howl in frustration and anger, but it just emerged as a wheeze.
Tsk, tsk, little one. You should learn to respect your elders.
With a jolt, I realized that the entire time it had been speaking to me its lips had never moved. Its thoughts just bypassed sound, arriving fully formed into my brain. I clenched the hilt of my sword hard enough for my canines to leave indents. Quickly thinking, I determined that the only way to win was to play against its strengths. Okay, Preacher, what do you know about alicorns? The reflexively pessimistic part of my mind replied ‘jack shit,’ but I thought deeper. The Lightbringer had fought against an army of these things and triumphed, so I could handle just this one, dammit.
They were deeply magical beings, for one. They could regenerate wounds and restore their energies by bathing in magical radiation, like ghouls do. They had superequine durability and agility. I had never heard of one being this freaking quick though, not without magic to help it along. Oh, and they communicated and shared experience with each other through some sort of hive mind, meaning you could never kill one the same way twice. They could bleed though, and they could die. It was a comforting thought.
All right, so what I know about alicorns—the non-divine variety, not the True Goddesses—could be written on a Post-It note. So sue me.
I dropped Faith, lacking the time to properly sheath it, drew out Hope with a shout of something to the effect of “Let’s see if you can dodge bullets!” and emptied a clip into its direction. To my dismay, not a single shot so much as brushed against it. This thing could probably dance between raindrops if it had a mind to. When it was done blurring around my shots, it simply shook its head and regarded me with a look of mild reproof.
I grow tired of this game, little one, it said with the air of a disappointed mother; I go through all this trouble--finding you, killing these drudges, taking their mortal shells here to lure you out, using their blood to deconsecrate this ground so that I can even stand here—and you can’t even be bothered to engage in a civil discussion. Nopony has manners these days, it seems.
“Wait, wait,” I stammered, “you…sacrificed these people just to talk to me?”
Correct.
“You callous, inequine fuck!”
How rude, it managed to somehow sigh inside my head, if you won’t listen to what I have to say, I’ll just have to make you listen.
With that, its horn lit up in a brilliant flash of light, causing my mane to tingle irritatingly. I tried to reload, dodge out of the way, do anything other than stand there like an idiot, but it felt as though my hooves were fused to the floor. I struggled and writhed to no avail as the blasphemous, murderous alicorn trotted closer, looking more like it was strolling through a park on a pleasant afternoon than stalking down an aisle lined with bloody corpses. As it got closer and closer, it was increasingly harder to ignore the sensuality in its movements, the way each step accentuated the femininity of its hips. Raw, biological need loomed its ugly head, and my combat suit suddenly felt about three sizes smaller.
Open wide, pious one. Here…I…am.
Luna damn you to Hell, I tried to say, but my jaw was frozen shut as well. It loomed over me, overwhelming desire radiating off of its form like body heat, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, touched its horn to my forehead.
It was like somepony had set off a balefire bomb of primal emotion in my brain. I cried out in pain, in desire, in rage, in shame, all the various disparate, unwanted feelings gathered together in a ball and sent spewing out through my vocal cords. I wanted to go back outside and slit Doughnut’s throat to find out what his blood smelled like. I wanted to tear my own heart out, laughing all the while. I wanted to find Rosebud and throw her on the ground, and make her scream how much she loved it while I…while I…
This vile, mental rape felt like it was tearing my soul to pieces. I tried to endure, but whatever depraved magic was racing through my head effortlessly shredded all of my pretenses and defenses, reaching straight to the black core of violent lusts that inspired the first equine in existence to reach for a rock and brain his brother, that had plagued our existence until the Goddesses had—
The Goddesses. The Goddesses!
That was the key. I mentally fumbled, reaching not toward my own mental defenses (which were feeble in any case) but toward my faith, that rock solid core of devotion that informed my every action, my every decision. With a firm hoofhold on my faith once more, I focused on my accomplishments, all the good I had done in this world. I thought of the various evil beings I had fought and bested. I thought of the faces of freed slaves, the laughter and tears and joy of reunited families. I thought about all the ex-raiders that I had helped rehabilitate. I thought of the Lightbringer and Security, who themselves had done so much more than me in so little time. I thought of the day the clouds over Equestria had cleared for the first time in centuries, so all of the Sister’s little ponies could once again find strength in the Sun and the Moon. I thought of all the Sparkle Colas I had shared with Texas, and all the times her countrified sense of humor had made us both laugh.
I thought about all of these things, and felt the power of that vile spell shrivel and fade away. I blinked away tears of joy, for I had broken free of this false-divine’s influence, and there wasn’t a damn thing it could do to stop me now. It broke away contact, apparently none the wiser to my resistance. The paralysis spell ended then as well, and I collapsed, weak from shaking off its mental grip.
It smiled; full of smug satisfaction that nopony could have possibly withstood a spell so cruel.
Do you see now what I offer the wasteland, little pony? With you as a mortal envoy, I could rule Equestria!
The very thought of what it was suggesting made me want to heave, but I laid still and said nothing, playing possum, hoping to get it close enough. Let it think you’re unconscious, Preacher. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Sure enough, it came a little closer, its features touched with almost matronly concern. Sheesh, my performance shouldn’t have fooled a foal, let alone a functionally immortal, semidivine being. I was missing something, I was sure of it.
Oh, my. I suppose that’s what I get for directing the spell’s full power at you. This should wake you up, dearie it said, or rather thought, leaning down to physically kiss my forehead.
Oh, I got it now. It wasn’t enough that it was an inequinly powerful, magical superbeing. It was also mad. Nuttier than a fruitcake.
Just when its lips were about to connect, I grabbed Faith from where I had let it fall, quick as lightning, and drove the blade right into that evil, crazy, mind raping fucker’s left eye.
It let out a terrible, ululating psychic shriek of pain that made my eyeballs feel like they were about to burst. It reared back; deadly hooves that I had just noticed were stained dark red with dried blood arching upwards, preparing to pulverize my ribcage. I rolled out of the way before they struck, which was a good thing because when they hit they left miniature craters and the very building resounded with the impact. It shook its head to and fro, trying desperately to dislodge the sharpened piece of metal that had come within inches of entering its brain. The entire time, it never stopped screaming. Demigod or not, getting stabbed in the eye hurts like hell.
At that time, I noticed something a little odd. Of course, after being brutally mind raped by a twisted facsimile of your god, anything is going to seem a little less strange by comparison. The flesh around the thing’s eyeball was blackening, fizzling, melting as though I had dumped acid on its face. It may have been a trick of the light, but once or twice I think I saw blue and green flames flicker around my blade. I had never seen it do that before, but then again I had never even seen an alicorn before, much less fought one. Maybe Faith was a Sword of Alicorn Smiting?
Whatever. Ponder later, finish off the abomination now. I roared with vengeance, though anypony listening in might have mistaken it for a scream of terror, and hurled myself bodily at the creature, which was still thrashing about, not having the presence of mind to simply yank the sword out with its telekinesis. I gripped my sword, canines digging in, and with a single, savage motion jerked it out. I fell heavily away from it, managing to hold Faith in such a way as to tear a deep gash in the alicorn’s throat. It shrieked some more, and before it could regain its balance I kicked out, hard, knocking its legs out from underneath it with shocking strength. My body may not have a lot of muscle, but what’s there is nothing to sniff at.
It crashed to the ground, wings flailing out as though seeking something to hold on to. Then, all was still. It lay there, breathing heavily, as I picked myself up, dusted myself off, retrieved Hope, and trotted over to where it was lying, my horrible rictus grin matching what I actually felt like, for once. It had fallen left side down, so its single remaining eye watched me without showing a trace of panic. Its face was a different story though. For a second, it looked just like a foal whose sandcastle had been knocked over by the local bully. Something like pity welled up in me in that moment, but I forced it back down with a snarl. This thing is inequine, I reminded myself. It had shown a psychopathic disregard for the lives of others. Its victims were all around me, posed like models in some demented art show. And now, when I had kicked its teeth in and introduced it to a little wasteland reality, it fell apart like the sham it was. The carefully composed, Miss Seductress Madmare was gone. In its place was a sad, sick, shivering being that a greater pony than I could pity. Me, I just held it in contempt.
But still. Just for a second, the pity was there. That didn’t stop me from jamming my pistol in its face.
“Excommunicate,” I whispered. Just then, when I was about to put it down for good, its thoughts brushed up against my own. What it said froze me cold. Nine little words, each of them going off like a mortar shell in my brain. It took advantage of the distraction, blasting me backwards with a surge of magical force. I impacted the wall, but I could barely feel it, so powerful had the creature’s message been. It was on its hooves before I even touched the wall, its wings opening wide. It grinned, eye still missing, wounds still bleeding, and flapped its wings once. It burst through the roof as though it had never been there in the first place, and it was gone. Just like that.
I blinked. Then I blinked again. It was gone. The pain of the alicorn’s emotional savaging, held in check by my rage until now, surged back to the forward portion of my brain, almost making me black out with the sheer force of it. I knew then that, no matter what else happened, I was taking that experience with me to the grave. I knew that, until I got some professional help, I would see the images and feel a faint echo of the emotions that thing had burned into my head every time I closed my eyes. I wanted to faint. I wanted to cry until I could cry no more. I wanted to dig a hole, bury myself in it, and have somepony build a house on top of it.
I wanted Texas to threaten to punch my lights out for being such a whiner. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the terror, but I let out a short bark of laughter at the thought. By the Goddesses, that room needed a laugh. On that note, I stumbled toward the door, doing my best to ignore the bodies. Some of them had been thrown about by the magic the alicorn had used, and lay in boneless heaps were they had fallen, like puppets with cut strings. I reached the door, opened it, and squeezed through as tiny a gap as I could.
How to describe it, I wonder? Imagine emerging from a dank, dark cave after being stuck in it for hours, greeted by the beauty of the setting Sun. Imagine biting into the first meal you’ve had in days. Hell, imagine meeting the mare of your dreams and realizing she was your best friend all along. Getting out of that (almost literally) Goddess-forsaken building was all of that and more. All of the sudden, I could breath again, and I sucked in a great big gulp of that glorious nighttime air, feeling good to be alive. It sure as hell beats the alternative. Then I opened my eyes, and I choked on my own breath.
I had emerged straight into a firing squad of gun barrels.
“Oh, come on!” I screamed at them, half expecting the frustrated vocalization to be my last words. Hey, it was that kind of night. Texas was beside me so fast it was like she had materialized out of thin air, and I had to beat down an involuntary flashback of what had transpired only minutes before. She scowled at the Militia with a look that could have melted plate steel, until Doughnut forced himself through the line and adjusted his ridiculous looking ten-gallon hat. If you weren’t good at reading people, you would never have noticed the little shiver of fear he suppressed while looking at me.
“Preacher.” He spat. Though to be fair, he spat so much that he needed an assistant to carry around the spittoon. Heh, I’m funny. “What. The fuck. Was that?”
Did I mention that I was simply exhausted? Between the brief but intense combat, the psychic torture, the terrifying message, and being woken up in the middle of the night, I was ready to sleep for week. I frowned-or would have, anyway-and planted my butt on the ground, closing my eyes. I decided to give Doughnut a simple explanation, leaving out words like abomination and banishment so I could just go home and get some freaking sleep. Ah, sleep. It makes things like survival or coherency seem downright trivial.
“It.” I said, eyes still closed, ignoring the guns that were still worryingly trained on me and Texas. “Was an alicorn. It…murdered a lot of ponies, brought their bodies here, to the church, and then sat and waited, sending up colorful little light shows as bait.”
“Why?” the rotund sheriff demanded angrily, apparently more concerned with how this could be used against me than the poor ponies inside. The bastard.
“Honestly?” I opened my eyes, and stood up. What I was about to say was not going to be very smart, politically speaking. In fact, what I was about to say was quite idiotic. But I was tired to the bone, and in the end, Mama Preacher didn’t raise a liar.
“It wanted to lure me, specifically, out. Deliver a message. Tried to recruit me for some insane crusade against the wasteland and its people. I told it no.”
In my haze of physical and mental exhaustion, I don’t quite remember what happened next. I can only remember the sheriff saying something about me bringing monsters into town and attempting to arrest me. Then, a tan, scarred blur interdicts that arrest with extreme prejudice. Confusion. Disorder. Chaos. My work is done here. Hey, that patch of dirt over there looks nice and soft. I think I’ll lay down on it. Sure. The only thing that stands out in my mind, clear as crystal, is the message the alicorn had delivered to me sliding to the forefront as I dropped down into darkness.
I can see why Mother likes you so much.
Footnote: You don’t have a PipBuck yet so you can’t level up, dummy!
Chapter 2: Getting out of Dodge
Chapter 2: Getting out of Dodge
“Fine, so you beat this wave. FINE. What do you want, a pony?
“Yes!”
Mercifully, I didn’t have any terrifying dreams that night, for once. A pale pony didn’t chase me down a hallway made out of fire. A caravan didn’t disappear in front of me in an incandescent fireball. Apparently, the psychological trauma of the alicorn’s mental violation coupled with the horrible remains of those ponies hadn’t set in, which was a good thing. A very, very good thing. I could fall to little pieces later. I had work to do.
More to the point, I was stuck for the time being in the dreamscape equivalent of staring at the ceiling and twiddling my hooves. I couldn’t see or hear anything, and it felt like I had all the time in the world to simply sit in that lightless, soundless void and puzzle out a solution to my problem.
Fact one: During my confrontation with the alicorn, it had mentioned needing to ‘deconsecrate’ the holy ground of the church, presumably with the blood of innocents. The notion was patently ridiculous. The false alicorns created by some Goddess-forsaken pre-war experiment were ultimately governed by the same brand of physics as the rest of us. It should have been perfectly alright standing pretty much anywhere, holy ground or not. Hell, if it had wanted to, it probably could have marched right up to the church in broad daylight and entered through the front door.
Fact two: The alicorn had been playing with me. I’m no unicorn, but I know more about magic than most earth ponies due to my extensive (for the wasteland) library and voracious reading habits. The mind-breaker spell had been hideous, yes, but come on. It was an alicorn. I should have been either gibbering helplessly on the floor or doing whatever it was telling me to do and begging for more, which meant it probably was either holding back deliberately, or something was diluting its strength.
Fact three: As fuzzy as my recollection of the emergence from the church was, I remembered enough to know Texas and I were probably in deep trouble. I could see the situation in my mind’s eye quite clearly, now that I thought of it: I fall over into the dirt. Doughnut tries to cuff me. Texas, being Texas, shoves the sheriff off of me and presumably calls him something that would make a Goddess-fearing person like me blush and mutter a prayer for her apparent degeneracy. Doughnut would construe that as an assault on a duly appointed militia member and attempts to arrest her as well. Tex spits on the ground, curses vehemently, and throws me onto her back like a sack of potatoes. Now, my body was probably resting in my home as Doughnut organizes a militia task force to throw the pair of us behind bars.
Speaking of which, I was getting that falling-to-earth kind of feeling that often preludes returning to the waking world. Sigh.
…
I woke up to the sight of Tex staring out the window, gun in mouth, still wearing her combat armor. The first thing that struck me as odd was the fact that the windows had iron bars on them. Which meant we weren’t in my home. Which meant I was in Texas’ house.
Uh, crap.
Don’t get me wrong, Texas and I are good friends, but she’s the kind of girl that reinforces her privacy with bullets and paint-blistering profanity. In the five years we had known each other, I had never once been in her house. And now I saw why.
Her interior was…cute.
It wasn’t like there were pictures of puppies and kittens everywhere, granted, but she had frilly looking doilies over everything and the entire living space was painted in gentle, relaxed colors that made the whole place look like the home of some little filly’s favorite aunt. I stirred a little, and she noticed, quietly swearing under her breath enough to make me sweat. Like I said before, Texas does not panic easily.
“Heya” she said, closing the curtains and moving to my side. “Git off yer ass and get ready ta move. We’ve gotta leave by noon.”
Once I was vertical, I managed to choke out something amounting to “what’s the situation?” I was still in my clothes from the night before, for which I was thankful. In some ways, I value my privacy as much as Texas values hers.
The big mare grunted, said something not suitable for children, and responded “Doughnut’s on th’ damn warpath fer whatever you did in th’ church.” She paused, rolled her eyes a little, and idly added “or whatever he thinks ya’ll did. Speakin’ of which, what exactly did happen? A big fuckin’ thing busts out of th’ roof and then ya’ll stumbled outta there mumbling incoherently, and passed out.”
I told her. By the time I was done, Texas was frozen so still that it looked like she was shivering, which worried me. When Texas gets angry, she smashes holes in things and ponies get hurt. Being a professional reader of emotion, I sensed that she was a couple of steps beyond that right now.
“That…that…” She stood still for a few seconds longer, her eyes closed. The trembling that had been building up in her abruptly ceased. She opened her cold, steel grey eyes, and in a voice that bore no relation to my friend said, “Preacher. Give me something to kill.”
I broke out into a cold sweat. This wasn’t Texas anymore, that was for damn sure. I didn’t know what caused this…thing…to have some kind of hoofhold in my friend’s mind, and I’m not sure I wanted to. It was like this raw, elemental force, a kind of atavistic loathing so intense that its gaze turned my guts to water and filled my mind with fear. It wasn’t the kind of fear that makes you want to run and hide, or scream in terror. That’s horror movie fear. This was the kind of fear that makes you feel as though you were about to become a byproduct of evolution. It could destroy me. It would destroy me, given half a chance. It would enjoy the experience. The only thing that was keeping it from tearing me apart was whatever tenebrous control Texas was exerting over it.
Perhaps I could use that to my advantage. By directing its thoughts away with promises of future bloodshed, maybe it would be less inclined to tear my face off then and there. Sure. I believed that.
“Texas, I promise. We’re gonna find this thing and it won’t hurt anypony anymore. I swear it.”
The thing that wasn’t quite my friend nodded once, and subsided. Texas—the real Texas—came back to me with a shudder. “Thanks” she said mildly, fishing for her whisky in the endless rows of utility packs. “Needed ta hear ya’ll say it.” She tilted her head toward the hallway. “Go wash up, second door on th’ left. It’ll take a couple of hours fer Doughnut ta get th’ Mayor to sign off on our warrants. After that, we’re free game.”
I felt a little sick to my stomach—and this time it wasn’t for the ponies that alicorn had killed. What Texas was explaining so casually was abandoning our home, my home, thanks to the word of a vindictive snake like the sheriff. Maybe Texas had done it often enough for it to not affect her as much, we didn’t discuss her past, but for me it was different.
The short story is I have abandonment issues. Maybe that makes me a whiny, angsty crybaby but it’s the truth. My parents—under circumstances we won’t be discussing at the moment—died when I was a teenager. I traveled for a while, doing things that, while they don’t get as many headlines as saving orphans or overthrowing tyrants, are just as important. I built churches and schools. I’d like to think I’ve saved a few souls along the way. I’d cut my teeth—ha, ha—on some pretty wild adventures back then, but eventually I wandered into Sanctuary and settled down. Barring some horrific incident like the one last night, I had pretty much planned on living the rest of my life there.
Of course, the wasteland had once again proven to be a completely horrible bitch with an evil sense of humor.
With a nearly imperceptible twitch of a nod to Texas, I trotted down to the washroom, opened the door, and nearly startled myself to death when I accidently looked at her full-length mirror.
Yes, I look so freakish that I scare even myself sometimes. Hardy. Freaking. Har.
Once my heart wasn’t beating at about a million miles an hour, I stopped to take a closer look at myself. Big shock, I looked like ten miles of bad road. Through Hell. I didn’t even know it was possible to for me to get bags under my eyes, but there they were, looking like six sullen, purple bruises all lined up in two little rows. It was almost cute. My lip-membrane-thing hadn’t grown back in—and wouldn’t, for a couple of days at least—so I was able to properly brush my pearly yellow canines. I combed my shoulder-length hair back into socially acceptable parameters—for Pete’s sake, I sound like a dictionary—and splashed water into my face. Like they say, cleanliness is next to Goddess-ness. Nopony says that. I say it.
Oh, and just to start off the morning on a positive note, I threw up in the sink. Like, a lot. Funny, my supper tasted better going out than going in. As I was doing so, a shrill little voice in my head chimed in with the opinion that I going about my business as normally as possible because I was trying to forget about last night and just crawl back in my dim, drab little house and go on living the mundane life I had chosen for myself, because I’m a coward.
I mentally strangled that voice to death while I gargled some mouthwash—without lips, how cool is that?—and it got done with some post-mortem twitching by the time I was trotting back to Tex’s living room.
“Hey Texas,” I said cheerfully, “you got any PTSD-O’s? I’ve got this weird craving for some.”
Tex, who was rifling around in her fridge, looked up, apparently trying to decide whether to be amused, worried, or both. As usual, she settled for pissed.
“Don’t get all weird on me now, Preacher. The wasteland needs a flamin’ avatar of vengeance, not another basket case.”
Without mentioning that the line between the two can and often do blur, I nodded, and sobered immediately. I would do nopony any good if I ended up a giggling, half-mad wreck because of what the alicorn made me experience.
Without further ado, we sat down and ate our breakfast in silence.
*.*.*
My home was on fire.
Let me repeat that, for the benefit of your chickenshit bosses behind the mirror: They set. My house. On fire.
I normally consider myself a polite and genial soul, but at that moment, I swore to Celestia, Luna, and Whoever else happened to be listening that someone, somewhere, was going to pay for that. Maybe with blood, maybe not. But pay.
Somepony was roaring with rage and hate as me and Texas galloped toward my home, past the building that others had crafted with faith in their hearts, past the building that was consecrated with the Goddesses’ Love, past the building that was still filled with the anonymous dead. As we went past, I noticed that the pony screaming was me, and did not care in the least. Something had blasphemed against my faith twice in twenty four hours, and that thing was going to die screaming.
You can cram that ‘turn the other cheek’ thing up your ass. If nothing else, there were at least forty ponies in there that didn’t have names, which probably had families worrying themselves mad over where they had gone, that needed, above all else, to be avenged the hell out of.
If me and Texas wouldn’t do it, who would?
I had screamed myself hoarse by the time we reached my house. To my absently felt dismay, my heavy, steel door that I had spent a small fortune on reinforcing proved to be absolutely no impediment to the sheer speed and size of Texas, who simply ploughed through it in a hoofball-style tackle. I’m not sure she even noticed the door, much less felt going through it. We didn’t have much time, and it was almost noon. Oh, and my house was on freaking fire. I normally don’t put much stock in the material – such beliefs kind of come with the territory – but I was fairly weeping when I saw my Fluttershy poster partially burnt to cinders. Texas, as always, was by my side, stuffing her packs with everything we might need for our sudden, forced exile.
Speaking of which, what are you supposed to pack when you go into exile? Do you pack warm?
Anyway, in went our most vital supplies: healing potions, ammunition, food, that sort of thing. I could hardly see a thing through all the smoke, which proves that a few extra pairs of eyes don’t do jack when your home is going up in flames. After the essentials were all squared away, I realized there was some room for, ah, nonessential materials. In went my copy of Philosophy: Straight from the Mare’s Mouth. Ditto for some of my rarest comic books. My best, least-scratched vinyl records got a lot of space as well. Oh, and my hat. I love my hat. The wide brim, the high peak…perfect. It reminds me of a book I once read called the Friendquisition.
The reason we didn’t even try to put the fire out? That’s easy: water. Even with the advent of a regular, controlled weather patterns, Sanctuary just doesn’t get the water it needs often enough. It’s tightly rationed, and for good reason, because showering for an hour straight in this day and age would probably mean your neighbor dies from dehydration.
“Shittin’ fuck, this thing is comin’ down on top of us, Preacher!” Texas exclaimed, sounding far more irritated than frightened.
We started for the back exit, only to have some of the roof slats come down in front of it, flames licking greedily at every wooden surface. I probably whimpered a little, while Tex just snarled in frustration and hate. She reared back and loudly roared in her not-quite-herself voice, “I am going to gouge Doughnut’s Luna-damned eyes out!” before smashing contemptuously through the wall. We both rolled free just in time for my house to collapse in on itself. We simply lay there for a moment, blinking out the swirling ashes.
Then, I noticed that we were surrounded by militia. After a moment of slack-jawed gawking at the pair of us, one of them dragged their wits together long enough to approach. I recognized the face that came into view from my position on the ground, and almost—almost--breathed a sigh of relief. It was Vanilla Frosting, Doughnut’s daughter. She was, in fact, a decent mare. Unfortunately, she had inherited her brains from her father, but otherwise she was sweet, kind, and completely unsuited for a job as a militiapony.
“Hiya, Preacher!” she shouted giddily despite the fact that I was mere inches away from her face.
“Hello, Ms. Frosting.” I replied, as though we had bumped into each other on the street rather than me sitting face-up in a pile of my home’s ashes. She helped me up, and then she glanced down at Texas, her expression growing concerned as the big mare just lay there, breathing heavily, her eyes screwed shut. I turned and looked her over as well, but I knew better than to try to help her up. Aside from her instinctively contrary stubbornness, Texas doesn’t like being touched at all. Ever.
Vanilla Frosting, however, didn’t know that.
“Ms. Texas, are you feeling okay?”
Sheesh, this was just like the militia in miniature. Generally cordial, maybe a little slow… right up until the point where they shoot you in the face for something stupid. In fact, I was so busy pondering on this line of thought that I didn’t even notice the pale mare reaching down to help Texas up until it was too late.
I snapped out of my reverie and managed you yell out “Don’t!” just as Vanilla touched Tex.
I fucked up. I should have noticed it sooner or at least should have known she would have done something like that, being as guilelessly friendly as she is. I should have been faster. I should have been more proactive in helping my friend. The second she touched the scarred mare, Texas’ eyes snapped open as wide as they physically could. With a growl of utter loathing so deep it was almost subsonic, she slapped away Vanilla’s hoof with a violent motion before hauling herself to hooves.
“This hoof—is going through your spine!”
What happened next still gives me nightmares.
Texas followed through with the threat in the most brutal way imaginable, literally punching her cinder block sized hoof not onto, but through the poor mare’s back. She impaled the smaller mare on a small portion of her heavily muscled, thick fetlock.
“Yesss…” Texas whispered, her body shivering with what looked disturbingly like arousal as Vanilla died. Apparently, whatever lived inside my friend’s head found murder better than sex. Eyes blazing with contempt and madness, she shook off the dead pony’s body with the air of brushing off the remains of an insect from your horseshoe The sound alone made me want to hurl. Speaking of hurling, I threw myself at the big mare like I was shot out of a damn cannon, screaming incoherently.
The whole time I was grappling with her and trying not to get my neck snapped, I was crying through all six of my eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Texas was my friend. She was a good pony, despite being abrasive and more stubborn than was good for her. She wasn’t a monster like that murderous alicorn.
“Texas-look at me! Look at me!” I practically screeched at her, hoping against hope that whatever happens when she looks me in the face, happened.
It didn’t. Instead, this twisted; body-snatcher thing looked at me with Texas’ eyes, and its mouth twisted into what no sane pony would call a smile. It locked me in place with some kind of wrestling move—the real, hard core wrestling too, not the fake stuff.
“Oh, how I have waited for this day, stallion. I will break you exactly like I broke Doughnut’s little bitch, and then study up on necromancy just so I can kill you again and again and again. Will that not be fun?”
Oh yeah, fun, the shrill voice in my head babbled, Getting killed to death by my best friend is fun, fun, fun, fun…
I ignored what it was saying, instead focusing on what was going on past its eyes, into Texas, my friend, my ally.
“Texas, I know you can hear me. What are you doing in there, huh? It must be really fun, sitting on your rump while this demonic thing plays with your body!”
The demon winced, its head cocking to the side as though suddenly struck.
“For that, I am going to tear you a THIRD ASSHOLE!”
The militia, for their part, was mostly running away screaming. Maybe they’re a little more sane than me. On my own, I could never take on Texas in hoof-to-hoof combat. She may not have fancy martial arts training, but she usually relies on overwhelming her opponents with strength enough to crush their bones to powder.
Which is why, after not-Texas hurled me away from itself like a discarded beer bottle, I decided to play dirty.
“Texas! If you don’t take back control of yourself right now, I will call you a sissy girl until the day you die! I will sew an apron onto your combat barding and paint Peacemaker pink! Do you hear that, you stubborn bitch from hell!? Pink!”
Not-Texas lurched painfully to the side, its muscles clenching and unclenching seemingly at random.
“I was so…close…”
One shudder later, and it was gone. Texas regained control with a snarl, and I had the misfortune to catch her eyes, and I could practically hear the thoughts spinning in her head as they widened. ‘What the fuck’ was quickly replaced by, ‘oh shit, not again…’, and then, slowly, horribly, ended up at:
‘Oh Goddesses, no.’
My jaw worked and my vision blurred as Texas forced herself to turn around and gaze at Vanilla Frosting’s corpse. Her scars twisted into an expression of the most hideous agony, and she shut her eyes so tight, I was afraid they would never open again. There were no tears. She knelt next to the body, more vulnerable and in pain than I had ever seen her. Her mouth cycled in and endless litany of apology.
“Ah’m sorry, Ah’m sorry, Ah’m sorry…”
What I had to say next broke my heart.
“Texas, we’ve got to go.”
Her eyes snapped open and she gave me a disgusted glare.
“What?”
I stood my ground, which is not easy when the pony you’re talking to could break you like a toothpick. “Texas, this isn’t your fault, and we gotta—“
“Not mah fault?” she all but roared, interrupting. “Not mah fault? Who th’ fuck killed Frosting, then, Preacher?” she gestured to the entire town, “Did’ja see anypony else punch their hoof inta her goddess-damned spine!?”
I opened my mouth to reply at the same time I winced at her casual blasphemy, but she continued on as though talking to herself.
“No? Ah didn’t think so.” She looked at the ground in such shame and self-loathing that it made the display from the night before seem anemic. “Mah anger. Mah choice. Mah fault.”
I hate being brutally honest with people, I really do. It makes me feel cold hearted. In all honesty, I wanted to do nothing more but crumple to the ground, weeping, at the life cut tragically short at the amused whimsy of whatever shared Tex’s body. But she was at a tipping point: Either she would shut down and kill herself slowly with guilt, or try to do better.
I was really hoping she’d choose the latter.
“Texas, at this point you have two choices: Stay here and wallow in self-pity, or come with me so we can kill the thing that drove you to this so hard, it will die to death.”
She agonized for a second or two. Come on Texas, tick-tock…
She made the right choice, thank the Goddesses. She met my gaze, her expression filling with a determined resolve that I had seen many, many times before.
“Only you, Preacher. Ya’ll had me at kill.”
That statement didn’t disturb me in the slightest. Really.
“Well then, my friend” I said, gesturing to the town gate, “Shall we go?”
*.*.*
As we dashed for the exit to Sanctuary, I thought of Sheriff Doughnut.
I couldn’t, for the life of me, think of him as an overbearing, racist, sexist asshole any longer. I knew that the pain of losing his daughter would be more than enough recompense for any sins. Even worse, no amount of condolences, apologies, or in all likelihood, prayer, would ever be able to heal him. I’m faithful, not delusional. I nearly choked up just thinking about it.
Celestia above, no one deserves to outlive their own child.
Sanctuary’s gate is about three times the height of an average pony, made of corrugated layers of ill-fitting metal. However poorly it was designed, constructed, and implemented, it more or less served its function of keeping the various minor critters of the wasteland out. It also had the disconcerting habit of keeping the citizens in. Various militia members milled about, at times glancing fearfully toward the smoke rising from my destroyed home.
“Hi, fellas. Can we get through?” I said, finally having the presence of mind to put on my hat.
A unicorn I recognized as Crimson Glare stepped up ahead of the rest of the group. Yes, his coat was crimson. And he was good at glaring.
“Sorry Preacher. Nopony in or out without the Sheriff’s say so.”
The solution to this dilemma was relatively easy. Texas marched right up to him and said “Ya’ll are pissing me off.”
Her glare made Crimson’s look like the lopsided stare of a newborn kitten. Needless to say, the gate was opened in short order. For the first time in five years, I stepped out from Sanctuary into the wasteland. Gunfire roared in the distance, and the smell of decay, of two centuries of entropy and neglect, hit my nostrils.
And yet, there She was, the Sun, shining down on us all.
Let the good times roll.
Footnote: You didn’t even do anything in this chapter, so no level up. Sucks to be you.
