• Published 23rd Feb 2013
  • 3,227 Views, 242 Comments

Fallout Equestria: Second Wind - TinkerChromewire

In this FoE Sidestory, a veteran of war returns to the harsh realities of the wastelands from beyond the grave. Discovering the hardships of New Equestria and its terrors, he seeks to find a place in a world that moved on without him.

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Chapter 10.75: Boot, Meet Head

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"Boot, Meet Head"

Oh, and PNK-3 says ‘hi’.

The crisp night air was cleaved by the heavy hull of the sailing object, a tail of burning air igniting behind it as it soared with incredible speeds. For a hundred years, it has slumbered, in wait for its master to return to claim it and its twin. Now, it flies alone, briefly, in its quest to be found by its rightful owner.

White hot with heat, the metal lining its outer form burned as the friction made it appear like a shooting star, but even in this environment it did not wear or tear. It was built of sterner stuff than that; it was built to outlast all others like it. This, of course, rendered it a deadly projectile compounded upon it by its designed and original purpose--An additional power granted merely by its massive inertia and boundless potential energy imparted on it.

Thoughtless and determined, it carried no voice, held its tongue and refused to bare its sole to the world, it had no ties to the world save unto itself and its duty to return to its master and become whole. The method that propelled it was waning, it had no method of self propulsion, so it would likely rest where it landed until found.

The world had changed so much while it lay behind the wood pulp walls of its prison, a bleak world or muted colors now spread out beneath it. The clouds overhead were just beyond it, the enchantment deep in its very being longed for the embrace of the clouds, to taste the sweet kiss of the sky. Two lovers, apart, separated by a distance the breadth of an outstretched leg that may as well have been a million miles.

As bloodthirsty as its master, it sought to rest only after it bludgeoned the very life from an enemy in its descent. Whether by bad fortune on the part of that enemy, or good fortune upon the ruthless throw that had propelled it, the armor turned comet slammed into a slate grey earth pony mare with wild eyes and struck from her memory all that she was. The last thing drawn upon her mind was her ass as her skull was torn and dragged right into her posterior by the vengeance of the object’s heated hatred laced with fury. For all the weapons held aloft by this mare’s power, none of them could compare to the sheer destructive power of the spiteful spear that lanced through her form, and none could have defended her.

The companions of this mare could only shout and scream in surprise and fear, huddling in the wreckage of nearby sky wagons until the smoke cleared. With curious, beady eyes, the Baker Barbarians inspected the ruined remains of their squad leader, the mad Pastry Witch whose power had done nothing to shield her from a force of nature such as this.

All they could say, all they could shout at their discovery, and to the heavens themselves that scorned them was; “Where the fuck did dat boot come from?!” They could only stare in awe and fear at the unmarked, undamaged gore filled boot stuck firmly in the skull of a mare many had thought ‘immortal’.

There can only be one! Or in the boot’s case, two.

She was dead! The Pastry Witch of the Baker Barbarians lay slain by a unique force of nature. To the survivors go the spoils, well, if they could agree on who got what. The remaining Barbarians were arguing with one another in a heated shouting match, the larger of the group bumping chests and exchanging foul breath as they roared at each other.

They all wanted a disproportionate share of the loot off Meatpie’s body, and of course, none but the scrawniest of the Leftovers among them wanted no part in the debacle. It’s not like the ponies fed table scraps and routinely beaten into obedience would ever have the balls to step up and stake claim without becoming a snack to the bigger, meaner Barbarians.

“I wants her Can Cleavah!” Roared Beatmeat, one of the larger Meat-Beaters in the group; Drugged up, insatiable murder jockeys with a love of up and close sadism. His body was an all-over pockmark, his greasy complexion covered in small pustules and boils, and if anyone was stupid enough to get under him and his heavy iron spiked kickers, they’d find him to be a bit small under the carriage. Substance abuse, Buck in particular, had a way of reducing one’s masculinity in a very ironic way--big muscles, small dick. Of course, noone dare make a joke about the massive meat monster, not unless of course you were somepony like...

“Oi, pissant! How jou say common fewl, I have claim on her knives, dey are mine afterall. They wur on loan.” Cinder Crisp, the group’s Chef, a bold and spicy dapple unicorn mare. She was well armed with a powerful flame-spitter and a blazing flame creating propane powered porksword. Meatbeat hated her with a passion, but he loved her cooking, which rendered her nigh immune to his tantrums. Of course, she’d just burn him to a cinder if he dared to get too fresh; an impossibility because Beatmeat had no balls, literally.

“Are you challengin’ me?” Grunted Beatmeat as he narrowed his eyes, his bloodshot, beady orbs shrinking as his large nostrils widened.

“Moi? Perhaps. Shall ve eat ze cake?” The mare said with a cruel smile.

There was only one way to settle this, a game, one that every Baker Barbarian of the clans knew well. Its reputation was spread out through all the groups as the most intense game of confection ever. It was quite popular to make starving captives play it, betting on who would survive, then starving the survivors further until the next match!

The game was aptly named Cake or Death.

It was as simple as it was deadly--You could play with as many ponies as you’d like, as long as they had the necessary item to play; a bucksnack or sweet pastry of some kind. You also needed a roulette table, unicorn, or three coconut shell halves to play proper. Really, the game was so fluid and simple, making changes to play it anywhere with anything on hoof was pretty common and acceptable,

Each pony supplied their confection and put something in it or left it ‘plain’ and they would spin the wheel or use whatever method of randomization available to swap the foodstuffs around. Each player would take a bite, last one alive won the wager! Of course, one could always ‘pony out’ or ‘pig out’ during the game. Pony out was simply giving up while pig out meant you ate a number of the pastries in play and all opponents had to eat just as many or lose.

And finally, there was the audience participation! An audience member could add their own additives to confection or tamper with the game(without getting caught, that is).

The wager was simple and the game was set. Beatmeat and Cinder Crisp would play the game for the right to have all the goodies on Meatpie’s body. Each selected a delectable looking treat from their person and submitted it. The rest of the group chipped in as well with whatever they had to keep it varied and interesting and made bets amongst each other on who would win.

“Crisp’s got this! She’s gonna burn Beatmeat out!”

“You’re on! Beatmeat’s gonna pig out and win!”

And so it began, the pastries were swapped around at random with a flick of the mare’s magic--she even closed her eyes to not look at what she was doing (resulting on one pony getting a razorblade filled cupcake to the eye). She stopped and opened her eyes to see the confection before her, an eclair with an obvious knitting needle in it. With a roll of her eyes, she ate the eclair around the large needle and left the dangerous sharp tool behind, licking her chops and giving the stallion a wink. It tasted oddly salty to her.

“Dat wez tasty, but sad.” She purred tauntingly.

“I hope yeh liked mah special ingredient.” Beatmeat chuckled, reaching up to press his hoof into one of the ripe boils on his face. The geyser erupted with sick yellow-white phlegm that came out like curdled cream, matching the exact texture of that foul eclair! The sight of that gross puss made Cinder Crisp wince, gag, and swallow hard. She couldn’t lose her lunch thinking about it, she’d lose if she did!

“Jou still haff not eaten yur pasty!” She groaned, narrowing her eyes. “Try it...”

Rolling his beady, sunken eyes the brute chowed down carelessly on the green frosted meat pie. At first it was mild, fine, and savory sweet. A peculiar, queer thing in his mouth if the mare had made it. “Mmmmnot bad. Kinda makes me feel bad fer makin yah eat that zit eclair.” He chuffed out with a chuckle.

“Oh, just wait.” Cinder Crisp clicked, her voice dripping with venom.

Meatbeat’s mouth caught fire, wiping that smug smirk from his lips. A river of blood tinge saliva left his mouth as his tongue swelled, his eyes raining twin waterfalls of tears down his chiseled, zit covered face. It was so painful, a perpetual never ending inferno. “Gyeh wush yuh prut in thish?!”

“Death Pepper extract.” She replied smoothly. “Von’t kill jou, but it vill made zeh wish jou were dead.”

The match continued much like this, with each party getting equally fortunate and unfortunate as the game progressed. When Cinder Crisp got her own pastries, she was ready for them, but it was still painful, and eventually both their faces were red, puffy, and swollen. At one point, cinder Crisp had gotten a razor bladed cookie and was sporting a new split down her tongue. Meatbeat was wheezing, hardly able to breath, seeing as he was allergic to gluten. Neither would give up, so it kept getting more outrageous.

A final fit of desperation lead the berzerker to ‘pig out’ as many as he could in his turn, forcing the mare to match his four he’d managed. Her mouth was cut up, lips bleeding, and body sick from whatever it was they’d put in these things.

They were down to only two pastries--Which meant sudden death! The first one to eat their pastry would win and get the loot!

These last two pastries looked oddly ornate, large, and delicious as if they’d been made by a master pastry chef; Red velvet cupcakes with pink strawberry lemonade frosting and a preserved cherry on top. Both raiders chowed down at the same time, both pulling back with frosting covered faces and a grenade pin between their teeth.

The confused glance the competitors wore before it turned to pure horror, then to red sprayed gore was nearly priceless. All the surrounding raiders were atomized by the concussive fireball caused by a rupture in the flamer’s tank. If only had Cinder Crisp thought to turn off her pilot light on her flame spitter and shishkebab there might have been a few severely marred survivors.

“Oh, wow, maybe I overdid it on the sprinkles!” PNK-3 chimed as she came out from hiding. The pink orb of fearsome cute swiveled around, surveying the battlefield before she giggled, “That was a really fun game! We should play again sometime, but I have someplace to be!”

The pink ball of random searched through the remains, found the still undamaged boot, and left wearing it like a hat. Her destination? The enormous tent looking structure far into the distance, the Big Top Blok. “Oooo, I’ve always wanted to go to the circus!” the bot chimed cheerfully.

There’s a moral somewhere in this story, I’m not sure where it is, but it’s most certainly there. Just remember, kids, if a floating pink ball of random offers you a cupcake with extra sprinkles, just say no. Oh, and don’t be an evil cannibal either, that’s a good place to start, actually. Also, what the hell is PNK-3 doing going to the Big Top Blok? I don’t remember putting that in the script for the next encounter!

50 points to Griffindor! Oh, wait, wrong universe! 250 exp to PNK-3 for her stealth kill on the foolishly gambling Baker Barbarians!

PNK-3 Leveled up!
“Oh, I wanna name my new perk!”

What? But I’m the GM!

“Whose perk is this?”

Fine, you do it...

“New Perk: Pink’d Programming
While PNK-3 is in your party, locked terminals and maneframes are one difficulty level easier to hack--Easy peasy terminals are automatically unlocked with this perk!”

You’re not even a companion, PNK-3! You’re an NPC! And that perk’s useless!

“Nu-uh, I’m totally a companion character! PNK-3 is everypony’s companion! Lookee!”

This isn’t a character sheet, this is a coupon for 15% off at Sugarcube Corner!

“I knooooow, so that should make us square!”

What...Are you...Bribing me?

“Nope! It’s just a gift for my bestest friend, and bestest friends do favors for each other!~”

That’s subtle, real subtle...

“That means I’m a companion now, right? I’m plot essential!”

No, you’re just a pain in my plot. Fine, unimportant side character role!

“Main character!”

No, no more than a side character!

“No later than Friday!”


“I want my own mini-series! Friday, that’s the deadline!”

No, no more than companion, and that’s final!

“Okie Dokie Lokie!”

...Damn. She's good.

Author's Note:

Today's my birthday, August 14th, so here's a silly chapter that contributes to the story!