I must have dozed off at some point during the night, as I found myself awakened by the rising sun the next morning. The StealthBuck had run out while I was asleep, and I removed the now-useless device from my PipBuck and tossed it aside. In the hazy morning light, I could now make out my resting place much better. The stadium was in terrible shape, even for a pre-War ruin. Entire sections of the stands had caved in, and the field was missing entirely. Through the giant hole, I could see the busted remains of locker rooms and staff offices. Either the megaspell that destroyed Vanhoover had gone off nearby, or something had happened here before the war, perhaps the “incident” mentioned in the MoM memo I’d found.

That was completely irrelevant now, though. What mattered now was leaving the stadium and finding someplace I could stay where I’d be safe from raiders and Steel Rangers. So far my track record with finding civilization in the Wasteland hadn’t been stellar, but ponies had to have formed towns out here somewhere. My PipBuck map wouldn’t tell me where they were, but it did tell me where I’d tried and failed. So, upon leaving the Vanhoover Sports Center, I headed west, away from Stable 85, Majikland, and the Steel Rangers.

I followed the road, moving slowly to keep an eye out for movement in the buildings on either side. Only a few times did I encounter radroaches, and instead of wasting my pistol’s bullets on them, I hid behind the rusted remains of auto-carriages and crushed them to death with my hooves or PipBuck. It wasn’t long before the buildings of Majikland gave way to a poisonous countryside. My only companions were the blackened husks of trees, for which I was thankful.

After a while of walking, a town came into sight in the distance. Unlike in Majikland, there wasn’t any smoke rising from the roofs here. Still, it was the middle of the day, so a lack of campfires didn’t necessarily mean the town was free of raiders. The mutilated corpses I found hanging from the trees and buildings on the eastern edge of the town proved that was the case. I tried and failed to keep from gagging up the mushy apple from Stable 85 I’d broken my fast with earlier that day. After using half a can of water to cleanse my mouth and throat, I moved on beneath the corpses, trying not to look too closely at the rotting flesh, lest my stomach flip again.

I kept my pistol out and my eyes on my EFS as I crept through the town. I started a couple times as noises came from behind houses, and my EFS picked up movement, but whatever was causing the commotion was swiftly gone. Whenever I could, I searched the houses that lined the main road, coming up with a few bottles of Sparkle~Cola, bullets for my pistol, and a small collection of bottle caps. I had no idea why ponies would use bottle caps as currency, but my run-in with the Steel Rangers had taught me that they were valuable, maybe even more valuable than the heavier Bits I’d collected. Hidden in a suitcase underneath a bed in one of the houses, I even found a preserved (though a bit grimy) set of binoculars and a metal apple like the ones Ripcord had carried, untouched by scavengers.

As I trotted further into the town, I began to find that more and more of the houses had been picked clean. Something told me I was nearing the home of the ponies that had left the grisly sight at the edge of town. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a gunshot, and dove behind the remains of an auto-carriage before I realized that the shot hadn’t been aimed at me. Using the binoculars I’d found, I peeked over the rusted hunk of metal and spotted the raiders I’d been trying to avoid.

There were two that I could see, standing outside the remains of a brick building two blocks away. One was a burly earth pony mare, her dirty brown coat covered in scrap metal barding overlaid with a layer of barbed wire. Judging by the scars and scabs on her flesh where she wasn’t covered in barding, she was more likely to hurt herself than an opponent with it. What color her mane and tail were, I couldn’t say, for she’d cut them both off, and all that remained on her head were a few tufts of purple hair that appeared unnatural. The other raider was a thinner earth pony with a sickly green coat, and his mane and tail were also shaved off save for a few tufts of purple on his head. He wore no barding, except for a few scraps of leather attached to a crude saddle on his back that held a shotgun, similar to the one Chalice had used to hold his rifle. As I watched, he took another shot at the bird he’d downed with his first, which was flopping around wounded on the ground.

I heard shouting, and the raiders turned around to look behind them, back into their base, before turning back to the bird. I forced myself to look at their home next, in hopes of catching sight of the third raider who’d called out to them. It was an old stone structure, and parts of the walls had collapsed, burying the door, but opening up was another makeshift one beside it. Flayed corpses hung from the walls, providing further confirmation that this was a raider den and not the civilization I was looking for. Above the building sprouted a large metal sign, the winged envelope of the Equestrian Postal Service still clearly visible.

The roof was partially collapsed, and another raider climbed up through the hole to stand atop the post office. This one had an especially mean look about her, even though she had no barding on over her greasy yellow coat. The purple tufts on her head were more ragged, though longer, with the strap of her rusty metal goggles pinning those on the back of her head down. She was an earth pony, but her rifle wasn’t strapped to a saddle at her side. Instead, it was slung around her neck by a leather strap, and once she was behind a cinder block barricade on the roof, she unslung it and held it with her forehooves.

Go around my instincts told me. It would be so easy to sneak through the ruins of homes to the north, or even to the south where there was a tall hill to block them from seeing me. I could stay well clear of the raiders, move on, and never worry about them again. And yet …

End them another part of me said. Put an end to their raiding once and for all; it would be so easy. That last part was, of course, a lie. Nothing about shooting raiders would be easy. Then again, maybe the easy way wasn’t the best way. It would be easy to leave these raiders be, but what kind of a pony would I let them keep on raiding, keep on killing ponies and doing unspeakable things to their corpses?

Atop the hill behind the post office there had once been a house, but whether through time or a megaspell’s shockwave, it had collapsed, forming a gentle ramp of broken wood leading down from the crest of the hill to the roof of the post office. The rifle-pony guarded the streets in front of the raider den, but not the hill behind her, so it stood to reason that an approach from above could work. I knew there were at least three raiders, and with the size of the post office, I doubted there could be more than two more. All I had was my pistol, which was no match for the rifle, unless I struck first. The ponies out front couldn’t be too much trouble. One was unarmed, and if the other’s shotgun needed multiple shots to take out such a small bird at such a close range, I didn’t think it could do much harm to me. Whatever raiders were left inside were the one unknown, but if I did this right, I could use my metal apple to take them out.

The more I thought about it, the better an idea it seemed. Instead of sneaking away, I found myself sneaking to the top of the hill behind the post office, my pistol at the ready. The pony on the roof gave no sign that she saw me as I descended the long wooden ramp. Neither did anypony emerge from the hole to below. The two raiders in front of the post office were too concerned with the bird that was still jerking around pitifully on the pavement to look behind them.

Before I knew it, I was standing on the post office’s roof, only a few paces away from the rifle-pony. I cast SATS and time slowed around me. The spell helped me to target the back of the raider’s head for one shot, and two more into her torso. SATS took over and guided me as I fired, my first shot going wide, striking her barricade instead of her head. My second shot struck her in the back just below her shoulder, causing her to twist, and my third shot cut through her side.

As time returned to normal, I continued to fire the pistol in her direction, missing twice before a shot grazed her neck where it met her body. Hot, red blood gushed from the wound, and she clamped a hoof over it before she collapsed in front of me. I didn’t have time to react to the fact that I was the reason the pony lying in front of me—a puddle of blood expanding from her wounds—was dead because of me. I had to deal with the rest of the raiders, who had certainly just heard me kill their friend.

I pulled the metal apple from my saddlebags, and—following the faded instructions printed on it—pulled the stem and threw it down through the hole in the roof. I waited for the sound of the explosion, but instead the metal apple came flying back up towards me. I jumped out of the way, ducking behind a stack of crates just before it went up. Up close, the explosion was loud. My ears rang as the top crate was blown apart, raining broken bits of wood and flaming envelopes around me.

I peeked over what was left of the crates, and spied a burnt orange pony with a revolver in his mouth ascending to the roof. I cast SATS, but the PipBuck was still gathering magical energy when I did, so I was only able to get two shots off this time, the first burying itself in the raider’s flank and the second missing entirely. As he stumbled toward me, I continued to fire at him until my clip was empty. Bullets whizzed over my head as I ducked down to reload. I was in the midst of sliding a fresh clip into my gun when a bullet smashed through the crate next to me, nearly taking my ear off. Apparently my cover wasn’t bulletproof in the slightest. I shoved against the pile of crates, causing them to topple over. As a flurry of envelopes blocked my attacker’s vision, I fired where I knew he stood, shattering his jaw with one shot out of five and punching through his chest with another.

I stepped over his corpse, and moved to the side of the hole. I didn’t dare descend down the sloping surface; that’s what they’d be expecting, and my EFS confirmed there were three ponies below me, though none directly beneath me. I could see there was a low shelf at the end of the slope, so I jumped straight down, hiding behind it immediately upon landing.

Machine-gun fire sprayed over me, raining brick dust around me as the bullets impacted with the back wall. I heard a rifle firing as well, along with the blasts of a shotgun and an unearthly roar. I snuck a peek around the corner of the shelf, but I couldn’t see anything except for the middle third of the post office, where a cook fire and a few bedrolls were laid out, along with a few mutilated corpses hanging here and there. I crept forward to where a taller counter was, encountering no raiders but still hearing the sound of combat.

Looking over the counter, I saw that the remaining raiders were outside, facing off against another group of armed ponies. The brute of a pony I’d seen before was already dead, not even having met her attackers before being gunned down. The shotgun pony was crouched behind a mailbox, twisting around to fire a shot now and then, but his attackers were wise enough to remain out of range of his blasts. Looking over the counter, I saw the corpse of another raider filled with holes, the victim of the earlier blast of machine-gun fire. A sharpened spade lay next to him, now soaked in his blood.

An explosion blew both the mailbox and the remaining raider away, and the attention of the group outside the post office turned to me. I ducked down and stayed low to the ground as machine-gun fire was directed at me. Great, I thought, more raiders, and this time you can’t take them by surprise.

“Come on out, you raider scum!” a voice called to me, “Or we could flush you out with a grenade!”

“I’m not a raider!” I yelled back, hoping this wasn’t a trap. Were these ponies actually friendly, hunting down raiders?

“Says you,” the voice called back, “I says prove it. Throw yer weapon out here, then step out slowly.”

“And you won’t shoot me?” I asked, reluctant to part with my only means of defense.

“We’ll see, but yer trying my patience. Yuh’ve got five seconds to step out before we mark you as false and roast ya in yer den.”

I had to trust them, and even if it was a mistake to do so, I was in a bad situation either way. I threw my pistol over the counter and out through the hole in the front of the post office before slowly rising and trotting out as well. It was a ragged bunch of ponies that stood in judgment of me—six in all—and they all looked as hard as the pavement they were standing on. There were three unicorns—two with rifles and one with a machine gun—and three earth ponies—one with a revolver, one with a shotgun, and the third with a rifle. Their barding was a patchwork of different pieces, each a unique set assembled from parts of a dozen others, but underneath they all wore the same jumpsuit, each faded yellow with red highlights.

“Heh, yer no raider all right,” the earth pony mare wielding a rifle said, the same pony that had been calling me to come out, “So doc, what Stable’d ya come outta?”

“What?” I asked, taken aback by what she’d said, “How’d you know I came from a Stable?”

“There’s two things,” she said as she slung her rifle onto her back and pulled a cigarette out of a pouch on the front of her barding, “First, that Stable jumpsuit yuh’ve got on is in too good a condition to be anything but new. Second, there’s only two kinds’a ponies who’d attack a raider den all on their own: fools, and fresh-faced Stable-dwellers.”

“Oh,” I said, embarrassed.

“Now, now, nothin’ t’ be ashamed about; no harm done ‘cept’n ya mighta got yerself killed,” she continued as she accepted a light from one of the unicorns, “Yer brave, I’ll give ya that, but ya gotta know yer limits too, and ya gotta get some trainin’ afore yer ready to survive out here.”

“Sure,” I said as I picked my pistol back up off the ground and put it in my saddlebags.

“So, stranger, ya want t’ come back with us?” the mare asked after taking a draw on her cigarette.

“Back where?” I asked, hoping against hope that I’d finally found the civilization I’d been searching for.

“Back to our great, golden town of Sundale,” she said, spinning so much as she gestured that her rifle swung around her neck and her visorless helmet almost fell off her head.

“Praise Celestia,” another of the ponies in the group said, which prompted two others to respond with “Praise be” in unison.

“Right,” the original mare said as she gave a forced smile and looked sideways at the ponies who’d done so, “Anyway, are ya comin’ with us, or are ya just gonna wander the wastes?”

“The first one,” I said without hesitation. Ever since I’d left Stable 85, I’d been running for my life from ponies who wanted to kill me; it would be nice to finally be in the company of friendly ponies for a change.

“Name’s Flint, just like ma’ coat,” she said, extending a hoof to shake, “I’m in charge a’ the southern scoutin’ parties the Sundale militia sends out.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, minding my manners as I shook her hoof.

“Ya got a name, stranger, or should I just keep callin’ ya doc?” Flint asked with a smirk.

Of course I still didn’t have a name, nor had I thought to come up with one. Out in the Wasteland, fighting for my life, a name just hadn’t seemed very important.

“Doc will do,” I told her; there were worse names out there, after all.

“Suit yerself,” Flint said, giving a shrug, “Let’s get goin’ then. Back to home, gang.”

Turns out, the town we were in had been named Sundale way back during the war. There was nothing here now though, Flint explained, except for raider dens, monster nests, and empty houses ripe for looting. That’s what the militia had been doing when they heard the gunfire at the post office and decided to take advantage of what they assumed were two gangs of raiders fighting each other. The Sundale we were headed to now was actually a small settlement built north of the pre-War town that shared its name, along a road that snaked through the blackened forest. Flint pointed out where it was while we were still a long way off.

Sundale had once been a solar power plant, she explained as she pointed out the spire the poked above the surrounding hills. It had once taken the rays of the sun (which evoked another “praise Celestia, praise be” from half the group) and reflected them onto the central spire, turning the sunlight into electricity to power the homes and businesses of Sundale. The collapsed power lines could still be seen strung along the highway, but they were dead now and had been ever since the War. Very little sunlight made it through the ever-present cloud layer now, just barely enough to support the settlement that had sprouted up around the power plant.

The spire got larger the nearer we got, until finally we climbed one last hill and I could see the village laid out beneath as well. At the base of the spire was a large hexagonal structure made of three floors of stone. Small windows dotted the upper two levels, and the ground floor was slightly smaller but surrounded by colonnades. What had once been a parking lot surrounding the building was now covered in shacks constructed from wood and scrap metal. Further out was a field of mirrors, many of them broken, and in some places they were replaced by more shacks or a small field of crops. Surrounding the entire area were two chain-link fences reinforced in some places by sheets of scrap metal.

Flint led us to the gates situated in the fences at the point closest to the road. The gates had been replaced with sheets of scrap metal, and two rusted buses created a passage between the outer gate and the inner. One of the ponies standing guard duty atop a bus shouted down a greeting to Flint before calling for the gates to be opened. Slowly both sets swung toward us, and we were able to walk into the town. Once we were inside, the members of militia went their separate ways.

“I’ve gotta make a report t’ the sheriff, so ya feel free to wander,” Flint said as she stamped out her cigarette with a hoof, “An’ if ya wanna get some marksponyship trainin,’ come find me later out by the veg’table patch.”

I soaked in the sights before me as Flint trotted away. It was hard to know where to go first; Sundale was the largest (and only) true settlement I’d seen in the Wasteland so far. From a distance, I had seen enough shacks to house a hundred ponies at least, and the power plant itself looked to be able to house another two to three score. Between the shacks ran narrow dirt alleys, but I doubted I would find anything interesting there—just the private homes of Sundale citizens—so I continued down the main road that ran directly to the power plant.

In front of the power plant, a small marketplace was set up where ponies could hawk their wares. In the center, just in front of the plant’s main doors, was a marble statue of a rearing pegasus pony, wings outstretched behind it. A large portion of one of the wings had broken away, and the head was missing entirely, but it was still plainly obvious that this was no normal pony. The body proportions were all wrong for a pegasus; it had to be one of the Goddesses. It took only a moment for it to become obvious which one.

“Praise Celestia,” a robed mare in front of the statue called out to a group of ponies as they trotted by.

“Praise be,” some of them responded.

“Hey, Stable-dweller!” a voice called from behind me, and I turned to see a sable coated earth pony within a market stand, her wares laid out on shelves behind her, “You going to stare at the priestess all day, or do you want some supplies.”

“Uh, right. Supplies,” I said, trotting over to see what she was selling.

I didn’t know much about prices out in the Wasteland, so I imagine I was cheated pretty badly. Still, with the caps I’d collected from houses in Sundale and the ones Ripcord’s gang had left in my saddlebags, I was able to buy a few more clips of ammunition for my pistol, as well as two small sacks of corn grown in the settlement. I still had an apple and a few packages of oats from the Stable, along with snack cakes and cereal filled with enough preservatives to last until eternity, but I wanted to eat fresh food whenever possible. The merchant also convinced me to buy a package of RadAway, which she assured me I would need if I intended to spend much time out in the Wasteland or eat any food I found there. In order to pay for it, I traded in my Bits, which—as it turned out—were worth something after all, so long as they were traded in bulk.

Once I was done shopping, I went on a short trot around the power plant. It was amazing to see ponies going about their lives as if calamity hadn’t wiped out civilization as we knew it. Of course, there were marked differences from the pre-War society we’d left behind. The homes and businesses I passed by were ugly things, a scrap metal mimicry of the beautiful wood and brick buildings we’d left behind. The ponies I saw looked equally as ragged, clothed in outfits from before the War, but faded and patched, sometimes with bits of makeshift armor attached to them and weapons slung across their backs or at their sides. The distinction between Equestrians and Wastelanders was readily apparent.

When I’d had my fill of exploring, I decided to head toward the small farm within the fence where Flint had said to meet her for weapons training; Celestia knew I could use it. After asking directions from one of the Sundale residents, I followed the cable she pointed out snaking down from the power plant to the edge of town. The end of the line was connected to a makeshift sprinkler system for irrigating the crops in a world where rain rarely—if ever—fell from the sky. The fields were filled with a variety of crops, but all of them were sparse and stunted, pale shadows of what they’d been before the War. A few ponies walked among the rows, checking for vegetables ready to pick, but my eyes were on the mare lounging against the equipment shack, smoking another cigarette.

“Y’ready?” Flint asked as she stood up, and I nodded, “Alright, this way.”

I followed her as she led me out past the field of corn, grain, and melons and into the field of mirrors. Out in the area between the mirrors and the inner fence, somepony had pounded a few wooden posts into the ground. Flint motioned for me to stay where I was while she trotted out to them and placed a few rusted cans on top. I could see quite a few of these cans scattered across the ground. Apparently Sundale’s ponies came out here for target practice rather often. Either that, or they just really hated cans of beans.

Flint tossed me a fresh clip for my pistol, and guided me on how to hold my weapon. It was odd to be tutored by on earth pony on how to use my magic, but Flint had obviously done this before and had me hitting the can consistently by the time my clip ran out. I was ready to keep going, but it would be wiser to conserve the ammo I had than to waste it all in training further when I already had the basics down. With the money I had left, I’d only be able to afford a few more bullets, and I felt I needed to keep a few caps on hoof just in case I needed to pay for something unexpectedly. When I expressed my thoughts to Flint, she confirmed that it was best to conserve ammunition whenever possible, and that it would be better to keep what I had than waste it on more practice here.

“Are ya plannin’ on goin’ back out int’a the Wasteland?” she asked me as we trotted back into town.

“I guess eventually I’ll have to,” I said, “Unless there’s something here in Sundale I can do to earn a living.”

“Well, our clinic’s already got three doctors workin’ there, but I guess another couldn’t hurt,” she replied.

“I’m not really a doctor,” I told Flint, “I just wear the uniform because it’s enchanted to resist damage.” And because the ponies who gave it to me died getting me to freedom.

“Hm, I dunno then,” she said, “What’re ya good at?”

“Well, I’m pretty good with hacking terminals,” I said, thinking back to my time in Stable 85, “and I’m not too bad at picking locks.”

“Ya prob’ly won’t find much use for those skills in Sundale, I’m afraid. Although …”

“Although what?” I asked, when Flint didn’t finish her thought.

“I know the militia’s northern scoutin’ party was havin’ a tough time getting into a safe. Maybe ya can help ‘em out.”

“Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do. Will I get paid?” I asked, thinking about food and shelter, which seldom came free out here.

“O’ course,” Flint said, “Nopony expects anythin’ for free. The militia usually pays ponies who help out in caps, but if the pickin’s are ‘specially good, sometimes they pay in supplies too.”

“That’s just what I wanted to hear,” I said.

“First we’ll get ya a holster for that pistol from the armory; ya can’t keep carryin’ it around in yer saddlebags, or yer likely t’ get shot afore ya draw it,” she said as she led me into the power plant, “Then ah’ll introduce ya t’ Rogue.”

“Who’s Rogue?” I asked.

“You talking about me again?” a stallion growled as we passed through a doorway with a sign reading “MILITIA” over it.

The pony who’d posed the question was a unicorn about half a head taller than I was, and beneath his Sundale power jumpsuit and dusky blue coat, his muscles were well-toned. His gray mane and tail were cut short, his mane died with red stripes, and around his head was strapped an eye patch that covered his left eye, but not all the scar tissue around it. A submachine gun was strapped to his side, and a strap with pouches holding extra clips for it was slung over the pieces of leather armor he wore over his jumpsuit.

“This ugly sonuvagun is Rogue,” Flint said to me, giving the stallion a smile, “He’s in charge of the militia’s scoutin’ parties t’ the north, just like ah’m in charge of the south.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Rogue asked, keeping his one good eye fixed on me while Flint found a holster for my pistol, “I’ve never seen this pony before, Flint, which means he’s an Outsider. Why’d you bring him here?”

“I found this’n wanderin’ around in old Sundale, and I brought him back here. He claims t’ be pretty good with locks, an’ ah thought he might be able t’ help ya out with that one ya was tryin’ t’ pick in Greenbough,” Flint said as she returned and tossed an empty holster to me.

“I don’t know,” Rogue growled, scowling at me, “How well can you use that gun?”

“Well enough,” I said, “I killed two raiders with it in Sundale, and Flint just gave me a quick lesson.”

“For all the good that’ll do,” Rogue snorted, “Still, nopony’s been able to get past that lock so far, so why not.”

“I can come with you, then?” I asked.

“I’d think that was obvious,” Rogue huffed, “But just so we’re clear, it’s your responsibility to keep yourself alive.”

“You’ve got it.” I’d been responsible for keeping myself alive since I’d left the Stable; why would that end now?

The road I’d followed with Flint earlier from Sundale continued north to Greenbough, another town that the Sundale Power Plant had supplied back during the war. I tried to ask Rogue more questions about it, but all he did was grumble and stare sullenly ahead. I would have had more luck trying to get answers from a rock than from this pony. My fortunes were better with one of the other four members of the Sundale militia that had come along (apparently six was considered a lucky number out here in the Wasteland). Inkrose—a unicorn whose coat and mane were as black as her name, and who carried a magical energy pistol as her weapon of choice—was more than happy to talk to me, in spite of Rogue’s grumbling.

Greenbough—as it turned out—was a very unique town. Before the War, it had been built out in the forests north of Vanhoover under the boughs of a massive tree. Once electricity reached the area, the town grew, and a road was paved to it from the budding town of Sundale, but it still remained a largely secluded community based on what Inkrose had seen in previous scouting missions. On the day the megaspells had fallen, the tree had soaked up a tremendous amount of magical radiation, so much so that it now glowed and put off radiation itself. Not only that, but the tree had continued to grow in a twisted fashion, until its branches had wormed their way through every building in town. Inkrose didn’t have much else to say about Greenbough—scouting and scavenging missions didn’t leave much time for extensive study, after all—but she did have some things to tell me about our leader.

Apparently Rogue once been part of a mercenary group—which one he never said—until he disagreed with a contract and went rogue. He served as a caravan guard for a while, until his old mercenary friends tracked him down, slaughtered the caravan, and tried to kill him as well. He survived the attack, but lost an eye in the process, and decided to change his name to keep anypony else who had a grudge against him from finding him and hurting those around him. Eventually he made his way to Sundale, where he tried to work the farms and leave his violent past behind. With raiders becoming increasingly bolder, however, he was forced to join the Sundale militia to defend the town, and was recognized for his skills and put in charge of one of the scouting parties. When I asked Rogue if this tale was true, all he did was huff and grumble about “nosey ponies prying into what didn’t concern them,” but he didn’t deny it.

It was immediately obvious when Greenbough came into sight. We may have been in the middle of a forest (or what was left of one, at least) but it was clear which tree the town was built around. Just as Inkrose had said, the tree covered the entire town, malformed branches tearing through the walls of the buildings on the outskirts. The radiation detector on my PipBuck began to click as we passed beneath the glowing limbs, but it was nothing major; I would need hours of exposure before I would need to use my packet of RadAway. Rogue picked up his pace as he led the way through the town, no doubt trying to limit radiation exposure as much as possible.

In no time at all, we were in the main square where the tree’s trunk rose up, gnarled and glowing a sickly green. Our target was to the left, a brick structure whose second floor had been crushed by a branch. All the glass was missing from the large double doors in the store’s front, and only one word could be made out on the sign above them: “HARDWARE.” According to my PipBoy, it had once been “Tinker’s Hardware Emporium.”

Except for a few ceiling lights that had crashed to the cracked tile floor and the peeling paint, the inside of the hardware store was remarkably well preserved. Past a line of registers (which had all been pried open and had the cash looted from them long ago) long rows of shelves stretched to the back of the store. They were still filled with tools and equipment that had been on sale during the War. I saw kitchen faucets, folding tables, weather stripping, jumper cables …

“Let’s get this done quickly,” Rogue growled, interrupting my perusal of the goods on display, “Grab anything that seems useful, but keep room free in your saddlebags for whatever we find in the vault. Newbie, you come with me.”

As the others picked things from the shelves, I followed Rogue to the back of the store. Behind a countertop whose display cases had been smashed long ago, a heavy metal door was set into the wall. There were a fair deal of scratches around the lock, but it appeared nopony had been successful in picking it; hopefully, I would have better luck at it. I was crouched down with my screwdriver and bobby pin out, when the terminal sitting on the counter caught my eye. The screen was still intact and the light below the display was a solid green, indicating that it was still working and connected. I wondered …

“What are you doing?” Rogue asked with a scowl as I put away my lock picking tools and trotted over to the terminal instead.

“Sometimes you don’t need to pick a lock to break it,” I told him, remembering the safe in the Vanhoover Sports Center, “Before I waste bobby pins trying to open it, I’m going to see if there’s a way to do so through this terminal.”

I had broken into the terminal in no time. 12345 is really not a secure password. There was nothing on the terminal except for a list of sales, a few personal logs, and an option to unlock the gun safe. I would have liked to take a look at the logs and see what the ponies who’d worked here during the War had had to say, but Rogue was in a hurry, so I just opened the gun safe. The lock gave a reassuring click as it released, and Rogue pulled the door open. I was completely unprepared for what came next.

No sooner had Rogue opened the gun safe than a rotted corpse came staggering out at him. I watched in shock as it lunged for him, trying to latch its jaw around his neck. Rogue reacted quickly, twisting around so that he was able to impale the zombie’s neck with his horn. Jerking his head upwards swiftly, he separated the corpse’s skull from its body, and it slumped to the floor.

“Ghouls!” he yelled, warning the others as he pulled out his submachine gun.

My PipBuck’s clicking picked up in pace as more ghouls poured out of the gun safe, moaning ominously. Rogue vaulted over the counter as he sprayed the seething mass with his gun, cutting the front members of the horde to ribbons, but more crawled over them and kept coming. I fired my pistol at one as it came toward me, but it had little effect, only tearing off small patches of flesh. I vaulted the counter as it got too close, but the zombie tried to crawl over as well, and I spun my doctor’s coat around, striking it in the face and causing it to lose its balance and tip back over the edge.

The rest of the scouting party was shooting by then, bullets and magical energy blasts zinging across the hardware store. The ghouls pouring from the gun vault were thinning by then, most of them cut down and piled up around the door. The one that had been pursuing me stubbornly refused to give up chase, however, and it jumped over the counter, galloping haphazardly at me. I backed away as quickly as I dared, fired my pistol until the clip was empty, then turned and ran.

I was busy reloading when the ghoul caught up to me, tackling me to the floor. My pistol slid across the floor and out of reach, the clip sliding out as it did so. Unarmed, I rolled over to face my adversary, getting a good (and disturbing) look at the zombie. Close up, it still looked like a corpse, but a remarkably well-preserved corpse. Its coat was completely gone, along with the top layer of skin except for a few blackened tufts here and there. A few strands of its mane, bleached white, hung down in front of its dull, glassy eyes. Except for the wounds I’d inflicted on it, which oozed pus, its flesh was disgusting but intact in most places. Its teeth were missing from its mouth, but the bones of its jaw and skull punched through its rotted gums, making its bite just as deadly, if not deadlier, than before.

When it tried to bite me, I smashed my PipBuck against its head and felts its jaw and skull shatter as the flesh tore away from it. I rolled to the side before the skin sloughed onto me, and kicked the ghoul away from me with my hindlegs. It crashed against a shelf and alarm clocks rained down on it. As it lunged at me, I kicked it away again, but propelled myself into a shelf with the kick. A machete landed next to me, still in its flimsy cardboard packaging, and I looked up to see that more were hung above my head, swaying dangerously. I pulled the machete on the ground from its container and sheath, and swung it at the ghoul as it came at me again. The blade sliced through its skull and brain, splitting its head in half entirely.

I shook bits of brain matter from the blade as I stood, trying not to gag. With a final shotgun blast, the last of the ghouls died. I made my way over to the rest of the living ponies in the room, placing the machete and its sheath in my saddlebags, and retrieving my pistol and holstering it. Everypony was unharmed save for one of the stallions, who’d taken a nasty cut on one of his forelegs, but not bad enough that he needed to do more than wrap it in bandages.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Ghouls,” Inkrose answered, echoing Rogue’s shout from earlier, “They’re ponies who survived the megaspells, but were transformed by them. My guess is this lot piled into the safe because they thought they’d be protected, but it must not have been sealed against magical radiation, and the exposure turned them into these walking corpses.”

That was startling news. Apparently sickness and death weren’t the worst things that could come of radiation exposure. I would have to keep a close eye on the gauge on my PipBuck. It had risen significantly during my fight with the ghoul, but was still safely in the green area of the meter. My RadAway wasn’t needed just yet, and for that I was grateful. To be perfectly honest, it didn’t look very appetizing, and I wasn’t looking forward to when I finally would need to ingest it.

“Would you take a look at this?” one of the scouting party’s members said, giving a whistle as she looked in the gun safe.

The rest of us crowded in as well as she pushed the ghoul corpses out of the way. Within the safe, there was ample space for all the ponies who had once taken shelter here. Stretching all the way from the door to the very back, the walls were lined with weapons. All but a few of the guns were in perfect condition; those that weren’t were lying broken just inside the door. It looked like some of the ponies inside had realized they were trapped and had tried to break out, but they had had no luck until we’d opened the door for them.

“This is going to take more than one trip,” Rogue commented once he’d taken a good look around. It wasn’t an exaggeration in the slightest.

Everypony was in high spirits as we traveled back to Sundale, laden down with a fresh supply of weapons. Even Rogue appeared to be in a good mood; at least, I assumed he was. He didn’t scowl quite as much, and he’d even allowed me to keep a hunting rifle from the safe for myself in addition to a promise of a reward in caps when we returned to Sundale. The day was rapidly coming to an end, and it wasn’t safe to be out in the Wasteland at night, so we needed to be back behind a settlement’s walls before sundown. In the morning, Rogue intended to have a caravan head back to Greenbough to retrieve the remaining weapons, enough to supply Sundale for years to come.

The cloud layer was tinted orange by the time we reached Sundale, and the guards waved us through as quickly as possible. Several ponies stopped to stare and point at us as we trotted down the main path to the power plant. Surely they were impressed by our haul, but they had no idea what still waited in Greenbough for the taking. I had been worried about leaving all the guns behind in an unlocked safe overnight, but Rogue assured me that nopony but Sundale scouting parties ever visited the town. Even raiders knew that to enter a town with a glowing tree was to court death and stayed well clear of it.

We returned to where I’d first met Rogue, in the rooms of the Sundale Power Plant set aside for the militia, and offloaded our loot, which was to be catalogued before being stored in the armory. I was dropping off the last few weapons I had taken when I saw a ghoul step into the room. At first I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, but when the zombie remained in my vision, I pulled my pistol out.

“Easy there,” Flint said, appearing at my side and knocking the pistol out of my magical grasp.

“What’s the matter?” the ghoul spoke, her voice sounding like I would expect a pony’s would were she to smoke ten packs of cigarettes a day and swallow cheese graters whole, “You never seen a ghoul before?”

“More like too many,” Rogue answered, “We ran into a whole pack of ferals in Greenbough.”

“Ferals?” I asked, confused by what was going around me.

“Feral ghouls; also known as zombies. They’re the ghouls who’ve lost their minds and turned into things no better’n beasts,” Flint explained, “There are plenty of ghouls who ain’t like that, though. Like Rasp here; she’s still got everything workin’ upstairs.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. My memory isn’t what it used to be when I was only a hundred fifty,” Rasp rasped out, “Still, I get by well enough. Well enough that they let me be sheriff of Sundale and run the militia at least.”

Now that I was able to take a better look at her, I could see that Rasp was no ordinary ghoul. Her flesh—though still nowhere near normal—was better taken care of than that of the mindless zombies I’d seen earlier today. Her clothes were also in good condition (relatively speaking); instead of tattered rags, Rasp wore a suit that must have been popular back during the War, complete with tie and faded fedora. A crest that had once belonged to the head of security of this power plant was pinned to the front of her suit.

“My apologies,” I told Rasp as I picked up and holstered my pistol.

“No harm done,” she said, twisting her features in what I assumed was a smile, “I assume you haven’t been in the Wasteland very long. Still, it looks like you’ve managed to help out both of my subordinates.”

Rogue bristled a bit at being called a subordinate, while Flint practically beamed.

“Were you hoping to join the Sundale militia?” Rasp asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered, “I guess I never really thought about it.”

“Well, give it a thought,” Rasp said, “You’re on the right path, and we can always use more able ponies.”

I would have to mull it over later. Once I received my reward money, Flint insisted that we go to the markets before they closed for the night. All the shopkeepers knew her, so I was able to get much better prices than I had earlier that day. With Flint’s knowledge about surviving in the Wasteland, I was also able to find and buy all the necessities I’d need. The shopkeeper earlier had been right about RadAway, but Flint also stressed the need to carry plenty of bandages and healing potions as well as, of course, ammunition. She was appalled to learn that I hadn’t purchased a bedroll earlier, which she insisted I would need if I intended to do any long distance traveling where I wouldn’t know if I could find a bed at night or not. Turns out I would also be able to save some caps by laying out a bedroll in Sundale’s common room instead of paying for a bed in one of the “inns” rented out to travelers. I also purchased some basic survival essentials like flint and tinder for starting a fire. By the time I was done, my reward money was severely diminished.

As the shops closed down for the night, Flint led me back into the power plant where the lights were still on, and would remain running at full brightness for a few hours after sunset so that ponies could still conduct business. Together we sat down for a meal in what had once been the staff cafeteria, and Flint continued to share her survival tips.

“What’s in the box?” Flint asked as I pulled the case I’d found at the Vanhoover Sports Center out of my saddlebags to add the bottle cap from the Sparkle~Cola I’d downed to my collection.

“I don’t really know. Have you ever seen anything like this before?” I said as I popped open the case and turned it so Flint could see the glassy ball nested inside.

“Wow; I’ve only ever seen a memory orb once before,” she said, admiring my prize.

“A memory orb?” I asked, “What’s that?”

“I don’t know how it works, but somehow ponies were able to store their memories in these things. Any unicorn can relive those memories simply by focusin’ their magic on the orb,” Flint explained, “Some merchants’ll pay a lotta caps for one of these.”

“How much?”

“Well, it depends,” Flint said, scrunching up her nose as she thought about it, “Really, it’s all up t’ what the memory is and what the buyer’s int’rests are. Some merchants’ll buy ‘em without knowing what’s on ‘em, but it’s a risk and they’ll usually pay significantly less in that situation.”

So, this orb could be priceless or it could be worthless. It could be my ticket to living a secure and comfortable life in the Wasteland, or it could be just another piece of detritus. Well, there was only one way to find out which.

“You just focus your magic on it?” I asked.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Flint replied, “I wouldn’t know personally because, y’know, no horn and all.”

“Here goes,” I said, grasping the orb firmly in my magic.

I found myself walking through a hallway crowded with ponies. Bizarrely, I could feel myself walking, but could not control the motions. It appeared that I was simply along for the ride in experiencing my host’s memories. I realized with a start that the pony I was riding did not have a horn; he was an earth pony. It took a moment to get used to; I just had to be glad my host was a stallion and not a mare. Everything felt right except for the top of my head, and I was still surprised every time his leg lifted and I saw a creamy coat instead of my own gray hair, but I was soon acclimated to the experience.

“Why are all these ponies standing around?” the purple earth pony mare walking beside my host said, and he turned to look at her as they walked, “Don’t they know the game’s about to start?”

“It’s their loss if they’re late,” he replied, “Come on, let’s get to our seats before they wise up.”

While they were talking, I’d realized that I was walking through the Vanhoover Sports Center once again, only now it wasn’t a ruin. As my host and his companion emerged into the stadium, I saw true sunlight for the first time, and by Celestia it was bright! My host’s eyes adjusted quickly (he was used to this light, after all) but I was taken by surprise by just how much the cloud layer over the Wasteland filtered the sun’s light. As the ponies waited for the game to begin, they took a seat right where I had hid out the night before from the Steel Rangers and made small talk. I barely paid attention to what they were saying, however, as I was more engrossed with the sight of a pristine, undamaged stadium, thousands of healthy ponies, and a nearly cloudless sky.

“Welcome, sports fans, to the hoofball game of the century, right here in Vanhoover!” the announcer’s magically augmented voice boomed, accompanied by a larger-than-life magical projection of himself over the field, “Special thanks to Vanhoover’s weather teams for clearing the sky for the Equestrian League Championship. This will be their final job before the Vanhoover Spire comes online tomorrow.”

“And now, the teams who will be playing for the Equestrian Hoofball League Trophy 1346. First up, we have the Fillydelphia Phoenixes!”

A line of ponies wearing black and white uniforms and helmets trotted out onto the field, and were met by thunderous applause from the opposite end of the stadium. A real phoenix flew out after them, sending sparks flying over the field before landing on the couch’s shoulder. The cheers and applause continued until the announcer decided to cut back in.

“Facing them, we have your very own Vanhoover Manticores!”

Even greater applause erupted as a team of ponies in orange and white uniforms charged onto the field. My host and his companions stamped their hooves and hollered along with all the other ponies around them as the Manticores took the field. No live manticore charged out after them, which was probably for the best. This time the announcer waited until the cheering died down completely to resume speaking.

“Before we begin, let’s all rise and observe a moment of silence for all those who have lost their lives in our war with the zebras and are fighting even today to secure our freedoms.”

The stadium went completely silent as everypony, including my host, bowed their heads. He snapped it back up as soon as the announcer began speaking again.

“Thank you one and all. Now everypony please turn and face the Equestrian flag as Sweetie Belle sings the national anthem.”

My host dutifully turned to face the Equestrian flag, but watched out of the corner of his eye as the announcer was replaced by a younger-looking mare. She sang as beautifully as she looked (or maybe it just sounded so good to me because most of the music I’d heard had been Overmare Fairy Floss’s MoM approved songs) and the song soon came to a close. Sweetie Belle was met by applause as she concluded the anthem, and bowed gracefully before she was replaced by the announcer.

“Who’s ready for some hoofball!” he bellowed.

The game turned out to truly be the game of the century. I didn’t know much (in fact, nothing) about hoofball, but even I could tell that both teams were highly skilled. It seemed almost a dance as the teams pushed each other across the field, neither able to gain an advantage over the other but for a moment. It was a gripping game, and had I actually attended, I would have been on the edge of my seat just like my host.

“And that’s the half!” the announcer said at what seemed like far too soon, “The score stands tied up at twelve to twelve. Don’t go anywhere, because they’re just getting warmed up! We’ll resume in just—”

Everypony—even those who’d been getting up for a break during halftime—turned as the announcer was cut off in static. His projection remained a jumbled mess of nonsense for a bit before it finally congealed into the scowling face of a zebra. Compared to the announcer, this projection was exceedingly poor quality, but it would no doubt serve its purpose. As the ponies in the stadium caught sight of the zebra projection, they whinnied in distress. I even heard a few screams through my host’s ears.

“Servants of Nightmare Moon!” the zebra shouted, either not understanding how her voice was magnified or not caring, in Equestrian flavored thickly with an exotic accent, “How dare you! How dare you laugh and be happy while your own kinsponies fight a wicked war against the zebras? Open your eyes and see the evils your star-tainted mistress has wrought on your land and mine own! You are a corrupt and evil people! You have been weighed on the scales of justice and have been found wanting!”

“This can’t be!” the mare next to my host exclaimed, moving closer to him.

“‘Who am I?’ you may ask yourselves! I am but one of the few who can still remember a time when Equestria and my land were good and upright and friends of each other before this wickedness crept into your hearts. I am she who stands in judgment of you. I am your judge, your jury, and—yes—your executioner as well. Reap the punishment you have sowed! Long life to Caesar!”

The projection disappeared as explosions erupted all throughout the stadium. The field itself was blown high into the air, sending pieces of sod and concrete raining down. Ponies and bits of ponies flew everywhere as the bombs went off. As the supports beneath the stadium were destroyed, the stands began to give way. Screams filled the air as ponies went tumbling to their deaths.

Next to my host, the purple mare slid over the edge, grasping desperately at him with her hooves. As she fell, he reached over the edge and their hooves locked together, so that she was suspended, dangling over an abyss of rubble and death. I wanted to do something, to reach out with my magic and help in some way, but I was stuck. All I could do was watch, listen, and feel her hoof began to slip from my host’s.

“Terrace, don’t let me fall,” she plead, tears streaming down her face.

“I won’t,” my host promised, grunting and straining as he tried to pull her up, “I won’t let go Lotus . . . I promised you … on our wedding day … that I’d never … I’d never … let you go … and I’m … I’m not … not breaking that promise … today!”

As he gave one final heave to lift her over the edge, she slipped the rest of the way from his grip. I don’t know how I heard it over the cacophony of other noises in the stadium, but the sound of Lotus’s scream stayed with me as she fell all the way to the ground. Terrace screamed just as loud with grief, and I felt his throat burn. He collapsed to the floor and clapped his hooves over his eyes, weeping for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes.

When he finally looked up, a group of ponies in combat armor and gasmasks were standing over him. Upon their flanks, over their cutie marks, was the logo of the Ministry of Morale. I recognized their leader immediately when she appeared; how could I not? Pinkie Pie was a very distinctive pony. When she got a good look at the devastation in the stadium, her hair seemed to deflate, and the color of her coat appeared to drop several shades. Then it seemed as if something seized her and her body shook uncontrollably.

“Ooh, somepony’s been very, very naughty!” she exclaimed as she returned to normal and took off bounding through the ruins of the stadium.

As her soldiers tried to follow (a difficult task since some of her jumps seemed physically impossible), one of them trotted up to my host and dragged him to his hooves.

“Wh-what are you doing?” he asked, pulling himself away from the masked pony.

“We’re taking you in for questioning,” the soldier said, her voice distorted by the gasmask, “You’re one of our only witnesses. We need to access your memories to figure out what happened here.”

“No way,” Terrace said, backing away from the armed ponies, “I’m not going to let you poke around inside my head!”

“It wasn’t a request,” the soldier said as two other MoM operatives grabbed my host and dragged him away.

Level Up
New Perk: Egghead – You gain +2 experience points whenever you gain a level
Equipment added: Binoculars
Weapon added: Industrial Machete
Weapon added: Hunting Rifle
Bedroll added: You can now sleep anywhere, so long as it is safe to do so.
New Quest: Walkin’ on Sunshine – Assist the ponies of Sundale.
Barter +4 (11)
Explosives +1 (12)
Lockpick +3 (38)
Melee Weapons +1 (7)
Science +1 (45)
Small Guns +6 (19)
Sneak +4 (25)