//------------------------------// // Fallout Equestria: Burn Bright, Burn Blue; Chapter 1 // Story: Scrips, scraps, and other unfinished miscellania // by Pacific Penguin //------------------------------// “You got all that tragedy and horror out in the w-wastelands, and you’re going to call me out on s-smo-muh-smoking?!” Parish finally spat out. He shifted the cigarette to the side of his mouth, and flicked his black tail back violently. “I’m tellin’ ya, it’s going to kill you young, boyo.” The light yellow unicorn said. “gotta enough shit out here to take the years offa pony,” Lemon Lime paused. “Not that I ever took ya for the ‘live long and prosper’ types anyway, judgin’ by yer cutie mark.” The burgundy pony mottled with dandelion colored spots shot back. “W-what can I say, L.L., I’ve got a red-hot personality. It’s t-too short out here to care about my goddamned health, you n-naïf” Parish was sick of this mare, this… this… filly. A month of this crap. Always hassling him about “good health” and “taking care of yourself”. Who the hell cared anymore? Why the hell did she care? With all the shit anypony that lived in the wastes went through, it was surprising most ponies didn’t have six legs, nine eyes, and an extra tail sticking out of their heads. Ponies should rejoice their self-destructive race even survived at all. “Would you two knock it off? Stay alert.” The drab brown pony snapped from alongside the overburdened Brahmin, whose load continuously rattled. “You never know when a raider might show up… or someone like Red Eye pops in out of nowhere trying to get ‘recruits’. Us caravaners are pretty vulnerable as it is. But it’s not profitable to hire so many guards, and you’re all I’ve got, so stop squabbling and stay sharp.” “Yeah, yeah. If Le-eh-emon didn’t have to bring my health up to me all the t-time…” As he walked, he pulled a lighter from his extra-armored saddlebags. His spot in the caravan was directly behind and to the right of the Brahmin. Taking the lighter in his hoof, he turned it over. Etched on it was a reclining pegasus pony on the wing of some sort of pre-war plane. He flipped open the cap, and flicked with his hoof. Not even the vaguest hint of flame lit up. “Why do you still keep that thing around if it doesn’t even work, Parish? I know you can fix it, so why don’t you?” Bart said, adjusting his goggled cap in the early morning sun. He sighed. “I dunno. Just a swell souvenir I suppose.” He paused, then shot back at Bart. “Hey, you too? Can’t ya-ya’ll just lay off me? What about that guy, Bottle Opener, is it? Why pick on the st-st-stutter?” He mentally facehoofed. Of course he would stumble on that word. “It’s because he does his job. He keeps watch, pipes up when something comes up, and if he doesn’t talk much, well so be it. I give him the caps, he does what he’s supposed to do, it’s a fair transaction, and I don’t question it. And when he happens to have a PipBuck, well, you don’t turn them down. Those things are more useful than you could ever imagine.” To make his point, he glanced over at Bottle. “Eh, big guy?” Mr. PipBuck merely grunted in response, without even turning towards him. “He’s a regular philosopher, I tell you…” Parish groaned. He looked over at Lemon Lime. She stuck her tongue out at him. He pretended not to notice and stuck the etched lighter back in his bags. They had left New Appleloosa just yesterday. Their route would take them to Junction R-7 and the correctional facility, and then onward to Fillydelphia. They might have gone to Old Appleloosa, but the raiders had been growing especially sadistic as of late, and they seemed to be attacking caravans at random instead of trading with them. Because of this, they were taking a bit a detour from the usual routes. Presently, they passed through a craggy region, which they had been dredging through for some time. It was as dead as any part of the wastes. Trees sparsely littered the place, and the sun approaching its zenith looked as lifeless as ever. And yet, Parish was sweating. Figured. Even through the dirty smears that were the clouds, the sun was still beaming down. And it wasn’t even noon. I’m going to be glad when this is over, Parish thought idly. Once we can go down to Fillydelphia and make some real money… I can relax for awhile… Caravan guard jobs usually paid pretty well. Not without good reason, though. Raids on caravans were commonplace. In fact, it wasn’t unheard of for one to get hit upwards of five, six, seven times in a single run. Sure, many attacks were easily fended off, but the fact remained, if you signed up, you were signing up to get shot. It was dangerous, yes, but it was dangerous everywhere in the wastes. At any given time, a raider band might attack, someone might decide they wanted your stuff and kill you, the flimsy shack most ponies called home might collapse on you, hell, a pre-war undetonated balefire bomb might just go off and kill you… Parish was still thinking of various ways the wastes could cause an untimely death when a shot rang out. He watched as Lemon Lime keeled over, large amounts of blood already spewing from her chest onto her yellow coat. He didn’t even see where the shot came from. A second shot sent the brahmin stumbling. He jumped behind the brahmin to use it for cover. If it was one of those talking ones, he might have felt a little guilty for using it as a live ponyshield, but it wasn’t, and its heavy pack would offer it some protection. Bart hastily slipped in next to him. “Two up high, more around the bend,” He said quickly as he settled. Parish peeked over the brahmin. The rocks helped form a roughly T shaped intersection ahead of them. Bottle Opener had taken cover behind a rock formation several feet in front of them. He had his automatic rifle out, and was crouched, hugging the rock with his form. Two rock formations jutted out into the path up ahead, staggered so there was first one on the left, then one on the right. There was a muzzle flash, and pieces of Bottle’s rock crumbled. Parish quickly ducked as the second pile of rubble took a shot at him. It hit the brahmin, and it mooed woefully. It’d survive. He put his pistol in his mouth, and rustled through his pack. He took out a different, working lighter, and pulled out a couple of metal apples, of the explosive variety. He hoped he wasn’t going to need them all. It was hard to find a reliable supply of them, especially on caravan jobs. He thought for a moment, then popped his head back over the brahmin’s back in time to see a group of raiders approaching from the right side of the T junction up ahead. Well, this was going to get messy. He pulled a stem. One… Bottle Opener had been taking pot shots at the well-hidden snipers (not that it took much to hide a raider in the wastes, they practically were dirt anyway), and they focused their fire on him. Two… He was sure they hadn’t noticed him pop back up again. Bang. Okay, maybe not. Three… Parish arced the grenade towards the sniper down on the left overhang, since he knew Bottle had a terrible angle to get at him. Clk,clk,clk, it bounced on the crags around the sniper, then rolled a foot or two behind him. He ducked back down. He heard the explosion and moments later a thump of body on ground, and pulled another stem. He stood up completely, and the raider group turned towards him. “Look boys, we’ve got an idiot who decided he didn’t want to suck his mom’s teats anymore, haha. ‘Cause his mom here is a two-headed cow! Oh, that’s rich! KILL ‘IM BOYS!” “Fresh meat!!” As they readied their weapons to fire, Parish threw the grenade as hard as he could. It flew a short distance, then struck a rock outcrop at an angle, bouncing gracefully back into the air. Like a throwing stone, the grenade arced for a second time, and exploded two feet from the ground, in the middle of the crowd. The pony bits went everywhere. A bullet whined by. Parish cried out and fell as a bullet scored the back of his neck, taking a good part of his mane with it. The second raider sniper was mad now, and had risen from behind his rocky perch to get a shot at the grenadier. As he wracked the bolt for another shot at Parish, Bottle riddled him with bullets, and the sniper was no more. Unfortunately for Bottle, the first sniper survived his ordeal with the grenade, and had landed next to him. His red and further reddening form was struggling to rise behind him. Parish was able to see all this, he begged his vocal cords to work, but all he could do was croak as he watched the severely bloodied raider rise up to Bottle Opener with a razor-sharp combat knife. In the next moment, which seemed to drag on and on, the raider reached forward, and pulled his knife across Bottle’s neck, letting loose a great stream of blood. Bottle Opener tried to clutch at his now-exposed throat, but it was too late, and he fell, gurgling, onto the ground. The raider collapsed on top of him. Just then, two shots rang out. Bart had taken out a pistol and peered over the side of the Brahmin to finish off the raider. Even though he probably would have bled out from the shrapnel wounds anyway. “Fuckin’ wasteland!” Bart raged. “Parish, give me a smoke.” Still on his belly, he nonchalantly offered him one as he lit a new one on his lips. He weakly tossed the lighter, which landed at Bart’s feet. “I’ll patch you and the brahmin up, scavenge what I can from Bottle, Lime, and these bastards.” He stopped to survey the area. “And I just might take up smoking again.” Parish took a whiff and closed his eyes. A few hours later, he awoke. He was still on his belly, and rose carefully. His now scabbed wounds itched a little, and he brought a hoof up to scratch, but stopped when he met the bandages now around his neck. He glanced up into the sky. The sun had begun its descent in the sky. Lifeless clouds partially hid it like a shawl. Same as it always was. But for a second, he thought he saw something swiftly fly through it… Parish shook his head. No. Nothing ever flew in dead skies anymore… “You awake? How are your bandages holding up? Let me see.” Parish turned to face Bart as he shifted his attention to him. “Well,” he said, shifting through the bandages, “It’s a little deep, but it’s nothing you can’t walk off. Here, I think half a dose of healing potion should do you fine. It’s coming out of your payment, mind you.” “You’re kidding right?! We’ve two dead, and you’re going to foot me the bill for that?” Bart sighed. “I know. But you did sign a contract… maybe I should just give you that PipBuck gizmo instead of caps. Look, I know we just lost two of our party, but I haven’t been making as much as I should be. I can’t go in the red. Not in the wasteland. You’ll end up dead like that.” He stopped again. “I hate to say it, I really do, but they were expendable. Heck, you’re expendable.” “Fine,” Parish retorted. “I’ll have the potion.” He took it, downed half in one gulp, and set it in his saddlebags after recorking it along with his temper. “How’s D-Daisy doing?” “Not too bad. Her load took most of the force out of one shot. She took a shot to the ankle as well, but I think she’ll be able to make it to the junction. If we leave now, and venture back onto the main routes, we might be able to get there by morning.” “I could go for that. This route isn’t w-working out.” Parish looked out. Lemon Lime’s corpse had been dragged out to where Bottle and the raider had fallen, her things already packed onto the brahmin. The raiders had been similarly looted. Most raider gear was junk, but they occaisionally had things of value, such as handguns, submachine guns, and other small arms weapons. The two snipers had been using partially modified hunting rifles, he would learn later, and they were stashed as well. Bottle opener had been shaken down for everything by Bart, except for the PipBuck. They had the tools to take it off, just Bart wasn’t skillful enough with them. He asked Parish to do it, and he complied. He fetched the necessary tools, and set about fiddling with the device. He brought up one of the small screwdrivers, and carefully began to unwind some of the screws. But then a fit of coughs attacked him, as he nearly retched from the smell. Pulling a rag from his bags, he tied it over his nose. He went back to work. After a good half hour of work (and two instances where he nearly lost the tiny screws), he managed to pull it off and put the device back together around itself. He set it in Daisy’s pack, along with the tools. “W-well, I’m ready to go if you are,” he said. Bart had just been finishing off an apple. “You’re scary with those tools of yours, ya know that? Move out!” Thus they struck out once more into the wastes. Their journey to Junction R-7 proved uneventful. A few bloatsprites here, a few radscorpions there, but nothing surprising. Mutant creatures were just about as guaranteed as radiation. By late morning, they were approaching the small settlement of disheveled traincars and rust, and its mass of rails and ties, turning every which way, and yet getting nowhere. Many traincars were moved back up onto the tracks, but many still lied down in odd directions, or as gnarled wrecks. “I hope Gawdyna’s in a good mood today… I could use a merc contract that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.” You get what you pay for, Parish thought… The junction got about as much attention as the rust on the rail tracks did. A few scrapes here and there to keep it going, but otherwise left alone and neglected. It had no major items for regular trade that couldn’t be bought over at Shattered hoof. But, where there are customers with caps, there are merchants with various means to empty their cap purses. In its time, it might have been a major hub for freight shipments equestria wide. Ponies, firearms from the weapons factories near Ponyville, Ministry exports to the rest of the country… It probably bustled. Even when things escalated back then. It probably still bustled then. Even more, even. Work foreponies here probably shouted at their orderlies to increase their work efficiency, fit in more loadings and unloadings. All the way up to the fateful day. And then… Parish was jarred from his wandering thoughts when Bart quite literally slammed into another pony as they turned a traincar corner. They fell into a jumble on the floor. The other pony’s odds and ends he had been carrying in hoof and on flank, went everywhere, and rolled about the floor. Bart’s hat had fallen off and landed squarely on the other pony’s face. “Where the hell were you going, you moron?” Bart glowered. “If there’s so much as a scratch on me, goddesses help you, ‘cause you’re paying for every last healing potion I’ll need!” He snatched his cap off, and stopped with the cap halfway to his head. “Hold on… Wolfgang? Tainted Wolfgang? Well hell!” “Bart? ‘Tis you? Aha, good to see you, friend!” The apparent Wolfgang said, and proceeded to give Bart a warm embrace, seemingly ignoring the fact that all his things were strewn about the floor. “It’s been too long since I’ve run into to you in the wastes! How has your caravan been doing? Just as prosperous as ever, I’d wager! You were a born salesmen, last time I checked!” “Ah. That. Yes, it’s been… quite… successful. My sales pitch is quite good. Would you like to hear it? Of course you do, good man! All right. Ahem. ‘Welcome, filly or gentlecolt, to Tainted Wolfgang’s traveling junk store. The Depot of Detritus, the Shop of Clop, and the Caravan of crap. Now what odds and ends can I, the most tainted of all possible Wolfgangs, offer to you?’” He raised his eyebrows at Bart. “Ingenious, isn’t it? Eh? Eh?” “My god, you were always so much better at the pitch than I! I’m surprised you haven’t sold out already! But first, I should probably help you with your goods. These are your goods, aren’t they?” Parish butt in. “No offense, but do I even exist, Bart?” “Right. Sorry, Parish.”He gestured with his hoof. “Wolfgang Parish, Parish Wolfgang.” Finally, he put his cap back on. Then, he began to pick up bits of Wolfgang’s wares. Ignoring his wares for the moment, Wolfgang got up and offered a hoof to Parish. “How do you do? The one, the only, the Tainted Wolfgang, at your service!” Shaking hooves, he continued. “You are a most… shall we say, curious pony, aren’t you?” Circling, he proceeded to look Parish up and down. “A most dark, sanguine, earth pony I see… with dandelion spots! And the mane and tail! Black and styled in the classic ‘Wasteland Windblown’ style I see! But tastefully done!” “I’m c-curious?” Parish said, unamused. “Oh, and he stutters to himself too! Yes, curious indeed!” He grunted. This pony really bothered Parish. But, he knew a trick that would blow him away… He pulled out the engraved lighter, which, although no longer able to ignite a flame, had been modified by him to release a flammable gas into the air. He flipped it open, and flicked it, releasing some. “It looks to me, that your lighter is broken! Your friend Wolfgang can help you with that!” Instead of making him an offer, Parish swept his head forward and exhaled in a sweeping motion, so as to hide the movement of his lower jaw. Because, in his mouth, he had two false teeth, one made of flint, and another of steel. He struck them together, and pretended to breath fire. “WAH! Curio-oso! You are most talented! B-but now I must be going! Things to attend to, you know! Nice meeting you, bye!” And the Tainted Wolfgang ran off. Through this exchange, Bart had been far too occupied with collecting odds and ends to notice. Hooves full, he turned around and was dumbfounded to see that Wolfgang was gone. “What… where’d he get off to?” Grinning, Parish simply said, “Oh, something about errands needing running, goods demanding re-st-stocking… swell guy though. Glad to have met him.” The surviving caravaneers wandered the worn, churning junction, stopping here and there to greet other merchants, and show wares to eachother, or ask Junction residents if they had anything for trade. Daisy’s pack was mostly full, but Bart purchased some chems to sell in Filly, and some armored barding bits for repair. Parish managed to get some more apple grenades and some dynamite at a good price. Eventually, they found themselves at Gawdyna’s office. A traincar completely undistinctive except for the white griffin talon logo spray painted on one of the sides, and the reinforced locks on the door. “Well, here goes.” Bart rapt on the door. “If that’s Blueblood, no, request denied, get back on patrol. I can’t have you on active mercs right now so stop asking. If yer here for business, come right on in, otherwise, kindly go the hell away.” Came a griffin’s voice from within. “Actually yes, I’d like to hire a Talon for a caravan guard contract.” Bart said, hopping up onto the traincar. The imposing, and rather battle-scarred griffin looked up from her writing. “Well now, someone who gets right to it. That’s what I like ‘t hear. I can sign a contract like that for you right now, 500 caps. We’ll have a Talon with you, to carry out that contract to the letter, not a single word, comma, period, or dash more, or less.” “500…?” His ears went back. “Look, yer not going to get a better merc, and I’m not going to haggle with you. Take it or leave it.” “Aye… I’ll think about it.” “Just be quick, yeah?” Bart took a walk around the traincar with Parish and Daisy to think it over. “…I’m already behind this year, and if I’m not careful, I’ll be cutting into my savings…” He sighed. “Would you take a cut in your contract…?” Parish put hoof up to the side of his head, annoyed. “Ugh, if y-you don’t want me…” He stopped. A ridiculous, crazy idea kindled in his head. Then, suddenly, it oxidized and flared up. “You know what, forget it. You give me that PipBuck we found, and I’ll be gone. Completely out of your hair. I’ll leave the contract behind entirely. It’s not like you’ll be able to sell it on the caravan routes, and I know you’re not going to use the combat spells. Give me that, and I’ll call it even. The Talon merc should be more than enough protection to Filly.” “Hmm. Fair deal. It’s all yours.” With that, he turned around, wrestled the hoof-mounted device from Daisy’s pack, and tossed it to him. “Wait… r-really?” Parish said, barely catching it. “Yes, really. And as an added bonus, you can have to tools you need to maintenance it too. I doubt anyone wants those.” He took them out, and put them into his hoof, and with the tools encapsulated inside, gave him a hoofshake. “Good doing business with you. I sincerely wish you well.” “All right! I’ll, I’ll see you around, Bart!” He was already giddy. This was going to be good.