//------------------------------// // "Scars" by Salted Pingas // Story: Fallout Equestria: Wastelanders // by Salted Pingas //------------------------------// Title: Scars Author: Salted Pingas Content Warning: Sexual language “I got that beat. That’s a moray eel. Bit right through my wetsuit...” Darkness fell like a starving beast upon the carcass of the equestrian wasteland, its wide maw snapping tight as it snuffed out the light of the world. Crickets the size of pre-war rabbits began their quiet symphonies in the thorny underbrush, their bulbous bodies filled with bitter acid to deter predators. Balefireflies flashed brief and bright in the darkness; to wander near them was a certain and painful death.  Creatures far larger than these roamed about with jagged teeth and glistening fangs, tasting the air for the faintest hint of prey. Their calls and cries as they hunted or were hunted played a haunting ensemble, not to be outperformed by the crickets.  A spark flickered in glittering eyes, not the sickly green flash of a balefirefly seeking a mate, this was something else. Again the spark flashed in the night, then again and a dull glow dredged an island of light up from the sea of darkness. The old unicorn tucked his flint and steel into a vest pocket, leaning in low to breathe life into his little fire. He added dry leaves and sticks he’d collected, snapping the larger ones in half until he was able to add the first of many larger pieces of firewood. Dancing embers lit the air and the firewood began to burn, the fire crackling contentedly as it enjoyed its fibrous meal. As it had been since before ponies had invented language and as it would be long after they’d all died out, the fire had an immediate effect on the wild beasts of the wasteland. The glittering eyes and snuffling snouts turned away from the site of the flames. Their simple minds and instincts learned from ancestors long extinct told them to fear the flames of the campfire, that whatever prey lurked there was not worth the bite of the fire it had mastered. At least, every pair of eyes in the darkness but one. These bright eyes narrowed at the sight of the flames, their owner prowling low as he approached on quiet hooves. The old buck settled down atop a bedroll that was more patchwork than original cloth, grunting with age as his joints popped. A chunk of manticore jerky floated out of his saddlebags, a sharp knife cutting off little strips which he masticated slowly with an uneven number of teeth. His eyes lazily followed the rise and fall of flickering embers that leapt from the fire. Quiet hooves carried their owner closer and closer to the fire, unheard and unseen in the black of the night. The other reached the bottom of the short hill the old buck had made his fire atop of and the other’s eyes scoured the earth for traps. Light hooves tested the earth, feeling for tripwires or pressure plates. “Hello there!” The bright eyes lifted, widening with alarm as they beheld the old buck, risen from his sleeping bag with his magic illuminating a surprisingly well-kept assault carbine. The weapon was held casually, the barrel pointed to the dirt, but it wouldn’t take much to lift it and open fire. “I can see you down there!” The old buck seemed to peer straight through the impenetrable darkness, finding the wide eyes and their owner standing stock still below, “You can come on up or move on out, doesn’t matter to me which, just don’t keep standin’ there like a mysterious stranger.” The bright eyes in the darkness looked around briefly as their owner considered his options. After a moment they settled back on the dirt. “Any traps?” The voice of a young buck called from the dark base of the hill. “Uh, what was that, now?” The old buck cocked his ears towards the young buck, frowning. “I asked if there are any traps along the way?” The young buck lent some volume to his voice. “Oh, nah, fire’s usually more’n enough,” the old buck waved a hoof, then gave his weapon a little wiggle, “And when it’s not, I’ve got ol’ Trusty Two-Step here to keep me safe.” The words were a statement of fact, not a threat, but they still made the young buck uneasy as he stood in the darkness below, “You comin’ up, then? Plenty o’ room ‘round the fire,” the old buck prompted. “Yeah, all right!” The young buck called up, “You won’t shoot me, will ya?” “I’d’ve shot already if I thought you were a threat,” the old buck replied with a clever smile, “Just don’t have no weapons drawn.” “I don’t!” The young buck was still careful as he made his way up, worried eyes scanning the dark earth for any signs of trouble.  He made it up the hill and into the fire’s dancing light with all limbs still attached, stopping a few paces before the old buck. He couldn’t help but kick himself when he saw the PipBuck half hidden by the old buck’s long shirt sleeve. Of course he’d been spotted! “What, thought I could see in the dark, did ya? Nah,” The old buck chuckled, catching the young buck’s look, “Go on, get comfy, ain’t gonna bite,” the old buck waved a hoof to the side of the fire opposite where his gear was laid out. “You from a stable, then?” The young buck asked. He dropped his saddlebags, his mouth undoing the straps. The old buck settled down on his side of the fire, watching carefully as the young buck unslung his long-barreled shotgun and placed it atop his saddlebags where the dirt wouldn’t get into it. “I was born in the wastes, same as you, I reckon,” the old buck spoke up as the young buck unrolled a bedroll of his own and settled down, “Nah, I got this off a stable dweller. He didn’t need it anymore.” The old buck leaned his rifle against his own saddlebags, holding up his PipBuck’d foreleg for emphasis. “I can’t imagine someone just giving up a PipBuck,” the young buck raised one brow. “The dead want for nothing,” the old buck countered cleverly, “plus, it hides the scar the bastard gave me.” The old buck thought for a moment, “he shot first, if that matters to you.” The young buck shrugged. “Well,” the old buck changed the subject, cutting off a thin strip of manticore jerky and working it with his back teeth, “my fire, my rules.” He indicated the flames with his hoof, a small burst of sparks shooting up as the firewood shifted. The young buck nodded. “This side’s mine,” the old buck patted the ground, “that side’s yours. Anypony else comes wanderin’ up looking for a spot to rest their tired hooves, they get to share your side.” Again he patted the ground, “this side’s mine.” The young buck frowned, but nodded again. “Don’t go grabbing for your gun unless I say so,” the old buck pointed a hoof to the young buck’s shotgun, “Most times fire keeps bad folks away, but I’ve had nosy raiders and hungry bandits come strollin’ up lookin’ for trouble before. If’n we do get unwelcome company we gotta put down’n send off to sweet Celestia, I don’t want to see nothin’ but your hindquarters facin’ me. Don’t be turning around towards me with that big old scattergun you got there. Got a couple scars from negligent discharges in my own, fine posterior, and I ain’t lookin’ to get more,” he jabbed a hoof back towards his backside. “I’m safe with my shotgun,” the young buck stated. “And I’d love to take every pony at their word, but life just ain’t so,” The old buck didn’t relent, “My fire, my rules,” he reiterated. “You any good with that thing, then?” The young buck jerked his head towards the assault carbine. “Ol’ Trusty Two-Step?” The old buck turned a smile to the weapon, “Ain’t one pony so far that’s made it more’n two steps after I get my sights on them.” He turned back to the young buck, “Why she’s got the name, if you were wonderin’.” The young buck shrugged. “Your big ol’ scattergun got a name?” The old buck asked, chewing thoughtfully on another thin strip of jerky. The young buck glanced at the shotgun, turning back and opening his mouth to answer. Then he shut it a moment before smiling, “Nine-thirty.” The old buck raised a querying brow as he chewed his jerky. “Because it’s a Hoofberg Model 930,” the young buck maintained his clever smile. “Hardy har,” the old buck rolled his eyes. “Tool’s just a tool,” the young buck shrugged, letting his smile fade away, “No reason to get sentimental over a tool.” “If you say so,” the old buck favored the young buck with a strange smile before getting back on topic, “But those two’re the rules of my fire.” He sliced off a slightly larger strip of the jerky, offering it over the campfire in his magic, “Sound good to you?”  The young buck eyed the offering with a flash of dull hunger that plagued all but the wealthiest of wastelanders. He gave a quick nod and took the offering in his maw, using his forehooves to hold the strip of jerky in place while he tore a piece off with his teeth. “What brings you ‘round these parts?” The old buck grunted as he shifted atop his sleeping bag. “Hunting,” the young buck replied, focusing on his food. He jerked his head to his saddlebags, “Nothing yet.” “Coming from the west?” “Ish,” the young buck allowed. “About, oh, five or so miles nor’east of here there’s a little spring flowin’ up from the ground.” The young buck’s ears perked up, though his focus was still on his food, “Source is tainted, not good for drinking unless you don’t mind losing your jaw, but I saw sign of radhogs rootin’ about. Ground all torn up for tubers.” Now he had the young buck’s full attention. “You got a map or anythin’?” The old buck continued, getting a nod past a chunk of jerky. The young buck rooted around in his saddlebags for a moment, the old buck taking the offered map and laying it out beside him away from the flames. With a couple of grunts and grumbles he turned to it, pulling back his sleeve and using his magic to work his PipBuck. He made a couple of marks on the paper with a rod of charcoal then passed the map back around the flames. “Circle’s where the spring is, the X marks where we are right now,” the old buck explained as the young buck eyed the marks. “Thanks!” There was actual sincerity in the young buck’s voice as he rolled up the map and tucked it away. “Aw, don’t mention it,” the old buck waved a hoof, “Didn’t cost me nothin’.” The fire crackled for some time. “So a stable dweller just attacked you?” The young buck asked, the manticore jerky dissolving in his stomach. “More or less,” the old buck began, rolling into a more comfortable position on his back and regarding the dark sky sagely, “Not sure he really meant to, I sorta just rolled up on him out in the wastes. Lookin’ back, poor fella was probably fresh out of the stable and lost as a newborn foal. Still had his jumpsuit’n everythin’, though it was all torn up from a scuffle.” He frowned, “The number on it was twenty-four I think, don’t recall for sure. “But anyways, yeah, poor fella up and voided himself the second he saw me, let off with a pistol like there was no tomorrow. Lucky for me he wasn’t using S.A.T.S.—or at least he wasn’t any good with it—and all but one of the rounds went wide. Brought up old Two-Step and ‘pow!’ ‘pow!’” he lifted one of his forehooves to the sky, jerking it with each report, “Down he went. “I was rightly miffed at the time, nearly cost me the lower leg and I don’t think the bone ever did mend quite right. Surgery to remove the bullet left some nasty scars,” he eyed the leg in question, the PipBuck’s glowing screen waving back and forth across his uncertain face, “But I do sometimes wonder if he’d’ve come to his senses after he ran dry. Road not travelled, I suppose.” The leg settled back behind his head. “The road not travelled…” the young buck said, voice hitching on something. The old buck shifted, peering across the flames, watching as the young buck built up his nerves to speak. “I killed a filly once,” when he spoke, the young buck’s voice was somber. The old buck sat up a bit, still lending his eyes as the young buck pulled back his shirt, showing off a thin scar on his neck, “I wasn’t much older than her, maybe ten or so, almost a stallion.” He paused a moment, watching the fire, “I was up and about at night, just pulled into Ramshackle Row for supplies and all I see is a figure against the black come out from an alley. She stuck a shiv in me and I blew her head off.” He tossed a quick glance to the old buck, a mixture of shame and guilt on his face, “I carried around a little sawed-off at the time, kept it in a chest holster and boy was I fast with it…” He trailed off for a moment, then finished, “I still see her little face frozen in the muzzle flash.” “Sorry you had to do that,” the old buck offered his condolences. “Thanks,” the young buck wiped his nose. “I’ve got a scar on the top of my head,” the old buck started suddenly, earning a curious look from the young buck. He grunted and grumbled as he got to his old hooves, leaning his head forwards and pulling his mane aside to show a long, thin scar at the roots, “Always used to tell mares I got it in a knife fight with a griffon or a big old earth pony, even said it was an Enclave soldier come down from the clouds once.” He gave a nostalgic chuckle, shaking his head at a memory, “Even worked a few times.” “How’d you really get it?” The young buck felt prompted to ask. “Can you keep a secret?” “Sure,” the young buck shrugged. “I take that as a promise now, I’ll have to hunt you down and defend my honor if you go and tell anyone,” his smile told the young buck how serious he was about the threat, “I was, oh, let’s just say I’d just become a stallion, young and stupid to think I knew all there was worth knowin’.” The old buck smiled fondly, “Not sure how I managed it, probably with some booze or maybe she was in heat, but I got this mare into bed. When I went to mount up—come to think of it, it was probably booze—well anyways, let’s just say that my aim was off an inch or two. I missed my mark and she up and bucked me straight off the bed and into a table. “When I came to I was throbbin’ up here,” he pointed to his head, “and throbbin’ down there,” he pointed to his crotch, “and she was all hollerin’ at me. And, of course, me being a young buck not knowing how to properly please a lady; I’m just layin’ there wondering what in all of Equestria I’d done wrong! Anywho, bumped the head pretty hard on this little table, s’how I really got the scar.” The young buck couldn’t help but snicker at the story, shaking his head at the unfortunate conclusion. “I’ve got that beat...” the young buck said with a sudden smile. He got up and turned around, pulling up his shirt and dropping his pants to show a series of small scars on his rump, “I once sat on a nest of rat scorpions.” “How’d you manage that?” The old buck chuckled. “Not looking where I was sitting,” the young buck turned an embarrassed look away as he pulled his pants back up, “I was just a colt at the time and I ran like a hellhound had swiped at me. A couple of the little things had latched on with their claws and were stinging the ever living shit out of me. My mom managed to get them off with some pliers but they took a good few chunks out of me and my ass swelled up like a rattlemelon. “Of course, that’s not the worst part, rat scorpions aren’t nearly venomous enough to kill a colt. No, my mom’s the village teacher and she taught at our home so there was no chance I was getting out of lessons,” the old buck chuckled, seeing where the story was going, “So there I am, with my butt swollen up and tears streaking my face, in class with all the rest of the fillies and colts. It didn’t matter that I was seated in the back, mom had to call the day’s lesson short because they wouldn’t stop making fun of me. “Goddesses, it was horrible at the time, and I had a rash for weeks, but I can’t help but look back at it now and laugh,” he beamed out a nostalgic smile. “You get some dumb nickname after that like ‘venom-ass’ or something?” The old buck chuckled. The young buck laughed at that, “No, but that’s a good one. We were all just dumb kids at the time and only a few folks remember that now anyways.” “Well, Venom Ass,” the old buck chuckled again at the name, getting a pair of gamely rolled eyes, “I’m probably gonna hit the hay. I’ve been told I snore, so I hope you’ve got earplugs.” “I’m a heavy sleeper,” the young buck shrugged, then a smile spread across his face, “Mr. Wrong Hole.” “Ooh, cheap shot at an old stallion,” the old buck laughed, settling down. He tossed another couple firelogs on the fire, sending a cascade of sparks up into the air, “PipBuck’s set to go off and wake me if anything nasty comes along, so rest easy.” “That’s nifty,” the young buck commented, getting comfortable on his bedroll. “G’night.” “Good night.” “Don’t let the rat scorpions bite!” The young buck chuckled and fell asleep.