//------------------------------// // Chapter 95 - Bob // Story: Ark: Friendship is Survival // by Pomp-Neigh //------------------------------// The morning sun’s rays meet and reflect off of a slumbering saddled ankylosaur’s nearly impenetrable plates of armor adorned with piercing spikes, stirring the dinosaur from its rest. With a rumbling honk, the prehistoric quadruped lifts itself up from the rectangular-shaped, wooden home’s patio and proceeds to waddle its way toward a small flight of stairs descending to ground level.  Due to the anky’s girth creating loud clunks on the surface it trodded upon before reaching the small staircase and taking it down to ground level, the armored herbivore had unknowingly disturbed its orange-coated, equine companion within the structure. ……….   “Hehe,” Applejack chuckled as she half-lifts herself up from her bed, a fine upgrade from her former sleeping bag thanks to the incredible aid of her human ally, “Looks like Honky’s up ‘n about. Ah’d best get outta bed ‘nd-”  The cowmare paused mid-sentence as she turned her head towards the Survivor’s bed adjacent to her own on the other side of the base’s innards, only to find it empty; its bipedal owner absent from the shelter.  However, she spots a note resting on a small wooden storage crate set alongside the human’s bed, prompting the equine to make her way over to it hurriedly. The clopping of her hooves stops, and she plucks the note off the crate before reading its contents.  To my survivor-in-training, I’m out gathering resources for our eventual trek to Sanctuary. I’ll also be picking up some gear I kept stashed away in some vaults long ago—assuming none of the apes dug any of them up, that is. In the meantime, why don’t you go ahead without me and tame a doedicurus? You did well with the anky, but now it’s time for you to show me what you’ve learned. I can’t hold your hoof forever, kiddo. Your best bet to find doedics is to check the nearby plateaus and highlands not too far from the Redwood Biome. Whether it be just a case of pure luck or intentional planning on your part, the location you’ve built the base at is quite convenient for most of our needs. More importantly, it’s secluded.  The only reason I ever managed to find your hideout is due to dumb luck—so good job. And another thing: If you feel like you’re being followed, don’t come back to base. You have instincts and senses that a human like me could never hope to match. Use them.   Regards, The Survivor, but you can call me Bob. PS: I left something for you on my bed. After that, look in the storage box. A hearty chuckle escapes from the equine’s throat. “Bob, huh?” She questioned amusingly. “That must be his real name. HLN-A nev’r told us about that, though ah’d reckon the feller had his reasons.” Setting the note down on the storage box, Applejack turns her attention to Bob’s bed. Upon closer inspection, she could now see that something was indeed hidden just under the bedsheets, and she raised a hoof to pull back the white-gray fabric, gasping sharply with widened eyes in response to what was unveiled. “Sweet Celestia…” It was a very particular ranged weapon, one far more advanced than even her crossbow: a longneck rifle.     Banishing her moment of shock, the orange mare picks up the weapon and tries to familiarize herself with it, feeling its weight in her forelimbs as she stands on her hind legs, a practice she and her friends have had to adopt now more than ever. The weapon’s weight and length reminded her of a shovel, but one that’s capable of firing ammunition far smaller than a cannon ball, yet equally, if not more deadly. Speaking of which, and from what Bob’s note stated, that would mean… With realization now present in her features, Applejack hurriedly opens the storage box, causing the note that rested on top to fall behind it. She spots two types of ammunition stored within, each aligned neatly on either side of the wooden containment. By her count, there were 30 of each kind of ammo for a total of 60 rounds or bullets, terminology she still struggled with even now. Equus never had this kind of weaponry… “If ah recall correctly, that one there with the red plumage must be dem tranq darts Dash kept yammerin’ about. As fer the other one,” the cowmare whistled, “Might’ah helped us against that nasty ol’ Demon King. Hmm. Second thought…maybe not.” Her mind then focused on one staggering issue that crawled forth from the recesses of her mind. She was eternally grateful to the Sur- er, Bob, for providing the longneck rifle, but she had absolutely no idea how to operate it. It certainly looked pretty straightforward, and yet…  “Lemme check on that right quick,” she said while setting the rifle on the bed and looking back to access her implant.  Applejack shuffles through the tabs and accesses the vast library of her Engrams before scrolling down the near-infinite number of options, both unavailable and available for unlock via her Engram Points or EP. It was similar to some kind of videogame she’d often see Scootaloo bring over for the C.M.C’s clubhouse get-together. The orange mare reckoned she should be used to it by now, given that it’s already been almost two weeks since their arrival. In any case, she finally spots the darkened visage of the longneck rifle’s Engram with an Lvl 35 requirement to unlock. The problem, however, is that she was six levels below that requirement, sitting at Lvl 29. “Luna, dangit…”  She had known about the Engrams’ ability to flood their minds with knowledge of how to use the items they craft. But to come up short, like missing a basket of apples or two during her family’s harvest, was rather disappointing.  An annoyed snort and whinny escape from her nostrils. “Got’ah say, this ‘ole level’n business is kind’ah ridiculous. The hay was them humans think’n when they built these Arks? Levels? Points? Just make it all free and available upfront, for Celestia’s sake!” She finished and emphasized with a raised forelimb.   Allowing herself to recover from her moment of frustration, Applejack sighs in resignation, followed by a chuckle. “Well, shoot. I guess I can’t really complain all that much. Thin’s could certainly be worse.” She abruptly stomps a hindleg in determination, shaking her head to regain focus on what she was tasked to do. “Alright! An Apple’s got no business slacking off—time to get to it!” Immediately after her exclamation, the orange mare picked up and sent the rifle away to her inventory, followed by the ammunition she’d collected from the storage box, and headed over to the reinforced wooden exit.     Applejack emerges from the structure and kicks the door shut behind her, feeling the morning sun’s warmth as if it were welcoming her. She sets her eyes on the ankylosaur grazing on moist blades of grass within the spiked-walled-off area, earning a smile from the orange mare as she climbs down the small flight of stairs to join the dinosaur on ground level.  “Howdy there, Honky,” Applejack greets the dinosaur on approach, garnering the herbivore’s attention and stopping in front of the armored quadruped. “Sorry ‘bout the other day, partner. Ah nev’r got to apologize to ya about the whole name’n ya Betsie thin’—was only trying to rile ya up a bit.” Honky stopped chewing his food, giving the equine what she perceived as the dinosaur’s version of a deadpan expression.    “Heh. Yeah, yeah. Ah get ya. Still, I’m mighty sorry about all that. Ya fergive me?” The anky swallows his food and, true to his name, honks while lazily swaying his tail from side to side, although it’s more of a rumbling honk mixed with the blowing of a saxophone. He gently bumps his narrowed beak against Applejack’s chest, a gesture she could only assume to be positive in meaning. “Ah’ll take that as a yes, big guy,” the orange mare expressed with a smile.   Applejack knew that Honky wasn’t exactly amongst the largest of creatures on the island, but given that his size easily dwarfed her own, anything ankylosaur-sized and up is a titan comparatively. “Thanks fer that. Now, ah’ve got some doedicurus business to attend to. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone for, but feel free to wander off if the mood strikes ya—just be back before dark, ok?”  An affirmative saxophone honk is her answer, prompting the mare to nod before turning away and walking over to the gateway. As she pushes the gate’s double wooden doors wide open, she conjures forth her prized hat from her inventory and sets it firmly on her head.  “Right. Time to show them doedics what ah’m made of!” Her voice echoes across the forestation as she sets off toward the rocky face of a plateau beyond the trees.