Fallout Equestria: The Hero Maker.

From the angle of Rusty Rounds.

War. War never changes. Power shifts, caps are spent and all the while ponies live and all ponies die. Wars are fought by ponies and waged with an arsenal of destruction, whether it be with the humble spear or the devastating destroyer of worlds the Megaspell.

The days of peace and harmony are gone, the days of tranquility and friendship reduced to ash like the poor souls that once inhabited this destitute land.

War is easy to wage, all it takes is the means to sustain it. And does no one wonder: who supplies and thrives on the continuation of war?

Me.

My name is Rusty, Rusty Rounds. And I do what I do best, deal in death. Gun Running is a difficult and usually thankless job. But, somepony has got to do it.

I suppose I should start somewhere simple, somewhere that everything makes sense. Truth is, there basically isn’t. I often forget where I am and why I am in that place, days can go missing at a time, depending on how... weak, I’m feeling. I’ll start where I feel I should, the beginning of the end.

***

I stumbled about the cracked asphalt street, my hearing as contorted and incoherent as my vision, the searing pain that was my face cast my mind into a frantic haze of swarming panicked thoughts. I was bleeding, bleeding bad, the sharp whine in my ears threw my balance astray, all around me was an unfocused blur. Slowly the garbled drone of machine gun fire and the crack of the sniper’s rifle returned, I fell with a clatter, the blood filling my mouth as I slipped from the dim miasma of reality, scared and confused.

That may be too far.

We’ll start with who I am and how we got to there. And don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you a pack of lies to make me look good.

***

Chapter 0: Rusty Rounds

“I sell carbines and carbine accessories.”

Hangovers.

The plague of the interesting pony. And me.

I awoke with the same empty bottle, the same grinding metallic pain in my head. In the same rusty metal shack, in the same mouldy mattress doing the same shit. Most days began like this, nine inch nails plunged into my skull as I tried to key start the ignition on the day.

I meagerly managed to drag myself up to sit on my bed. The name is Rusty Rounds by the way. And this humble abode is my shack, well, safe-shack while I finalized my business here in Marizona. The red rusted thin walls, just upright flimsy sheet metal that had been capped by a broader sheet of the same corroding metal.

If I could summarize my shack, my surroundings and my entire life in one word it would be: Red. A muddy brownish red.

Everything was red, my mattress, my puke bucket, the door to this shack. A muddy, rust, red. Everything.

My head sagged low as I felt the quease and knots bind in my stomach from last night. I have this condition known as ‘Cantputthebottledown-itis’ it’s a terrible affliction, being so debilitatingly disabled.

You see, ponies like me have a habit of morphing my worst enemy into my best friend.
In my case it was vodka.

The sweet Stalliongrad kick of it. Raw as ropes, every drop of the liquidized diamond could melt away your worries like acid on exposed flesh. Like piss on a toilet skidmark.

A tuft of my shaggy rust coloured mane fell in front of my eyes. Too tired to deal with something as stupid as mane style for now.There was more pressing matters to be dealt with.

I looked up, what I saw was that brown stained mirror, inside it was there a starkly familiar pony.

A frail, slim, almost dainty, tired old earth pony stallion. A rusty mane and a brown coat, grey stubble appearing around his muzzle and deep dark bags hanging under his magenta eyes.

I was thirty five this year. I’m already shrivelling up.

“Get the fuck up, handsome.” I gave a worn and forced laugh to the mess of a pony inhabiting my mirror. If there was one thing I hated it was intrusions. Not that this one posed any remote threat.

On my flank was the same contemptible sight that determined who I was going to be up until the moment some meaner pony puts me out of my misery. A pair of rusted rifle cartridges that lay over one another. The five point five six by forty five millimeter round. I detested it. Lacked the kick I so desperately craved. Still, got the job done.

I grew up in Glascow, mean city, always raining. But I left young, doing what I’ve been doing now for nearly two decades, I guess I never really had a home. I found that if I stayed in one place long enough everypony there would want me dead within a few months.

That's largely to do with my vocation. What I do for a living. I provide a necessary service to needy ponies. But when I pick one band of ponies over another, they tend to want my neck. The price of working with the uninitiated in the ways of market forces.

I forced myself off the bed, the alcohol still lingering. I stumbled around the room, knocking over clusters of empty vodka bottles, the tumultuous and discordant clatter of the glass hitting the floor being the soundtrack of my life before I caught myself on a wall. Feeling a hard stitch digging into my side as my stomach knotted and stewed.

Hangovers.

I tend not to carry a gun, but today was special. I stuck my muzzle underneath my suspiciously heavy pillow, I wasn’t aware dirt had that much mass, and dug around for the smooth, cold and fine finish of my best friend.

After a moment’s nervous scouring, fearful of her loss I found her. Diamond.

I gently drew her out from her hiding spot, there she was. A stout .357 magnum, a pale blue frame, black ebony grip, seven chambers, double action and all mine. I paused to smile at her for a fleeting moment, she had a strange beauty to her. I gave her a small hug and kiss to the cylinder.

Groaning, I reached for my leather shoulder holster resting on my bedpost, I needed it. I was never good with these things, or overly fond of them for that matter. I handled every weapon that came my way with the utmost care, cradling and nurturing each like a foal. Feeding it, keep it changed and in good health. If only I was as good with ponies.

I fastened the holster with difficulty, the grogginess from the inexpensive alcohol forever impeding me. The banging and throbbing in my head was exacerbated with every motion of it. Curse the son of a bitch who thought up such a wonderful concoction.

I dropped my Diamond into the holster and made my way to the door, this was an ungodly hour to be awake for a pony like me. But a pony’s gotta do, what a pony’s gotta do. Or in my case, “an unfun, fun sized stallion that looks like he should go ‘I love you~’ every time you squeeze his chest’s gotta do, what he’s gotta do.”

I lightly bucked open the screeching rust covered metal door and emerged into the cold first light embrace of Marizona. The rising sun dispelling the darkness strewn across the brown expanse, first light. How appropriate. Only light really, it would be mere minutes before the sun climbed high above the cloud cover and pissed off for the day.

I greedily inhaled the crisp early morning air, feeling the warmth of the sun on my coat contrasting with the still frosty atmosphere of the dying desert night. Refreshing.

It took my mind off from what I was about to do for a moment.

To the left of my shack was a gagged and blindfolded pony, his forehooves bound behind his back, dislocated of course, to disincentivise his squirming and writhing, his hind hooves bound in such away he was locked in a submissive kneeling fashion, he was still awake.

He was slowly rising and falling with every breath, struggling to respire through the motor oil covered rag shoved in his mouth then secured in place with duct tape.

The captive was a young earth pony stallion not out of his early twenties, he had bright blonde unkempt mane and a powder blue coat, clad in leather armour. A crumpled stack of metal and the remains of what used to be an automatic rifle lay next to him.

If he weren’t such a pain in my ass maybe I would have liked the kid, his name was Safety Pin, a few friends delivered him last night. And by friends, I do mean the kind that charge by the hour.

Well, down to business. I toddled over to the bound pony. Rolling my neck around on my shoulders giving several satisfying pops.

“It’s time.” I droned, wearily, doing my best to disconnect myself emotionally. It gets a little easier after a decade or so.

He let out a surprised yelp, which I returned by chomping down on his mane and dragging him further away from my safe house and into the open desert. He tried to kick out and began squirming, muffled screams coming from his jammed mouth. Each tug draining strength from my already meek frame, I was sweating in no time as he resisted futilely.

I dropped him not far from the shack, his head shaking violently side to side. Fighting off the me he couldn't see. Forcing me to wheeze between my teeth, the clumps of quickly frayed hair tasted of copper and regret.

I let out an exhausted sigh, not in the mood for these games. This kind of stuff toyed with my conscience enough without him fighting it.

Slowly, I nipped the corner of the duct tape, getting some grip and snapped my head back, quickly freeing his mouth, pulling the skin from his lips. Moaning through the motor oil laced cloth, desperate for breath he managed to cough the rancid rag out of his mouth. The cloth splattered out onto the ground, the blackened greasy rag soaked in voluminous amounts of saliva.

I loved that rag.

Safety Pin gasped for air, panting heavily, stealing as much good air and purity he could in this world before his long streak of pilfering the world’s scant supply of oxygen was ended for good. Something I’ve come to notice among those who ended up tied up at my hooves.

“Please, please! I dunno who you are, but don’t do this. It’s very important I get out of here. Now Please! Let me go!” He pleaded desperately, I could hear the panic and dread drip off of every word, each jabbed my chest with a small prick. Thankfully I had thick skin.

I remained silent, just staring empathetically at this sad creature. The perspiration trailing down his anxiety ridden face, licking his bloodied, raw lips.

He pointlessly looked around, the desperation settling in.

“Who are you!? Answer me, c’mon! Every second you stall the more ponies will die needlessly.” He beseeched to me. The kid was not a very good liar, spewing that corny faux-heroism crap, I even thought for a moment that he believed himself, so eager to live, to implore me to otherwise let him walk. To drop this and let all it go, I couldn’t. Not now, too many cards were in play.

Instead of answering his calls, I removed his blindfold. Nipping at the back knot the light fabric gently wafted down by his quaking knees. He shook free of the vision constricting cloth and blinked furiously nearly a dozen times before squinting up at me sheepishly with a scrunched up face.

He instantly averted his gaze with a yelp, quivering, he let out a jittery whimper shutting his eyes, probably wishing I kept the blindfold on.

“Yeah, it’s me.” I said to him, tiresome, giving him a limp shrug doing my best to keep my ears from falling, I failed, I looked like I was the one tied up on the cold desert floor.

You see, Safety Pin here was an up and coming rent-a-hero in the territory, out here in Marizona, since the rangers left there has been auditions for the most valiant and do goodier son of a bitch out here. And Safety Pin here figured he would play hero. Kid couldn’t have been twenty two, got a lot ahead of him, but he just couldn’t conduct business ethically.

This was all too much bullshit this early in the morning, I retreated inside scrounging through my pile of useless belongings searching for a precious dribble of vodka.

I emerged moments later, a near depleted crystal clear litre bottle of the stuff in my mouth. Resting it on an upturned bucket outside. Taking a generous mouthful, the kickstart it gave me put me back into my favoured rational, and logical state. Back to the real by the numbers me. Not the weakling I was forced to suppress.

Now began the lecture on why he woke up in a far corner of the desert tied up outside my safe house. It was my own justification, nothing more. Something to help me rest easier I guess, I had a habit for it.

Towering over him, my small frame casting to him what must’ve been a very large shadow, I cleared my throat and spoke in my unemotive drone.

“Please, Rusty, you gotta believe me-” he found the nerve to speak, gazing up at me with those defiant, imploring and above all despondent, teal eyes. I gulped down my pity and emotions, replacing it with what resolve I had left. Suppressing the pangs in my chest, I hardened my expression and swallowed the lump of lead in my throat.

His mother taught him to read and write, a good mare, one who cared even for a whelp like this.

“Not three minutes ago you were pleading - without confirmation on your captor’s identity - to be released and that you had plans to come and kill me.” I told him frankly, stopping to stare at him. I seen my own saddened and reluctant reflection in his eyes.

“What!? No! you got me all wrong.” He responded frantically, beseechingly, wrongly.

His mother’s fiftieth birthday party is next week I hear. It was warming to hear how a good pony lasted so long for a change.

“Pin, buddy-” I snorted, cocking an eyebrow at him “don’t insult my intelligence, just last night you announced to the ponies of that little fucking town you call home that you were gonna bump me off, you and your so called fucking ‘posse’.” I spat with contempt, you can’t kiss the devil’s boots one day and give a sermon the next. “You were captured and you think you can guilt trip said captors into releasing you? Grow up. For the last few fucking moments of this life you so fleetingly wasted would you please grow up? ” I beseeched him irately, huffing out my nostrils my face curled into a snarl, I tried to act tough, my heaving chest was just a mask for my cowardice. Trepidation for the task.

I couldn’t let this one slip, I couldn’t just call it ‘Business’ and dust myself off. Safety Pin made an announcement that he was going to and I quote “Bring me to justice.”

Atop a literal crate of soap.

He had one of his buddies say that he disagreed with Pin, that he still held some respect for both me and my employer and would grease Pin for me if I supplied the goods, thankfully I wasn’t born yesterday. Friends don’t suddenly eat friends alive.

I heard she disapproved, but was very proud of Pin’s choice to fight for what he believed in, she’ll at least go on believing in his bravado, we won’t say where we found him, or what he was doing, for her sake.

Safety Pin’s sobbing was starting to get the better of me, his head bowed low and humiliated. I had to conclude this now.