The Courier found himself surrounded by darkness. This was no new experience for him, but something was off.

Whyyyyyyyy...

His blood ran cold. That voice belonged to someone long dead.

Whyyyy... why have you done this?

“Shut up,” Courier said calmy, trying to compose himself.

Centuries of preparation... so much good undone...

“Shut your mouth,” the Courier snapped.

Foolish... You... think you can do better?

The haggard, corpselike face of Robert House faded into view in front of Courier. Your vanity will lead to your downfall.

“You’re dead, House,” Courier spat: “dead! I took a goddamn sledgehammer to your wrinkly mug! Vegas is my goddamn city, not yours! You get nothing outta me! Nothing!”

At this, House’s visage faltered, and the Courier made his move. He roared, lunging at the spectral form with his bare hands and swinging wildly at it. “You sat up in your tower getting serviced by robo-concubines while I crawled through the mud of my own grave! And now who’s running the show? Me! So go to hell!”

House began to fade, his form having been sundered by the Courier’s fury, but he left with the last say.

You are but a mortal man, Mister Aarden... and men do not belong in the realm of gods and kings.

~/~/~/~

At this, Mister Aarden, known to all as the Courier, awoke.

He scanned his surroundings, finding himself in a long, low holding cell of some kind. The construction was solid stone, the only way out being a barred metal door on the opposite side of the room. Unconsciously prodding the cot he was laying on, the Courier made a move to stand, stopping halfway up as his head pounded with all manner of unholy pain.

“Oh... Oh, I don’t think I’ll be doing much drinking for a while,” he muttered, running a hand through his wild nest of black hair. “A hangover like this is not something I want to deal with fre-quent...ly...”

Memories flashed into the Courier’s mind. The ARCHIMEDES II solar cannon was rendered nonfunctional somehow, he’d commissioned the Think Tank to fix it, he’d been on his way to said Think Tank...

Where the hell am I? he wondered idly, standing up with far more caution this time. He looked down at himself, realizing that he was absolutely naked save for his ever-present and ever-gaudy PimpBoy Three Billion. Aarden idly reflected on just how persistent the damn thing was in sticking with him; without the proper tools, the only way to remove the device from his person would be by severing his arm. Whoever had placed him in this room- and taken all of his gear- apparently didn’t have the incentive to take it.

The Courier was certain that had some sort of significance, but he could think about that later. Instead, he slowly made his way to the door, steadying himself against the metal bars.

“Hey...” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Hey. Someone. Gimme my clothes back. This is cruel and unusual punishment; just because the U.S. government doesn’t exist anymore is no excuse for such barbarism.”

The Courier heard shouts from somewhere out of his field of vision, in a language he didn’t understand.

"The prisoner is awake! Alert the princess!"

"Aye, sir!"

“Hey,” Aarden continued, pressing on. “¿Hablas espanol? ¿Por favor?”

At this point, one of the Courier’s captors appeared before him, and his jaw subsequently dropped. “¿Qué... the hell?”

It looked like one of those horse things from way back when. The Courier had only ever seen such things in that book about the Mongols- indeed, it was the only part of the book he actually remembered at this point- but he didn’t remember them looking so... short. Or brightly colored.

The wings and armor were also very different than what he’d expect.

"You are here under the custody of Princess Celestia, one of the great rulers of Equestria. Identify yourself."

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” the Courier began, “but might I say that you have ridiculously big eyes. Like, gigantic. They’re almost kind of endearing, like you’re some kind of baby animal or something.”

The horse-thing turned. "Sir, it appears capable of language; however, it is not communicating in Equestrian."

“Is that your girlfriend?” Aarden asked, actually feeling rather okay with events as of now. “I don’t know who she is, but I don’t think she’s your type, exactly."

A second horse-thingy, this one with a horn on its head instead of wings, appeared. It began speaking in something that sounded completely different from the first one.

“Oh my God, Bird-Horse! I didn’t expect you to have a weakness for the foreign types. And that horn... I don’t even want to know what you two lovebirds get up to.”

"It doesn’t sound like Zebrican, either. Perhaps Rostrun..."

"Sir, with all due respect, it doesn’t sound at all like a gryphon."

The horn-horse, regardless of its compatriot, proceeded to make a series of sounds one would expect from a very large and angry bird.

For this, the Courier had little to say. “...Wow, just when I thought things couldn’t get weirder.”

"Rostrun seems to have failed as well, sir."

"So it has." A new voice interrupted, and a new horse appeared. It was taller than the other ones, with both wings and horn, an assortment of jewelry, and an ethereal mane that was waving in some unknown wind. "Perhaps a translation spell is in order."

The other two horse things bowed, replying with a synchronized "Yes, Your Majesty."

The Courier, on the other hand, continued talking. “Ah, yes, finally: a womanly touch. It’s in the way you carry yourself; you’re a lady who knows she’s in charge, and won’t deal with any of the crap some testosterone-fueled moron feels like throwing at you.” At the rate he was talking, the Courier noticed neither the glowing horn nor the Pimp-Boy’s Geiger counter activating. “And might I add that I find such a thing very attractive in a woman. It’s a shame about the language- and species-barrier, because I would totally go to town otherwise.”

The taller horse smiled politely. “I must admit, it’s refreshing to hear someone flatter me with such sincerity,” she began carefully, just a hint of mirth honeying her words. “It’s not everyday somebody speaks to royalty in such a manner.”

The Courier froze. “...I’m just going to ask for my clothes back. If you don’t mind, Miss Talking Horse Lady.”

“Your things are being inspected by a team of scientists and security specialists before we even consider giving them back to you,” the horse replied. “And my name is Princess Celestia.”

~/~/~/~

After further discussion, it was agreed that the Courier’s pants would be prioritized, and shortly enough they were delivered to his cell. He donned them quickly, not especially caring about the guard pony standing in the doorway.

Aarden glanced at the pony. “So, uh, I hit on your queen then?” No response. “You understand me at all, or is it just that Celestia chick?” No response. “I’m going to stop now.”

The Courier finished putting his jeans on, then presented his clothed form to the guard. “Please tell your Princess that I’m done.”

The guard turned, shouting something at one of its compatriots, who headed off in the direction Her Majesty had departed. Soon enough, Celestia returned, her face much more composed. He noticed her glancing at his cybernetic eye, but brushed it off.

“You must forgive me,” she began. “As one of the sovereigns of this nation, I must hold myself to a stricter code of conduct. My... previous manner was unbefitting of a princess.”

Courier shrugged. “Hey, I’ve got a nation. Doesn’t stop me from talking dirty with talking horses.”

“The proper term is ponies,” Celestia replied, “...and you claim to be the leader of your own nation?”

At this, the human straightened. “I currently act as president of the United Mojave Republic,” he declared, just a hint of solemnity in his voice. “Having been among its founders and, indeed, creating the circumstances that allowed its ascension, I was basically the first and only choice for the position. I have since granted myself the additional titles of ‘The Chosen One Times Ten’ and ‘Savior of Everybody Ever,’ which absolutely nobody bothered to dispute.”

Celestia blinked at this. “President?” she asked. The idea wasn’t unheard of, but applied to a government...

“We cribbed our system of government from some pre-War history books,” Courier replied. “The people elect members of a legislature, and then they pick a guy to basically implement the laws. There’re some courts in there too, but not as much input there. But really, the Republic owed me pretty much everything after the war, so I got the best seat in the house.”

“What war is this?” the princess asked, eyes narrowed slightly.

Courier thought for a moment. “Well... there are two wars we could be referring to here. Do you mean the one referred to in the history holos, or the one that I was a part of?”

“...The latter,” Celestia decided. The other one could wait, whatever a holo was.

“That would be the Second War of the Hoover Dam, otherwise known as the War of Mojaven Independence, in which the imperialist band of murderous slavers and rapists were ground to dust and slaughtered like the monsters they were, and the imperialist band of corrupt politicians and warmongers were politely told to get off our land.”

Rapists? Warmongers? What sort of world... Celestia took a fraction of a second to compose herself. “And you fought against both of these... bands, as it were? What circumstances led to this war?”

The Courier sighed. “You know what? There’s a lot to explain, and I mean a lot. Judging by the fact that I’m standing in a dungeon, under the custody of a princess, in a land filled with talking h- with ponies... I’m going to say that I’ll have a lot of questions soon enough.”

“I... understand,” said Celestia. “How would you wish for this to proceed?”

“Well...” The Courier chose to walk back towards his cot, looking around at his snug abode. “I wouldn’t mind dropping all of this, getting my ass back home, and drinking until I manage to forget this ever happened, but I’m getting the sense that I’m making a fruitless demand.”

“Your appearance was an oddity,” Celestia admitted, ignoring most of the phrasing in the alien’s demands. “You magically teleported into my very throne room, apparently unconscious when you hit the ground. Our medical team treated you to the best of our ability, and we swore the few who’ve seen you to secrecy until we knew your... nature for certain.”

The Courier turned back to the princess. “Your team didn’t do bad,” he admitted, “although it probably wasn’t all them. But that’s not important. Did I hear you mention the word ‘magic?’”

“Well... yes. The thaumaturgical pulse that was emitted when you appeared was comparable to a highly powerful conjuration spell. Why?”

The Courier sat on his cot. “Oh, no reason. Just coming to grips with the fact that wherever I am now has magical talking ponies. The stuff of tribals and stage illusionists is, in fact, a quantifiable part of reality, with big words attached to it and everything. Next you’ll be telling me that sun on your flank means you control the sun.”

Celestia said nothing, and the human only slumped forward, head held in his hands.

“Does your world not have any control of your sun?”

“No!” the Courier shouted. “Where I’m from, the sun is an immense sphere of fiery gases around which all the planets rotate. This...” It was the Courier’s turn to compose himself. “I am trying to come to terms with the fact that I’ve apparently left my home dimension.”

“Do you know how you came to be here?” Celestia asked.

“I have a vague idea,” the Courier replied, closing his eyes in thought. “I was using my Transportalponder. It’s this device that travels between two set locations, though, and it’s not exactly packing a lot of power. But something was different... My C-Finder.”

“Your what?”

“It’s one of the things I had with me; basically acts as a targeting system for a solar-powered satellite. It’d been updated, and my science people mentioned something about an adverse reaction... The one time they actually caution me against something, and I ignore it. And look where it gets me.” The human rubbed his temples.

“There were devices we found on your person. Their purposes were... hard to distinguish. One seemed to have been damaged- it was leaking thaumaturgical fallout.”

The Courier was alert in an instant. “Damaged? Fallout? Are you telling me my stuff is leaking goddamn radiation?”

The alicorn looked mildly perturbed. “Gods weren’t involved, and you could describe the thaumaturgical fallout as radiation.”

The human hunched forward, expression darkening. “...Was the broken device a green-and-red thing with fins and a lightning bolt, or a black thing with a cylinder with a lot of crackling blue energy?”

Celestia thought for a moment. “It was... not crackling when we found it. The cylinder was apparently damaged, as well.”

The Courier’s eyes were practically ablaze, crimson and jade boring into the wall opposite him as he seemed to contemplate the gravity of his situation. Celestia cautiously took a step towards him. “I understand if you feel some manner of grief,” she said slowly, her expression a sympathetic one. “If we can do anything to help you, we will do what is within the boundaries of reason.”

Courier didn’t bother looking towards the princess. “I’ll need time alone. Time to think.”

Celestia nodded at this, and slowly backed out of the room, the door closing as she exited.

Once he knew the Princess was gone, the Courier stood. He walked across the room in two strides, cocked his arm back, and slammed a fist into the wall he’d been staring at for so long. The stone fractured under his strength, even as a dull pain lanced up the Courier’s arm. He punched again, and again, cursing and damning all that he could think of. When he finally stopped, there was a small dent in the wall, and his hand was rendered red and raw. Something might have been broken; he noted this, and filed it away to bring up never.

Cursing one last time, the human lay back down on the cot, waiting for his implants to begin working their healing magic- he snorted at the word now- and neglecting to notice the guard still standing watch outside his cell.

~/~/~/~

Author's Note

It should be noted that this Courier keeps his original PipBoy 3000 at home, on his trophy shelf. He considers the upgraded model “more consistent” and refuses to elaborate beyond that to those who ask.

Anyways, part two. Grand little thing, isn't it? More to come.