Fallout Equestria: Without a Spark

We thought we could go out and change things. Somebody had to do it; why not us? We figured change would be for the better, that we could do it like the heroes on the radio shows. That the Wasteland was just waiting to be tamed by a ragtag team of well-equipped ponies.

It ate us alive. Maybe we were lucky; maybe we were more skilled. Raiders, slavers, anyone we thought were scum, we wiped out. There were more than a few close calls over the years that left their scars, but we all made it through. From the ruins of the Crystal Empire to the Dead Desert, from Hoofington to Manehatten, even a trip to New Oatleans and back, we wandered the wastes doing "good".

As time wore on, we lost ourselves. We drifted apart, torn by what was happening around us and not seeing anything improve. It wasn’t sudden. Weeks, months, years, you lose track of time. Five ponies let the Wasteland beat at them and wear them down until nothing was left except bitterness and a few shreds of hope. The Wastes took everything good about us and spat it back in our faces.

I tried so hard to keep us together. I persuaded and argued until my throat was shot and all I could manage was rasps and it hurt to breathe. I fought hoof and nail to keep us friends. Punch, Snowflake, Wire, Taffy, and Basket. I watched them go, one at a time. We all said we’d make the Wasteland a better place or die trying.

I'd be passed out or dead in a ditch next to a bottle of booze if I hadn't heard a piece of gossip in some ramshackle town's saloon. Somebody was doing something bad. And he matched the description of one my former friends.

A ragged teddy bear lay in the middle of the room. The rest of it was bare aside from a wooden desk in the corner. The walls were a bright yellow and the flooring consisted of scuffed pink tiles. Yellow paint drops dotted the floor and boards used to cover the broken windows. I didn't dare stick my head in further through the doorway; the entire Ministry of Peace clinic was rigged with all kinds of traps. Quick hooves let me acquire a few landmines, but at least once I'd been saved by pure dumb luck.

I grabbed a crumpled tin can from my saddlebags and tossed it at the teddy bear, slamming the door shut and flattening myself on the floor. There was a very familiar beeping before an explosion sent shrapnel and splinters whizzing overhead.

Nothing hurts; always a good sign. I got up and could feel dust sticking in my mane and tail, and it was probably coating my leather barding too. Thankfully, I was never one for vanity. Edging closer, I opened the door wide enough to look inside. Confetti swirled around and stuck to the walls and floor. The air reeked of sulfur. Newly created holes and gashes adorned the entire room, some letting light filter in. The teddy bear was right where it was before, slightly askew. Parts of the ceiling had been blown out from explosive charges.

No other door. This was the room at the end of the hallway. There should be an exit to the third floor deck. Something wasn’t right. Crackling static buzzed through the room, a breathy voice I knew well projecting over a hidden intercom.

“Still alive, Judge? I’m not out of jokes. Like the confetti? I threw you a party. For your Death-Day. You know, like a birthday, except it’s on the day you die?” Psychotic laughter filled the room, and the voice spoke faster. “That’s not funny. It’s not. What’s funny is you think you can help me. Turn me back into who I was. That can’t happen. There’s nothing to laugh at out here. Only the fun I make others have. I can still make them happy before they die.”

I glanced around, trying to find a camera. ”What makes you think I want to help you?”

“Because. You’re Judge. The one who tried to keep us together. You want us to go back and be friends. Want me to make you laugh again. Make Taffy heal again and Flake give our supplies to hungry children. Want to know what I think?” he asked, in a tone entirely too casual.

“Not really, no,” I said flatly, examining the walls more closely.

“I think that’s funny.” I could almost see the smile on his face. More laughter. “Pretty funny, eh? You making somepony laugh.” I continued to search the walls, convinced there was a door somewhere. There… An outline. Somepony, I didn’t have to guess who, had painted over the door with the same bright yellow paint as the rest of the room. Removed the knob and filled the lock with Wonderglue. “Did you find the door yet?” he cackled. “I painted it myself. I’m an artist. Paint the world. Watch it grow. Pick the fruit. Paint the world. Watch it grow. Pick the fruit.” That laugh was really starting to get annoying. The nonsensical ravings I could deal with, but that laugh was making my mane itch. “So. Joke book? Pepper gum? Hoof-buzzer? How’re you planning on helping me?”

It had to be in my saddlebag somewhere… Aha! Dynamite. “I’m not.” I popped the cap, left it at the door, and ran back into the hallway. Ka-BOOM! Now to find this sick bastard.

“You’re … uht?” The voice warped as the speaker died. Heading back in the room, the door had been blown clean away, along with much of the wall. Sawdust particles hung in the air, mixing with the confetti still floating around. The light shone in, casting long flickering shadows through the dust and debris. The deck seemed clear. I trotted out, looking for signs of booby-trapping. The patio was filled with nothing more than a few wrecked tables and umbrellas.

“WHERE ARE YOU!?” I roared, drawing my revolver from the leg holster and holding it in my mouth, scanning the bleak landscape.

“Yoo-hoo!” I turned to see a yellow and blue figure waving at me from a few hundred feet away. He was on the top of a hill next to a smashed wagon. He raised a megaphone to his mouth and yelled, “Ten!”

Ten? Ten what? “What do you mean!?”

He raised the megaphone again. “Six, five.” Oh shit. Shit shit shit. Can't run back in, he might've rigged the whole building. Have to jump? From the third story? “Three.” I sprinted for the edge. “Two.” I jumped, air rushing by before slamming into pavement, feeling my left legs crack and break from the fall. Pain exploded in my head. “One.” At least I had the sense to cover my face with my intact forehoof.

A pop and a horn sounded, along with a whooshing noise. I peeked out from under my leg, and a white banner with the words, “Fooled Ya” scrawled on it in what looked like blood unfurled from the ledge under the patio. Fireworks streaked into the sky, detonating just under the dark clouds in flashes of colored fire. Gasping for air with what felt like a punctured lung, I turned to look at Punch. “See!?” he yelled, “THAT’S funny!” He turned and galloped away, no doubt very pleased with himself.

The contents of my bags were strewn over the ground. I scrabbled for my only healing potion and managed to down it. The pain reigned itself back to a mild agony, and I could feel my left forehoof starting to mend along with my side. My rear leg was having less luck; it felt as if nothing had healed. “Dammit." I was gonna need a splint. I managed to get my bags repacked and slung over my back, and began limping towards the building.

The top floor exploded, deafening me with the blast. I hit the dirt, covering my head and cursing loudly as my wounded leg reminded me of its presence. Small chunks of debris fell around me, and more than one piece bounced off my barding. Once I stopped hearing the plinks and thuds, I struggled to my feet and observed the damage. Half the top floor collapsed, with the other half buckling and sagging. I still had to get inside; it's a two day trek to New Appleloosa, and there's no way I'd be making it without a splint.

The double doors swung open easily enough; I'd already disarmed or set off all of Punch's traps. Just inside, I pulled boards off a window and set to searching for something to tie them together with. In doing so, I happened across a room I hadn't checked. It was an unassuming wooden door, one I thought was a broom closet. Curious, I swung it open and leaped back, expecting an explosion or other boobytrap.

What I came to face was the body of a little yellow filly, tied spread-eagle onto an examination table. The ropes had been so tight they cut into her hide, and the ones around her chest probably collapsed her lungs. Her limbs were crooked and bent, probably broken to put her in that position. There was no mane or tail to speak of; the green hair had been ripped out and was laying in clumps on the floor. A small gash on the side of her neck was coated in black, dried blood, of which there was a lack of on the floor. Punch's banner was written in blood. On top of her lay a teddy bear, oozing out a recording of, “You hugged me. So I hugged you,” every few seconds. In Punch’s happy, enthusiastic, foal-friendly voice.

He'd always kept a stock of teddy bears. He’d pass them out to town kids or caravan children. He once gave one to Basket after her horn burned out and he was shot. Punch always made sure ponies were happy, or at least a little less sad. I’ll never forget when he came across an entire community of foals on the outskirts of Hoofington. He made us prolong our stay as he spent days rigging together toys and gadgets for them to play with. The smiles on their faces stretched from ear-to-ear. Remembering back, I grinned, which quickly turned into a scowl when my attention returned to what was still before me.

A simple lighter would've been sufficient to turn the table into a pyre, giving the filly a proper send-off from this world, a decency most of us will never get. But that three-seconds of butane might save my life between here and New Appleloosa. Sorry, kid.

I woke to an explosion and snarling. Judging by the soft, murky light seeping through cracks in the boarded windows, I had slept through the night. Another explosion made the building shudder. That meant I had two dynamite traps left. A third boom. Down to one. Sleeping on the second floor was a really good idea, provided the third floor doesn't come crashing down on my head. Repurposing Punch's disarmed traps for myself and barricading the stairwell was easy enough, even with my hurt leg.

Being sure to keep weight off my broken limb, I hobbled forward, revolver in mouth. Reaching the stairs, I cautiously pried the door open, looking down. All clear. I steadily made my way down until I could see through the debris stacked at the bottom. Two feral ghouls stood, heads swiveling, attempting to sniff my location out. The dismembered and mutilated bodies of their pack lay behind them, singed from the blasts. Taking aim through a hole in the debris, I bit the mouthpiece. The revolver roared and a bullet found its way through one feral’s head. The other’s eyes met mine shortly before I sent a bullet straight between them.

The first floor was a mess. The smell was bad enough. The dynamite had torn chunks out of the walls, and pony gore painted the hallway. Including bits and pieces of yellow hide. There was no gurgling breathing, no gnashing teeth, no I’m-going-to-eat-you-alive snarling to indicate there were any ghouls left, so I took down my last trap and pushed the barricade forward enough for me to slip out.

The ruins of a few other smaller buildings lay on the side of the road across from the warehouse, having collapsed long ago. No movement, no shifting of rubble, nothing to indicate there were any ghouls outside. But that didn't mean they weren't there, and as I limped out and headed south I kept my head on a swivel.

Punch most likely made for the raider-infested Ponyville, seeing as they seemed to recognize him as one of their own. I couldn't risk setting foot near that place until I had recovered. Tracking Punch this far south had cost me all of my healing potions, and left me with two sticks of dynamite and twenty rounds for my revolvers. New Appleloosa was only a two slow days' walk, and the section of road was untraveled enough that ambushes would be extremely unlikely. Still, I kept well off the road, barely keeping it in sight as I limped on.

I paused behind a blackened tree to flip on my portable radio. The voice of DJP0N3 came loud and proud over the speakers, ready to relay the latest bits of information. I turned it down so I could barely hear it as I moved.

“Goooooood morning Wasteland! Rise and shine for another beautiful day out there! Ya want some news? I got a steaming load of it.

“Recent reports coming in from around Ponyville and New Appleloosa are saying some sick pony is leaving booby-trapped dolls on the sides of caravan routes. So if you see a lonely little doll, don’t touch it! And especially don't let your kid touch it. In a bucket of news from near my home of Manehatten, an entire caravan has gone missing. Five adults and two little colts. They were due here at Tenpony Tower yesterday and didn’t show, and a search party came back empty-handed. Wailing and screaming continue to be heard echoing around the suburbs. I’m not sure of the source, but whatever it is, I don’t think I wanna know and I sure as hell hope it's not the caravan. And finally, in a report from a troop of scavengers that had probably been drinking too much, a ghost can be seen watching ponies from rooftops and windows throughout Manehatten. Now I like the sauce now and again too boys, but leave some for the rest of us. Stay safe out there, you don’t want to end up on this broadcast. This is DJP0N3, bringing you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts."

Nice to hear Punch got himself on the morning report. Some lonely little colt probably wanted a toy to play with, found one of the traps, and got his forelegs blown off. Well, shit happens. Sometimes it happens to good ponies. Punch was purposely doing it to good ponies, and that was reason enough for me to stop him.

As I crested a small hill dotted with blackened trees, I spotted movement below. A large, hulking figure was examining a pile of rocks. Diving (or rather, wobbling) behind a tree, I got as low as my broken leg could get me. Wishing for Med-X, I edged my head out for a closer look, and immediately changed my wish to include an anti-material rifle.

A massive Hellhound stood watching me from two hundred feet away. It cocked its head, sniffing the air. I had two sticks of dynamite, three .357 revolvers, and a broken leg. It sniffed again, and stood straight up. The most massive revolver I've ever seen was gripped tightly in its hand; it looked like it shot cannonballs. This wasn't right. Usually they attack on sight, or from below ground. And they carry laser rifles if anything, not a revolver the size of light artillery.

It leveled the weapon at me, cocking its head. What an odd time to notice the over-sized mutt wasn't massive for a Hellhound, just massive compared to me. I also happened to notice my legs weren't responding to my brain, which I thought had been telling them to 'run', and 'fast'. Additionally, thanks to the wonders of reflexes, I had gone and drawn my .357 magnum from my foreleg holster and was pointing it back at the beast.

Well, when your time's up, it's up. Shit.