//------------------------------// // Chapter 1 - Homeward Bound // Story: Project Overlord // by TheFullCrumb //------------------------------// Where should I start? From the beginning? Or should I start where it got really bad the first time? I doubt there was ever a time that I really stopped to think about everything, yet, here I am, laying on the ground and bleeding out. Not how I wanted to go, honestly. I would have rather died in my sleep than lost my life to some pesky fatal wounds. Oh, right. My journal. I guess since you're reading this, I must be some bleached skeleton out in the Bonelands. That's what everypony called the San Palomino desert, well, after the bombs fell. I wasn't alive then, but my parents, they said they came from a Stable, though they never wanted to talk about it. They told me of the bright flashes, whole towns vaporized in an instant, while other structures refused to fall. My right side is completely numb. I don't have long, I guess. “He's over here!” “Come on, Doc! Ya gotta patch him up!” Voices. I recognized them. Some poor bastards new to the Bonelands, I suppose. I can't move my body, so I'm just thinking my journal. Somepony's gotta have a healing potion or- “Come on! Don't you die, ya stubborn bastard!” Sharp. Very sharp, and it was being poured into my throat. I could feel broken bones slowly snapping back into place; not the most pleasant of feelings, but I was certain that death was a lot worse. I looked back at my side where I had been shot. While it hadn't been entirely enough to kill me outright, those young bastards who saved me, I owed them. Bright light. A beam shining in my eyes. The doctor's making sure I can see. I guess he thinks I'm okay. Let's try and move. Alright, foreleg, show me what you got. Perfect. Other legs, you're being shown up by the foreleg! Ah, that's more like it. The sun stung my eyes as I opened them, the bright light not something I had been expecting to see. My mouth was dry, grains of sand coating it, and partially full of blood. I spat on the ground, the bloody mud flying into the face of the dead bastard lying on the ground. I got a good look at the two that had saved my life. A unicorn filly, probably not much more than a teenager, yet she wore that patchwork armor like a badge of honor. Her blue mane was cropped short, with white highlights, while her coat was a muted green, like the old pictures of the sea I once saw. She had a small pistol levitated in her magic, an old piece that brought a smile to my broken lips. The other was a colt, an earth pony like me. He was grey, and had no armor, but his Cutie Mark was the most perfect picture of a wrench I could ever envision. “I guess, I oughta thank the foals who saved my life, huh? Thanks, buckaroos. Now git,” I snarled, secretly cursing myself as I wanted to see what they really wanted, “'fore I get an inklin' to tan your hides.” The colt smiled, stepping forward as he extended his hoof. “What's your name, old timer?” He asked, letting his hoof stay up. “... Schooner. I used to sail boats a long while ago,” I replied, wishing I wasn't in the mess I was in. They seemed inquisitive, except for the colt, who had abandoned the conversation to strip the dead Raiders around me of their earthly possessions. With a tug and a twist, he strapped pieces of armor to his body, wrapping it up in the bloodied leathers of the former ponies who had borne them before. With a flick of his hoof, he pulled a hood over his head, smiling at me. He tossed a pistol to me, watching me fumble as I caught it in my teeth. “Well, 'Schooner,' I guess you'd better come along, then. We could use a good shot like you.” How did the story begin? How did the story end? Before I am even able to tell you of the real beginning, let me tell you a few things first, well, about boats. The Equestrian Wasteland, and by extension, the Bonelands, they had no real safe way to traverse the waterways that were chock full of balefire radiation. That was my specialty, though. Boats were a long-running tradition of my family, and when I stripped some of the former military vehicles in and around the remains of a city in the Bonelands, there was an alloy there that I had found to be very resistant to the ambient radiation absorbed by the water. With enough metal, I was able to line the bottom of my most prized possession, the Akatoria, the boat with which I almost died. Small watercraft had used to be fairly popular before the whole 'destruction of the entire world' thing, as I have been told. The Akatoria, a rebuilt rowboat with a ramshackle sail attached to the top, was my pride and joy, the very boat that allowed many of the more illustrious Wasteland Wanderers to find their way across the single river that ran through the dead center of the Bonelands, near a small settlement known only as King's Fall. The boats we used to make there were legendary. Most were not designed for what the Akatoria did. I lost her the same day I lost my tail, and my left foreleg. Damn the Enclave, they had no right! No right to take from me the one thing that made me happy! The Enclave were a miserable bunch of bastards that I ran into on occasion. Their patrols in the Bonelands were few and far between, but they were packing some serious heat. Scrapyard Junction was the only place they refused to go near, the one place I could call home. It was far from water, sure, but that never meant I couldn't sail ever again. “Schooner! Equestria to Schooner! I think he's gone ca-tatar- uh, catatara- Doc, what's the word?” “Catatonic, Grey. The word is catatonic. He's standing up, but he's not focusing.” Right, they were still there. “Sorry, I meant no offence. I'm more used to being by myself. Been that way fer ten years.” I sighed as I finished, letting them huddle together and talk. So, Doc was the medic, the one who pretty much saved my life, and Grey was the young colt. I had traveled with worse. In the Bonelands, you always traveled with who you could, 'cept in times when the pony, or griffon in question, tried to melt you with one of those fancy arcane blaster things. As I mused, something moved in the background. With a silent curse, I shoved my way past, lining up the shot with the pistol I had been tossed. KA-KRACK went the pistol, and whatever it was exploded in a shower of gore and blood. I tossed the pistol to the ground, the barrel slightly melted from whatever had been in the chamber. “Whatever it was, it's dead now,” I muttered as I turned back to the group. “You best be watchin', since there's all sorts of nasty things that will hurt ya in the Bonelands.” “Okay, then, Schooner! We'll be-” “Not so fast, Grey. You don't know the rules of the Bonelands, do ya?” I could feel the glare of Doc on my back as Grey stopped to listen. I sighed as Doc shook his head. “Here we go 'gain.” “You broke the first rule of the Bonelands, Grey. Do not stop to help anypony. You stop to help, you're more than likely falling into a trap. You also broke the second rule as well.” Grey rolled his eyes, staring me dead as his face went from a smile to a frown. “What was the second rule?” “Do not remove a medical pony from their town. I don't even want to know where you found Vital Mercy, but ya shouldn't have had him come out here!” The two young ponies glanced at each other, while Doc sighed. “You going on 'bout the magick spouts again, Schooner? You and your brother Cooper seem ta think that magick just sprouts from the ground, and we unicorn doctors tap into 'em somehow. Bunch'a crazy bootlicks, that be what ye are.” Doc turned, slipping away into the drifting sand, letting Grey, his filly friend, and my old, groaning self stay behind. “Don' mind him, he's still a bit salty 'round the edges.” I chuckled as I walked – well, limped would be the proper term. Three legs and all makes for a poor walking speed. Sniffing around in the sand, I smiled as I found what I was looking for. Grabbing the edge of a ratty old tarp with my teeth, I yanked up and backwards, tossing the offending plastic fabric into the arriving wind, smiling at what it was covering. “Misty, come over here! Schooner, what... what is this?” I smiled as I ran my stump over the name etched into the hull. Catamaran-esque protrusions pushed out from either side, a single sail folded up on top. With a grunt, I gripped the rope hanging off the side, hauling myself up. “This, young ones, is Project Homeward. For the less-learned out there, well... You'll see soon enough. Grey, hoist that mast up, wouldya?” Grey set about the task I set before him while I sat on the deck of the Homeward, smiling as the two youngsters were about to get the ride of their lives. “Once again, Schooner, what is this?” “This, my young friend...” I trailed off as I stared out into the distance, a smile crossing my face. Their questions faded into the background as my body rehearsed motions practiced over many weeks, tying down rigging, prepping my special wheel for control, and chuckling as Misty and Grey watched me intently. The Homeward. I could still remember the sand in my mane, the wind in my face, and the stinging of the hot sun in the Bonelands. Every single grain burned as the vessel began to move, the wind catching the sail as I hauled up the rigging, turning the Homeward around. Grey's eyes widened as a realization dawned on him. “It's a sand boat!” “Actually, you could call it a sand skiff. Took some old designs, mashed 'em together, and Project Homeward was born. Feel that sand flying through the air? Before the war that ended everything, you could see these speeding across the ocean, near the edge of land, of course, but...” I trailed off once more, thinking about the sea, the ocean, and a simple dream. Grey held Misty down as the skiff bounced, leaping off a small sand dune to land atop another one. With a hoot and a holler, I laughed as they cowered in fear, the Homeward responding to every single twitch of my hoof. Grey finally got the gumption to stand up and walk slowly over to me, his eyes watching every muscle twitch as I played the boat like a beautifully tuned instrument. “So, what can you tell me about the actual Bonelands? No pony in the Wasteland seems to want to talk about it!” I sighed, tying the reins of the boat to the wheel “Grey, no pony wants to talk about it because no pony wants to come here. Yer the first new ponies in ten years. Granted, that'll have every raider and merc hot on yer flanks, but you got off easy, findin' me.” I laughed again, watching the sand drift and churn, as if I was on the sea herself. “But why is that?” “The balefire radiation that surrounds this Celestia-forsaken desert! The entire edge is so hot, that if you don't find a way through that ain't bathed in radiation, you'll boil into nothing!” I laughed again, stopping when Grey continued his questions. “Why don't you go near the edge?” I let my hoof off the wheel, staring at him with everything I could muster. “That's a question you just don't ask. Everypony in the Bonelands has lost someone to the Rad Wastes. We don't go there because there's nothing on the other side. Just 'nother wasteland.” I grabbed the reins once more, watching Misty cower down more as Grey shrugged, returning to her side. I could not bring myself to blame them. Considering how they huddled together, I surmised that they had lost parents, most likely to the Rad Wastes themselves. Of course, at that point, I could never have been certain. Looking over at them again, I noticed they had fallen asleep, their snores barely an audible whisper above the rushing wind pulling the skiff faster and faster as I pulled the reins tighter. “I guess you envy them, don't ya, Schooner? Their ability ta sleep when the world's gone ta shit. Wish I could sleep like that.” I looked to my side, seeing the almost transparent form of my brother, Cooper, standing next to them. With a smile, I turned to him, chuckling as he looked at me, his face waving in and out with the sand on the wind. “I do, Cooper. Just like I miss me sailin'. Just like ya used ta miss your barrel-making. Just like we used ta miss each other when we'd be apart.” With that, the sand dissipated, my brother's outline disappearing as I turned to the Bonelands, watching as the shapes of other ponies galloped beside the Homeward, their ethereal sand-forms denoting every pony or zebra I had ever met, and watched die in front of my eyes. With a tear escaping my eye, I shook my head, dispelling the images as I tugged the rope one last time, bringing the distant shape of Scrapyard Junction into view, the gleaming chrome of the sand-blasted wall of old steel and heavy iron visible for a fair distance. “Don't forget where you come from, Schooner, and where those young ones come from.” The wind began to die down, the sails growing slack as the skiff stopped at the edge of an uncovered camp. There was the other part of the Bonelands. From time to time, 'settlers' from the major settlements would set out to find a new place to call home, or to attempt a foolhardy walk over the Rad Wastes. That camp was one of the many I had come across before, the skeletons a clear reminder of why the Bonelands were to be respected, and not seen as evil, or it would come for you. Tying the reins down, and loosing the sails off their moorings, I hopped down, making sure I dragged the line across the sails so they would not flutter off in any sudden winds. I stopped, however, when I saw the very nature of those tents. Anger boiled up inside as the symbol revealed itself, the very essence of the enemy I stared upon bringing the pain back to my stump leg. All five of the tents in the camp bore the accursed symbol of the Grand Pegasus Enclave, the government that had been defeated by the will of the Bonelands itself. There was one problem with the bodies that littered the ground. The corpses were Raiders, evidenced by their cobbled clothing, but they carried no weapons, had no tools. I stared up at the sky, watching for any shapes before I began to pull the tents down, covering up the dead ponies with sand, two questions repeating in my mind. Why had the Enclave returned, and who were they after?