//------------------------------// // Constant Vigilance // Story: Fallout Equestria: Taking Life By The Horns // by Pokonic //------------------------------// That's Cerberus! He's supposed to be guarding the gates of Tartarus! But if he's here, then all the ancient evil creatures that have been imprisoned there can escape and destroy Equestria! Destroy....Equestria? Yeah! Isn't it great?! The wasteland is a terrible place. Filled with monsters, robots, and even ponies, it offered nothing to me or my people. The brave few who would stand guard against it themselves are to be valued, and are often held up high as bright lights in a vast dark sea. Well, if there was anything to guard against, anyway, I might feel accomplished. A dead, cracked highway leading to nowhereville surrounded by dead, ashy cracked ground under a dead, ash-colored sky means that almost no living thing actually wants to end up this far away from their apparently cozier huts, holes, and hovels south. Well,the minor radiation saturation in the south might be the issue, but we have a bit of tolerance to radiation, or at least, that was the story I have been told over and over again. We can handle it better than ponies, anyway, and it could be that ponies are just weak to it. Makes one wonder if other creatures are harmed by it as bad as they are. I mean, Hellhounds are probably highly resistant to it, and donkeys seem to be affected by it less. It's fitting, I suppose, that the ones who caused this mess suffer from it the worst. I spent much of my free time then wondering if the next thing that passes through our little neck of the woods would be a traveler, as it's always nice to get some stories out of them about the world and what it is like beyond my home. Could be that, a few days travel from here, the ground is a different color than the sky and there's actual grass instead of weeds. But that's it, really. Nothing happened here. But wasn't that a good thing? I had heard stories about raiders, ponies that had gone mad and traveled in bands that killed everything they saw, and of things like packs of feral ghouls and hellhound's living in the wastes. No, it was better this way. Bah, who was I kidding. I was bored. Horribly so. Such was life in a out-of-the-way town with little to trade and little need for it, but even this was more boring than usual. This was not the typical “Waiting for the hunters to come back” sort of boring or the “When was the last time a caravan went by?” sort of boring, nor the “Hey, is that a bloatsprite?” sort of boring. No, this was the “Oh gods, please, send the Steel Rangers or something to make me feel alive! Pan, Prancing Pink Pony Princesses, anyone! Come on Discord, you owe us!“ sort that was dreaded by those whose only job was standing very still and watching something. I mean, yes, the Elder always told us to keep ourselves watchful of the world, because a strong mind kept the body strong. I, for one, thought that was utter trash, and is no excuse for making the younger members of the commune watch cracked roads for half a day, but the Elder also had a minigun that shot lasers. That, and he was twice the age of anyone at camp and could still outfight the entire pankration team at once, so his word is law by default. Makes one wonder why ponies didn't do that. Let the biggest guy around with the most power rule, and let others fight for the title to rule. Worked for us. And, according to the elder, others like Dragons and Griffons and even Hellhounds live the same way. Wait, shit. They did. Then one of them split up power between a few other ponies, and suddenly the world blew up in their faces. Heh. Stupid ponies. Minotaurs:1 Ponykind:0 While I was pondering the meaning of life in a dead world, the secrets of the universe, and the true purpose of existence itself, I was startled by a high-pitched squeak, followed by a poke to the shins with something soft. I raised my head up from the moldy road sign depicting some coffee drink or another from 200 years ago and noticed the originator of the noise and the invader of my personal space. It was a pony, a small one at that, considering she barely came up to my knees and I was only six feet or so. “Err, good...err, bull?” it said, high pitched and sounding a little unnerved. And female, if her voice was anything to go by, as well as far too innocent-sounding for there to not be a gang of raiders right behind her. Then again, considering the entire area is scrubland with the slightest hint of grey, said raiders would have to have been invisible or incredibly sneaky. Giving another look at the pony, I guessed that she might be a stable-dweller. It was simply too clean for it to be a regular wastelander, and more than one had traveled up here only to be turned back around. Sorry kiddo, the Hoof is the other way. “Are you here to trade or to pass through, little pony? There's a toll you need to pay.” I said boredly. It was a pointless gesture, really, considering that no one ever passed through this road more than once and the amount we charged was low anyway. The small blue chub-blob recoiled at the sound of my voice (what? I thought I sounded nice. Like smooth sand. Or gravel. In a thunderstorm), but quickly answered me. “Trade.” I was slightly confused. No one came to a place like this with any real intent to trade, but few actually took the offer to come into my people's domain willingly. I looked at the pair of two leather saddlebags near her, blinked, and then at her expecting light blue eyes. I moved myself from my lax position and got in front of the mare. I waved a hand over for her to follow where I did, and while it took three more tries to get her to understand what the gesture meant, she eventually got the message. The fact is, in order to get to the compound where my people live, you have to find the hidden stairs. Now, this might sound silly to some, but the craggy hills where the stairs are have enough old bones at the bottom to prove that ponies are not suited to climb things. Apparently, they can launch doom-missiles to obliterate civilization, but cannot climb stairs without tripping. But, less talking about the past and more about helping the mare get to where she needed to be. But perhaps some exposition is in order those who don't know of the setting; the whole complex was built inside a large depression on the north side of hills closest to the single road that came through our territory a mile or so away from it proper. Apparently, most ponies just think it's just like any other semi-abandoned town in the hills we lived in, so we get the occasional shocked looter who thought they were clever in scaling the hillside and finding that it was very much inhabited. I had been more than a day's travel away from it for most of my life, but I was always surprised at how the few visitors we had talked about its supposed sophistication, considering that it was pretty bare-bones with what it had. But the important thing, I suppose, was that it was home. Now, the reason I mention this was that the small blue pony, looking positively clean and very un-wastelanderish,managed to walk more than thirty minutes uphill without even looking tired. “Is this it?” she inquired, looking at the set of stairs that wrapped around the hill that the commune was behind, doubt dripping her voice. No reason to beat around it, I supposed. “Yes. Can you climb?” She gave me a questioning glance, one that made me shudder a little. Pony eyes were simply too big for their heads. I wondered slightly about if I should climb it first and get the rope or just see if she could make her way up, but looking at her squashed both ideas. She could not hold a rope with her little pony hooves. I groaned, which caused her to back a few feet away. I had an idea, but I think I would need to know her name first, considering what it implied. “Err, so what is your name, little pony.” I said with my best attempt at eloquence. Her ear's twitched a little, as if to show that she was surprised at me speaking. “It's Blueberry Cream." she said quickly. "But it's not really nice to ask for somepony else's name before one gives their own.” I looked at the mare again, wondering if I should give her my actual name. Eventually, I decided it would do no harm if I did. “It is Ever Watchful.” I said. She looked at me for a few seconds, and then at the supposed steps, and then back at me again, frowning. “You’re going to have to carry me up there, arn't you? You’re just asking for permission before you pick me up.” Her lips curled in distaste. “Yes.” I said, nearly snorting at the glare she was giving me. “If you try anything, I will kill you.” She could only be joking. The both of us knew it was hardly a threat. A better name for her would be Sponge Cake. Or Cream Pie. Or Jiggle-Wiggle. I wiggled my fingers exaggeratedly in a way that, through trial and error, I knew would make her laugh. I wasn't sure why, but it alway's made female ponies either blush or break out laughing. Apparently, Blueberry Cream was in the later group, and after a few moments of laughing she relented in letting me pick her up, bags and all. After an amusing conversation, a very hasty climb, and a quick dusting off, I continued to walk up the compound with the supposed trader right behind. It was far easier to see when your on the high part of the hill-scape, considering that you can see the telltale signs of life in it. I also saw two familiar faces; Copper Pot and Brass Knuckle, both of whom apparently back from hunting and were standing around near the old, rusting gate to the compound. I was not truly looking for a meal right now, despite the burning day-star’s attempt to cook me for four hours, but looking at the slightly...jiggly pony behind me, she would probably would not turn down bacon. Or the whole radhog. Brass, a leaner nice-looking cow who somehow got her hands on a super-sledge from a trader one time or another, gave a questioning glance at the still-blushing pony and then at me. Copper, who was another, far younger bull who knew exactly what I had to do just from the look on my face, gave me a grin and a thumbs-up. I glared at him for his weird behavior, which just made him laugh. Brass, however, just looked at me like I grew two heads and began mooing. “She's a trader?” she said, waving her free arm in the direction of the mare to my side. “Yes” said Blueberry, to everyone else’s surprise, sans myself. And Blueberry. To be frank, the only one surprised was Brass, as Copper Pot was just twiddling his thumbs and grinning at Blueberry in the odd way he did to everyone else he sees. I swear that bull drank some bad milk when he was a calf. Brass looked at the little mares big bags with visible doubt, and leaned a little to her side using the handle of the mechanical hammer next to her. “So what’s in there, scrap metal, foodstuffs...?” Blueberry grinned at Brass, showing far too many teeth for it be a real smile. “Electronics.” Copper suddenly cared about the presence of the little trader-mare, staring at her intently. “What kind?” She thought for a moment. “It’s the best quality of stuff you can find nowadays without shooting a turkey.” Copper laughed at the mare's words. What a “turkey” was I had no clue, but apparently he did. Brass gave me a look too, so I was not the only one without a idea what was going on, which made me feel a little better. The semi-crazy bull gave the mare a look. “So, what’s in there, really?” Her formerly amused expression turned into one of annoyance. “Electronics, batteries, robot parts, a few power cores...stuff.” Brass was slightly through with amusing Copper, and pushed open the gate with a single thrust. Honestly, I expected the mare to look impressed, like it was intended to be, but she just trotted through. Then she stopped to take in the view. To be fair, I have never traveled too far away from home. The hunters can be gone for weeks, but then they come back with food. I don’t see why I would want to go traveling, anyway, considering the whole world is brown, grey and irradiated. But ponies always go nuts when they get inside our little nook in the world. Blueberry was staring at the whole complex in mild amazement. Honestly, I don't know why. Sure, there were about fifty or so minotaurs wandering around, and perhaps twice that amount in goats and sheep, but the buildings were clay and stacked on top of one another like boxes. They were windowless, ugly brown heat-sinks with doors you could hardly fit through, and the whole thing was carved into the cliff face, so there was electricity unless you lived on the lowest level where there was a generator. Yet, the little blue pony was looking at it in awe. Really, I will never understand it. Blueberry was still looking at the houses (the small, cramped, stacked houses that smelled like goat) until she noticed the “trade station”, which was in fact just a few benches and shiny objects near the town square. As she trotted near it, more members of the clan took notice. A few looked upset, and even more looked away from her. I saw Mud Molder, the head builder, look disgusted at the little blue ball’s presence, but I never liked the old fart. Luckily, I did not need to get the Elder, because he was walking right out of his home, the only real building in the place, and spotted her. The Elder was a huge old bastard, still huge even as he stooped a little from what I half-suspected from the shear weight of the rack of horns he sported. Most minotaurs were built at least thickly, but he was thin and wiry, a set of sinew and muscle set on a minotaur-shaped wire mesh, horns curled slightly at the tips and the keratin so old beyond the base that it was a dark yellow color, His fur was grey, almost white, with only the darker hair on his head any indication that, at one time, he was completely black-coated, and it was so thin and translucent that you could see the big blue veins on his arms. His fingers were knobbly and gnarled but they were deft and long and I was sure he could wrap his fingers around Blueberries midsection with one hand, or, perhaps a more apt metaphor, my neck. “I suppose you are here to trade?” The Elder spoke in a hushed tone, like how he would get all fatherly with a child, but the little pony who was a quarter of his size Blueberry looked like she was echoing the second part of her name. “Err..well...yes?” The great grey bull grinned, gold teeth shiny in the light. Blueberry gulped. A few hours later, it was apparent that whatever Blueberry Cream had interested the Elder very much, and so he offered her one of the spare huts to spend the night. And after a few more hours of guarding the road, I got to hit the metaphorical hay without a care in the world. I was hardly hungry, and most of the guys I would talk too were already asleep by the time I arrived back to the gates. In essence, I was in slumberland, dreaming away the hours of the night. At least, until I was woken by a knocking sound on my huts floor. Groggily, I turned my head to who would interrupt my sweet slumber. Brass was half-drunk and had a deck of cards with her, so there were two things wrong already. “Cumon, get up. Weea gotta go and have fun” she slurred. How the no one else heard her was beyond me, she was moving like a drunken....ah. I was still in my bed, a rough little thing with a thin mat on a hard slab of stone. Laying on my side, I did not bother to get up. I gave a little sigh, but I was still surprised by the uptight cow's rash actions. “Brass, you know drinking and gambling of any sort is banned. If the Elder finds out will cut your han-” “The Elder knows shit, Ever Watchful, you know that. Me and the boys found some ol...old wolrd wine up in a crate in the hills, and we...we are having fun!” She finished, pleased with herself. I sighed. Crap. The hunters found some booze. As in, the well-armed, trained, mildly crazy minotaurs found some mind-altering drink and are still awake. This could only end well. I looked up at the red-ish cow standing in my doorway, and then at the dusty floor of my room, and then again at the large, tipsy object between me and freedom. “Fine, Brass, just let me get prepared.” She snorted, but slowly steadied herself and carefully began to walk off. I hoped she tripped. A fall from the third layer of housing could do her some good. I attempted to wait out the night, but the thought of what could happen if I did go was playing through my head. Yes, you could end up exiled or killed if you were caught doing anything against the rules, but still, alcohol! There’s only so much one could do here, and a break from the norm, anything, was welcome no matter the risk. Well, sans death. I looked at my dwelling, as if in a attempt to scrounge out some hidden signal on what to do. A small desk was piled high with random junk, a soft mound of random cloths, a few knick-knacks scattered on the floor, and of course, my guard gear: a steel machete, a simple leather-on-iron breastplate that was probably too thin to be much good, and a few bits of barbed wire to wrap around my horns. Frankly, I never saw the point in wearing any of it, but the Elder’s word on the matter was that any adult male should be able to fight for this place, regardless if they were a pottery maker or a actual guardian. A seeming decade in figuring out patterns in the ceiling was a failure as well. I sighed, and righted myself up. Slowly moving out of the bed, making sure not to make much sound, I eased my way to the entrance of the hut. A few seconds later, I gave in and decided to take my supply belt with me, but more importantly the little knife and first aid kit attached to it. It was going to be a long night, after all.