//------------------------------//
// Chapter Three: Damned 
// Story: Fallout: Equestria - Subject Delta 
// by DerpDaHerp 
//------------------------------//


oooooOOOOOooooo


"I beg of you, don't go! Already, the tears of your children do flow!" Xendra's eyes seem to pierce into my soul, moist with tears, they bear down heavily on my heart and will.
"The choice is not mine to make, my place among my brothers, I must take." Needless to say, it's difficult to console somebody while using the traditional rhyming tone, but, if I were to be caught speaking normally, it would bring disgrace upon my family and friends.

Personally, I had no vendetta with the ponies. This conflict had nothing to do with me, or my tribe. But if we refused to contribute, we would be rejected by the others, openly denounced, slandered, and branded as traitors. They framed the ponies as the evil offspring of the stars, but I knew this was not the case. It was all to rile up the blood-lust among the more barbaric of the tribes.

I rise to my true height, before embracing the now openly sobbing zebra. "All will be fine..." I coo to her, rubbing her mane gently. "Just bide your time." I know that this is a death mission. I'm not one to hide behind facades, but if there was any time for tact, it was now. If she was blissfully unaware of my impending demise, then who am I to force the truth upon her? I am to be sent straight into the heart of the flames. To Canterlot, the capital of our sworn nemesis. There is little to no chance of survival.


oooooOOOOOooooo


As it turns out, sight is not all that it was once cracked up to be. A room bathed with light is nothing more than a device of mockery when bound in chains. Unable to interact with my environment, I begin to consider whether darkness would be a preferable alternative. Previously, I had been caged alone. Now, I was surrounded by the tortured ravings of madponies. What had first appeared to be nothing but idle carvings soon begin to form script.

I occupy my time by reading the (barely legible) scratchings that decorated my humble abode. With some being far more intelligent than others, mind you. Several merely read "Fuck you", whereas others seem to be highly detailed plans and calendars. Paying particular attention to the latter, I am able to roughly distinguish the date to around two hundred years forward from the Night of the Star-Birthed mare, a date which has been inexplicably imprinted upon my mind.

I have had no further visits from... well, anypony. Not once have I been visited; both the Stallion and the Eagle-lion have been notably absent. I have seen neither hoof nor hide of the uncouth mare, either. I doubt they would forget about my presence; the stallion made me out to be some kind of great discovery.

Despite how it may seem, my thoughts aren't completely clogged with the state of my cell. I also occupy myself with contemplating some of the many conundrums that puzzle me. The blackouts, in particular, are a notable object of consideration. Perhaps they are a side effect of the constant isolation I endure. Either way, they offer an escape from the mind numbingly dull brickwork of my cell.

Curiously, they seem to happen most often after a visit, but occasionally occur when I have been left alone with my thoughts for too long.


oooooOOOOOooooo


Beautiful. This sleek monolith of a vehicle is absolutely beautiful. Twelve feet long, with a wingspan of eight feet. Although it appears to be a matte black and grey, camouflage talismans laced around the exterior maintain an actively-fluctuating screen. This screen simulates the natural colour of the sky, based on the pilot's vision. If this was a stealth bomber, then it would've been fitted with invisibility talismans, or perhaps camouflage talismans of a higher quality. But, alas, this was no bomber. This was a glider; cheap, easy to manufacture, but not capable of a return flight.

"New Zebrica - 23156" has been engraved into the hull. Nothing more than a location of assembly, of little significance to anypony, or Zebra. Nobody had seen fit to designate this particular vessel a proper name. There were probably thousands of these, all across the nation, and thinking up a name would take valuable seconds. Seconds that could be used to make even more gliders.

Glinting in the sunlight, a rounded glass pod catches my eye. Looking inside, I see what appears to be some kind of hide chair, and a luminous backpack. Embroidered on the backpack are the words 'Parachute', but that isn't what caught my attention. That award went to the navigational tools... or, lack of. My gaze was met by a garish red lever labelled 'Eject', and nothing else.

Clearly, there was no expense spared. This was designed with cost efficiency in mind, not comfort, usability, or anything else. This was a vessel to be pointed and fired, not to be navigated. They didn't care where I landed, as long as I was able to cause some damage. Sighing, I pat the hull of my vehicle and turn away. Hopefully the trip would be a short one.


oooooOOOOOooooo


This definitely isn't right. My arms feel... light. I turn to identify the cause, and am shocked by a new revelation. The chains are gone. I lift my arms, and feel my features twist into a grin. Clearly they considered me docile enough to release; something I wish to prove wrong. At which point I was struck once again. This wasn't my cell.

You know that phrase "You don't know what you have until it's gone"? Never has that been more true. When I first awoke, I didn't think I'd ever describe that dank, musty cell as homely. How wrong I was.
It isn't that this room is disgusting. Oh no, it isn't bad by any stretch of the imagination. I guess I've just grown agoraphobic during my time alone.
Surveying the room, I see a large, glass mirror against one wall, and a (presumably reinforced) steel door on the opposite door. Pleasantly, the walls seem to have been freshly plastered and painted. A suspicious amount of effort for a beast.

I approach the mirror, my hoofsteps thudding against the ground. A lumbering beast stares back at me. A single oval shaped port glows on the front of what I assume to be its head. It closely resembles the diving suits of old, before more sleek, maneuverable designs had been utilised. I twist and turn, viewing myself from all angles.
On my flank is a large, dirty white triangle.

I'm not afraid or ashamed of what I see when I peer into the mirror; I just feel... detached. I know both consciously and subconsciously that the image is of myself, but... at the same time, there's something more to it. Before I can continue my introspective musings any further, I hear a faint clicking sound. Almost immediately after, my reflection fades from the mirror, revealing a tall, crimson pony.

At first, neither of us say anything. With me staying silent for obvious reasons, I can only guess as to the reasons behind his silence. I seize the opportunity to examine him, and I assume he is doing the same. His most notable features are his cold, glossy, black mane, and, probably first and foremost, his piercing, metallic, red eye.