Have Power Armour, Will Travel
I should have left it there, I really should. The leathery remains of the unfortunate pony still inside made its head flap and bob about in the wind like a macabre puppet. Bits of the main chestpiece lay round, the result of the bullet that ended the occupant's life. As I walked closer, I could see that it was no bullet, but a... a railroad tie? What kind of gun shoots a railroad tie? Looking back along its trajectory, all I could see was a now blown-away circle of ash. There were others that had settled to the side of the road, shielded from the wind, but I didn't fancy rooting around in pony dust today - not that I hadn't before, but I had to be pretty desperate. It tended to get up your nose.
The site of the battle had attracted many scavengers - whoops, "prospectors", have to remember my manners - even after the Pegasus Enclave and Steel Rangers had come to collect their wounded and dying. Single Gear knew this, the bastard, and had sent me and my cart off anyway. "Worm Drive, we give you a gun for a reason. You don't just run away the moment someone looks at you! Geartown needs that salvage and we can't have our prospectors coming back empty-handed!" No, of course not. That's why you look the other way when we get armour with fresh 10mm bullet holes... and slightly fresher blood behind those. Of course, I didn't say this, but I had to placate him. "Single, you know I can't shoot straight. My bullets just go over their heads-"
He cut me off with a wave of his hoof. "Save it. I know you do a lot for this town, but it's a boom time and I need every pony I've got out there." Nice of you to refer to ponies dying as a boom time, boss.
So here I was, picking another scab off a bloody conflict. Ponies insisted they were right, tensions had flared, bullets and beams flew - and the ravens and scavengers moved in to feast. I didn't know what had triggered this one, but they were becoming more frequent. There was talk on the radio attesting to the same, though the announcer seemed as much in the dark as I.
I did so love being shot at, but it made me appreciate how wonderfully whole I was when I escaped. The movement had attracted my eye as I travelled back, empty once more and not relishing Single's tongue-lashing.
I could see how the armour had escaped salvage, now. He or she had fallen/rolled under under a mesquite bush, where the ever-present wind had half-buried it in dust, and the grime covered up the silvered coating. By the depth of it and the dessication of the occupant, it had happened about a year ago, maybe two.
I'd seen power armour before, of course, but there was a rule that you didn't touch Steel Ranger technology - any that was obvious, anyway. Same went for Enclave. You ran the risk of heavily-armoured ponies turning up and 'asking' for it back. The town's founder had been disinclined to trust either (being a Steel Ranger deserter can do that - all I knew was she'd "had enough"), and that attitude had been handed down. If the armoured barding we sold had a distinctive shine under the paint, what of it?
My cart was parked by the side of the worn road. It'd be a griffin of a job to dig it out and heave it onto the cart. And I'd have to extricate the dead pony without being sick. Yet it looked fairly intact. The silvering would buff up just fine with some dilute Abraxo, all the servos were there, I could adapt some leather barding to replace the collar and repair the interface suit, and... yes! The power plant was active; a screwdriver across the contacts of the helmet power cable confirmed it. It'd be a real shame to destroy something that had survived for two centuries in working condition.
But I couldn't take it back intact. That was also clear. I went back to the cart to get the precision hammer and chisel, but a kernel of an idea made me reach for my toolbox instead.
Well, every pony needed a hobby...
I'd shovelled away the dust after hacking away at the bush with a machete (mesquite thorns are no joke), unclipped the laser rifle from the battle saddle (it was in surprisingly good condition too - external optics were scratched, though) and taken off what armour plates I could unscrew. Now came my least favourite part. I had been assured by my mother that it got easier, that you had to remember they weren't going to mind, but that didn't stop the feeling that I was excavating someone's grave, or from smelling or feeling a rotting dead pony's body. All I had to do was unplug the cable again, place one hoof on the muzzle of the helmet, another on its rim at the nape, and ease-
*crack*
The head of the pony snapped off. I overbalanced, fell on my side with the helmet still in my hooves and something thudded on the ground. Unable to help myself, I turned my head to see... ohCelsetiaitlookslikeJERKYandthereshugeflakesofSKIN Aaand there went my dinner.
Having puked my guts out, I left the... the thing and went to unclasp the... body (ugh). My hoof clinked softly against something hanging from the remains of the neck. ID tags.
Spring Shoots. Her name was - had been - Spring Shoots. A small part of me snickered at the pun - she's Shoots and she shoots, hoho - but I had to wonder what had happened and who she was. It also complicated things mechanically, as there were mare/stallion-specific mechanisms for waste. It was modular, or so I hoped, but it meant I couldn't just get in and go, so to speak. I slipped them into my utility barding and got out the socket wrench.
Normally, the armour opened like a double-doored wardrobe along the bottom. The armour was hung from a small crane with the left side dangling down; you slipped both left legs in and stuck your right legs out, feeling for the holes as if you were putting on a shirt; then you clasped the dangling 'doors' together, being careful with the natural and additional plumbing. However, I didn't want a repeat of the helmet incident. The armour's legs came off first, then I removed the pins from the hinge on the uppermost side to slip her fragile legs out of the leg holes. For now the interface suit kept her remains together, but that would have to come off too... focus. Concentrate on the job at hand and try not to think of jerky... oh, hello, dry heaves. This was why I never came back with much from 'prime' prospecting opportunities. How did the heroes on the radio cope with this? It's a shame there wasn't something for earth ponies that'd put salvage in your cart without you having to touch it. I'd make it like a PipBuck - *click* Helmet. *click* Armour. *click* Rifle minus the pony teeth embedded in the grip (headshots - never fun).
I took a swig of water and continued. My barding was weighed down with bolts, but I still had the other side to do. Now one side had been exposed I had an idea. It wasn't one I would have preferred, but I could see the sun was setting. Grimacing, I levered down the bulky top armour, bit down on a clean-looking spot on the back of the interface suit, lifted a little and slid the body out as clean as anything. I was quite proud of myself till I realised I still had to take the suit off and bury the body.
I picked up the shovel again with a sigh.
"I never knew you for long, Miss Spring Shoots, well I didn't know you at all, really. Um, I'll try and contact your next-of-kin and I hope you don't mind me taking your armour. Rest in peace." Only the stillness of the twilight desert answered me. Turning away from the shallow grave, I climbed the embankment up onto the road and hitched myself to the cart. What now? There were enough bits and pieces of armour plating to justify taking it straight to the workshop, but the partially disassembled frame would /really/ raise questions. I'd have to talk fast or it would go straight into the forge and the powerplant used to heat Single Gear's water or something. Speaking of fast, I had to get going. The 10mm pistol in my hip holster was secure. While I didn't like to use it, I liked radscorpions, geckos and bloatsprites even less. Sometimes you couldn't run fast enough.
The trek back was thankfully uneventful, despite my imagination conjuring up monsters waiting to pounce on me at every turn. There was the sign:
GEARTOWN
GET YOUR GEAR HERE
A painting of intermeshed gears surrounded the border of this dull slogan - some of old Tiny Heart's work. He was the closest thing the town had to an artist, and doubled (well, tripled) as the teacher and town historian. When I was younger I thought he knew everything worth knowing, and he did - everything worth knowing about Geartown, anyway. Till I got my cutie mark, I was hoping to replace him... but I was working in the workshop, I was making armour, others saw a flash and I had a picture of armour and a gear on my bum. And that was that.
The guard dozing in the gatetower started when I tentatively tapped on the sheet metal of the gate. "Whu- Who is it?" Daylight tonight; I might have a chance. "Worm Drive!" In the light of the half-moon, my cart was shadowed. Hopefully. If she was as tired as she looked, she might wave me through without...
"What have you got in the cart, Worm?"
Bullpats. "Some armour! Mostly plates, some scrap metal, condensers, copper wire, and a very nice laser-"
"Yeah, yeah, Wriggly, we know you're an egghead. Get in while I can still get some beauty sleep." While I didn't appreciate the 'Wriggly', I nearly sagged with relief as the gate opened. "Drop it in the workshop-"
"The workshop's closed", I reminded her. Helping. Honest.
"Then shove it up your ass, Wriggly! I don't care where you take it, just... leave me be." She yawned mightily and dropped down on her mattress.
Not an evening mare, that Daylight. More importantly, I was almost home free! My house was nearby the workshop, and the accompanying junk pile, at the other end of town. I wheeled my cart down the central street past the general store, salvage shop, the scattering of normal houses, Single Gear's house - all protected by the ring of piled-up rubble and overturned trucks that comprised the town wall.
I needed to get the armour out of sight in my own workshop before - well, before. Not that anyone was up, but you can't blame me for being paranoid, especially as I had to drag it inside and risk waking everyone. Luna-damned lack of horn... Somehow I managed it, keeping the cursing to a minimum.
Collapsing on my bed, my mind refused to shut down. Now I had it, what was I going to do with it? A vague fantasy of becoming the Hero of Geartown drifted through my head before I dismissed it. I didn't like to fight. I'd seen far too much death in my 16 years to think there was any glory in fighting. I left it to others to get shot up, burned, splattered or vapourised. Hair Trigger had so many bullet holes in him he looked like a raider. Or a join-the-dots puzzle. Where I'd run away, not wanting to risk my life for a handful of caps, he'd run towards the battle, injecting stimpaks to keep himself on his feet. Single Gear loved him for that, and I had to admit it'd saved me a couple of times, too.
Although... A few new ideas popped up: wading through a nest of radscorpions and emerging unharmed with a backpack full of loot; hauling back metal plates I couldn't even lift before; punching through a wall to the amazement of a mare; and finally travelling the wasteland and leaving the hypocrisy of the adults behind - that kept coming back in.
Seemingly satisfied, my thoughts finally settled down, and with that I was asleep.
Worm Gear
SPECIAL
STR 5
PER 6
END 4
CHA 5
INT 7
AGI 8
LCK 6
Tag skills: Repair, Science, Sneak
Trait: Small Frame
Author's Note
This is (nominally) set in the Fallout: Equestria universe, just after the end of the original story. Not everything is sunshine and roses, especially out in the desert with its copious raiders and rebellious factions - those take a long time to die out, you know. I'll be as faithful as I know how, but won't lose sleep if I get some details wrong or contradict someone else's fanfic.