[EDIT: Looking for a cover image for the story.]
[EDIT2: Story can be found here.]

It amazes me that no one else has done this yet. (The following has been stolen and modified from the Twilestia Group[1])

What the title says. Here are the rules:
Someone starts off by posting a 100-500 word[2] mini-fic about Fo:E. At the end will be a one word prompt. If you would like to write a 100-500 word Fo:E mini-fic relating to that prompt within the next four hours, comment right away to claim that prompt. Post the story when you finish, and add a one word prompt at the end for the next people to claim.
Simple enough?
Just to make sure everything is clear:
* The mini-fic can be in any style, any tag, AU, humanized, whatever. It's not expected to be preread or proofread, and if you've never written before that's just fine. Just try to keep it rated teen or lower and make sure it's 100-500 words of fiction about Fo:E and it relates somehow to the prompt you claimed.
[EDIT: Mature will be accepted, but try to keep away anything that would require the Sex tag.]
* Claim prompts with a quick post responding to the last post. Just the word "claimed" is fine. When you finish, make a post with the mini-fic and the next prompt.
* Your claim is valid for twenty-four hours, to keep someone from accidentally holding things up all day. After four hours, another person could post a claim for the same prompt. If you ran out of time, and no one else has claimed it, and you still want to write it, just go ahead and reclaim it.
* In the event that people become confused, and two fics are posted for the same prompt, the first one posted contains the official next prompt.
* Please include a one word prompt at the end of your fic. There are lots of words, and they can mean lots of things, and it's up to the next writer what they want to do with it.

If you'd like to play, I'll make the first prompt. After we have about ten(or so) prompts completed then I (Honey Mead) will put it into a story and we'll just update that as we play on this forum.
Here's the first prompt, whoever is up for it.

First Prompt: Lights

[1] Who stole it from the TwiLuna Group, who stole it from the AppleDash Group)
[2] Not a hard and fast number. It can be as short or as long as you need.

This have my personal Overstallion seal of approval

3266151
I ain't gunna try and run one again, but I'd gladly assist in one. Count me in!

3266433
The advantage with this will hopefully be quick turn-over rates. It doesn't take much to pound out 100 words when a bare hint of inspiration strikes. We just need to get the ball rolling.

3266494
True nuff, also tomorrow or Sunday, it'll finally be up.

3268210
You've pretty much got it. I'm not going to be running editor/pre-reader for every post (I don't have the time). If you want to clean it up before we get to the 1k word mark, just let me know and I'll make sure to post the cleaned up version. As for the next prompt, post it at the bottom like I did
(Prompt: insert prompt here)

I walked towards the fallen body of the bandit. Her breath was still being drawn, moving her chest. Just barely though. It mattered not. For in the end, I was supreme.

A quick shot was all it took. Her torment ended and she was left to rot. Quickly bending down, I grabbed the gun that had caused the skirmish to escalate to the point of death. It was perfect. Amazing. Absolutely stunning.

I smiled a bit as I put the silver colored weapon within my saddle bags. I wouldn't fire it, of course. That would be a waste. No, I'd just hold onto it. Perhaps sell it off for some outlandish price. It didn't matter. I was supreme.

I ran off back towards my awaiting caravan. They'd all probably been worried sick, while I was mentally kicking them all for staying put this long. The Equestrian Wasteland was no place to stand still, dammit.

"Nice little firefight you got into up there," a light yellow colored earth pony said to me with a slight frown, "Was it worth all that? You could've've let her live, you know."

Ahh. But he didn't know. None of them did. And that made it even better. I was the only one who knew this weapon even existed. This beautiful weapon from the sky. I had never seen anything like it.

"No, I suppose. I just shot without thinking and by the time I realized what I was doing I had her to a point where killing her was a mercy. And isn't that what DJ-Pon3 is always going on about? Mercy?"

He seemed to stop and consider that for a moment, then went back to his job of watching the road behind us. He didn't see me kill of the others with my throwing knives, and he definitely didn't feel me killing him. "You knew, Dandy. Don't ask me how but you knew. All of you knew and this was the consequence. Now I'm the only one," I whispered to his freshly made corpse. None of them knew anymore. They knew nothing.

And so begin my slow spiral into a world of inner peace. It is surprisingly therapeutic to kill somepony because of what they know. It isn't murder. Nor is is it self defense. It's just killing. Plain and simple. And I loved it.

Not sure if that's any good or not. Was written on my phone at 1:35 AM without any proofreading.

(Prompt: Honey)

3271555
That was surprisingly good. A nice quick decent into insanity.

Imma go ahead and take Honey

Prompt: Honey

I’m good at hiding. It’s not my special talent or anything, just something I can do really well. Mother, and everypony else I guess, has always hated it, but I figure they’re just jealous. My special talent is actually ventriloquism. My voice can run around a room all by itself.

They’ve both been really helpful lately.

I think I smell pretty bad, but after awhile you stop noticing, you know? It’s been so long since I took a shower that my sweat has carved rivers from my mane down to my hooves. Truthfully, I don’t mind most of the time, except like now, when it’s running between my eyes. I have to hold my head up or it will splash on the floor.

My breath has finally started to slow down along with my heart. Those last fifteen minutes were really tense. It’s a good thing I found this closet.

A growl of protest comes from my stomach, reminding me why I’m here in the first place.

I press my ear to the steel door and listen. The coast is clear, or it should be. I decide to wait a few more minutes to be on the safe side. Another loud growl makes me re-consider. If she’s out there, she’d have heard that.

Slowly, oh so carefully, I open the door and peek.

The hallway is empty… of life. White fluorescent lights buzz and flicker in the ceiling. There’s nowhere to hide out there, and I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. The hollow in my stomach makes it moot.

I close my eyes for a moment. I imagine the hallway the way I remember it. It helps a little. Then I step into the first puddle. It’s not really a puddle anymore, too dry, but it is sticky and disgusting. There’s no way around it, though, and jumping is right out. Trying not to breath doesn’t really help with the smell, but I do it anyways.

“Honey!” I freeze, my throat squeezing so tight that a scream suffocates and dies inside. “You’re in big trouble missy! I’ve been looking all over for you—”

I take off, galloping as fast as my hooves will carry me. Five paces. I make it five paces before tripping over a leg. My chin hits the floor and I slide through a stain, the dried blood barely noticeable against my once golden coat. I taste copper.

Before I can recover, she’s on top of me, a hoof pressed into the small of my back. “That’s a naughty girl! Running away from momma like that.”

I try to scream but only manage to garble as my bit tongue gushes inside my mouth. I start crying. I don’t know what else to do.

“Don’t give me those alligator tears, Honey! You have to face your punishment like a big girl.”

The knife presses into the top of my muzzle. It’s shiny, like a polished mirror. I can see the leg I tripped over reflected in it. There is a moment there where I wonder where the rest of him is, but it doesn’t last long.

“Momma’s very disappointed in you, Honey.”

The blade shifts.

I manage to scream this time.

Next Prompt: Crater

3272267 That was taken in the exact opposite direction I intended that word to be used in. But not really surprising, considering what the group we're in is about.

I'm just going to go ahead a drop a few more prompts to give y'all some options

Open Prompts:
Crater
Sweet tooth
Oh no, not again
Turnabout
Tongue tied

3274764

I'll take Crater for twenty bits!

Prompt: Crater

Slowly, slowly I lift my hooves over the window sill. Slower still, I pull myself up until my eyes can just barely peek through the triple-reinforced glass. Just as we were told, just like the radio said. The lights, the fire, the death.
The bombs.
I watch in horrified fascination as the lights fade into dust and that dust forms a giant mushroom. I can’t hear the panic behind me, but I know that it’s happening. Ponies banging on doors, on glass, flipping beds. Let us out! Let us out!
I don’t hear them, I just watch. I watch as something glints in the sky. Watch as it grows bigger. Watch as it falls right outside my window. Light, noise, pain, thump, everything glows and everything hurts…
…
Slowly, slowly I lift my hooves over the window sill. Slower still, I pull myself up until my eyes can just barely peek through the triple-reinforced glass. Just as we were told, just like the radio said. The lights, the fire, the death.
The bombs…
*****
“It’s not hostile…” I say, watching the ghoul pull itself over the lip, only to fall again.
“Not yet.” My partner says, aiming his rifle.
I watch the cycle repeat, my rad suit insulating me from the poisonous green goop all around us. Crawl up, gaps at something, fall back down. “What do you think its problem is?”
“Don’t know.” Blam! The ghoul’s head explodes. “Don’t care.”
We watch the body slide down one last time, settling in the remains of a prison cell. “How long had it been doing that?” I asked. “Since the bombs fell?”
“Don’t know.”
I look up and through the tinted glass I can see dozens of other ghouls milling about the bowels of the crater that was once a maximum security prison. As we descended into the crater, I noted the number on the ghoul’s cell door, 205.
*****
My hooves tap away at the keyboard, backing out of the system several times as my bulky suit hits incorrect keys. Eventually, I get the system open and a prisoner log appears on the screen. I sigh and turn to my partner who is watching the door for more ghouls. “It’s not here either, let’s move on.” He nods and starts to leave the room, but something catches my eye as I step away from the terminal.
“Wait up.” I call back, selecting the entry that sparked my interest, “Cell 205”.
I scan the entry. The data is corrupted with age to the point that even the pony’s name is gone, but I get the gist of it.
“What is it?” He asks.
“It’s an entry on that ghoul from the lip.” I say. “Apparently he was locked up for protesting the war, but they ignored the fact that the evidence never said he was involved in the riot that he was arrested at.” I rub my chin, though I can’t really feel it through the rubber suit. “Didn’t you mention something about your brother…?”
I don’t finish my question as the screen explodes. I scream and leap back from my partner, pointing his gun at the destroyed screen. The long silence is broken only by the hissing machinery before he says “Let’s go”. Without waiting to see if I’ll follow, my ghoul partner turns and ventures back into the crater.

Next prompt: Live

3275815
Nice.

I'll snag "Live" if no one else has grabbed it

ninja edit: Damn this is a cool idea

3266151
Do me a favor, when the prompt is anything on this list, Steal, Flower Pot, Chainsaw, Drunk, Moronic. Call me, there's something I've been wanting to do for a while.

Basically anything I could relate back to that, and I'll get to work.

3285914
At this point, feel free to just add a prompt, you won't be hurting my feelings.

3285933
Well then I'll get to work on that later in the day.

If no one else posts anything, I just thought of something that might work for Live

3292547
You are welcome to take the prompt since Duelist925 haven´t written anything yet

3292547
You're good. Duelist 925 ran out of time so the prompt went back onto the stack.

Prompt: Live

I was alive for the first time in months. I'd been a trader back then. Then one of the guards had found a landmine with her hoof, and I was unlucky enough to be standing next to her. I'd woken up, my body shattered, with an explosive metal yoke about my neck. And you couldn't call that 'living', anymore than you could call that zombified thing holding my radio-leash 'alive'.
Since then he'd continued to prey upon caravans, and it'd used my carcass to help him. Occasionally another victim would survive, and wake up to the same fate. Most refused to prey upon their former companions. They were sold or killed, whichever made the most profit for the ghoul. But with every sundered caravan, I secreted away a few caps. From every slain guard, I pocketed a few junk rounds that wouldn't be missed. Slowly but safely I gained enough currency worked to buy my life back.
The riskiest part was just making the purchase. The ghoul had grown to trust me, and used me to carry his stuff to markets. It didn't trust me enough to let me talk to anypony though, so I had to set up the purchase through slipped notes and dead drops. If the ghouls saw me, he would've killed me. If the I couldn't find a buyer, or was scammed, I would remain dead. But somehow things worked out. I left a bag of caps, ammo, and trinkets in a particularly sharp tangle of rebar and scrap, and when we returned I found it replaced by a fragile looking device made of wonderglue, wires, and scuffed up gems. It's blinking light turned solid as I picked it up. Apparently, the device would scan for the frequency of my collar and overwhelm it with an “all-clear” signal, rendering the ghouls detonator harmless. Now I just had to wait until we were out of public.
As we back to camp to the ghouls camp, where the other slaves were kept, I kept a lookout for possible weapons and witnesses. The best seemed to be a vacant area and a large, long dead branch. So I picked it up.
“Put that down” the ghoul growled.
“Muck ou” I spat out around the tree branch, as I slowly walked towards him. That seemed to surprise the ghoul for a moment.
“I thought you cared more about your life than that” the ghoul threatened in faux concern. He then made a show of taking out the detonator. I could've killed it right there, and let my device replace its short-range stay-close-to-master signal. Heck, with this device, I could've just walked away when it turned its back. But I wanted to see its reaction when it realized I'd cut it's strings. To enjoy it's terror when it realized I was alive again, and it was about to die. So I revealed my device, and glared at him in smug satisfaction.
“What is that, a flashlight?” It asked in annoyed confusion. Then I saw comprehension dawn.
“Ah fuck, you think you got some magic radio that'll save you?” That was my cue, I began to stalk towards it again. “Well it won't. You still got two choices. Live”, it ranted out, as it cowered back from me. Then it shook the detonator, continuing “or Die. You are worth more to me alive! You wanna die?!”
“My choss WIV” I shouted swinging my head back to strike.
BOOM!

Next Prompt: Drunk

3294358
Alright, I'll bite. Drunk it is.

Prompt: Drunk

Tunnel Vision mounted the final flight of stairs, counting steps by their echoes, muttering a different name for each. Veiled panic—or was it something else? He felt himself shaking. Thoughts raced, melted into nonsense, drained back into a neat reality. Fragile like his head. He asked himself if he would forget, but the only answer was a hoof searching for a step that wasn’t there. Stumbling a bit, he knew he wouldn’t. Like a firebrand for the mind, mnemonics drawn in blood. He drew his rifle, mounted it on an upturned desk. One bottle cap sized target, bright in the darkness of the city.
One more name to remember.
He could see him. His features were crystal through the magnification of his scope, from the grime that edged his mouth to the grease that smeared his coat. Dirty like the worm he is, like he deserves to be. All the soap in Equestria couldn’t make him clean. All the suits in the world couldn’t stop him from looking like a rat out of the garbage. Tunnel Vision could feel his blood boiling beneath his skin.
But he didn’t shoot.
Chill out, T.V.
Laughter. A ghost trapped in his mind. He shook his head. He couldn’t remember her smile, but her voice haunted him.
And whose fault was that? He gritted his teeth.
Pinstripe, you worthless piece of shit.
Dark, dark as the Wasteland. And they had thought they found a fire to light it. This city was supposed to be a beacon. And it was, until one pony snuffed that fire out to split profit with the devil. Raiders, Fiends, Slavers. Even the Great Fawns of the north, who never would’ve come had Pinstripe not given them the city on a silver platter. Now everypony was dead or gone.
Boxer. Matchstick. Flinch.
Click. He chambered a new round.
Jackal. Tailwind. Wanderlust.
Marigold.
His friends, his family. His love. Their corpses were rotting in the streets below now, their flesh stuck in the blackened teeth of raiders, their wills bound by the cold steel of Slaver collars. And for what?
For what, Pinstripe? For what?
A mountain of caps you couldn’t hope to spend? Control of a city now more worthless than the dust of this irradiated Equestria?
It’d been 10 long minutes since he first scoped onto him, but Pinstripe had hardly moved an inch. His horn glowed a brilliant orange, and a wheel of glasses bobbed in the air around him like fish lures in a sea of darkness. One long gulp, he downed one of the drinks like second nature. The glass flew across the room to some dark corner, and the wheel of liquor spun. Drinking while poison floods the veins of your city. A drunk, in metaphor and in life.
Tunnel Vision hated him. But he hated himself too. Hated himself for trying. Hated himself for wanting to believe that the Wasteland could be saved. Hated himself for trusting Pinstripe.
He should never have come to this city. He would never have met them, the ponies he had spent every day of the last ten years with, the ponies that he loved with all his life, but they’d still all be alive. She’d still be alive.
Tunnel Vision lined up his crosshair. He stopped. Pinstripe was crying. His eyes were wet, red-rimmed. His body shook with tremors. There was something in his hooves—a picture. That first day they had found an old camera. It was as grim and gray a day as any other, but they were all smiling. Pinstripe. Marigold. And himself.
That’s right. He remembered. Even Pinstripe was his friend once. And even Pinstripe had lost something from all that’s happened. He had sold the city. But the city was his too, and maybe he loved it more than anypony else. Pinstripe’s horn glowed brighter as he poured himself one last drink, the only light in the darkness of the city. Tunnel Vision pulled the trigger.
One more name to remember.

Right, I tried to write this without using actual names since it's so short and all (yet a good bit more than 500 words, whoops ), but it felt weird saying "the sniper" and blah blah blah

Next prompt: Caravan

3303286
Don't fret about the length, that's just a guideline

3303286
Love your style, man. Please do us a favor and write more often.

3306822
Thanks. But after so long I'm still trying to get into the habit of writing regularly (doesn't feel good to have so little to show for all the time that's passed ).

Caravan

I found everything I was looking for, and everything I feared.

It was the smell that led me to them, that stomach churning, noxious mixture of ash, cooking meat, and burnt hair. I nearly retched from that stench a long mile away. Nothing I did could cover it up, seared as it was on my memory.

Inside a half-mile, I spotted the first curls of smoke as they dissipated into the air. Ten? Fifteen? I couldn’t count for the watering of my eyes. Those thin tendrils wafted, almost dancing, over the charred remains. Black corkscrews, like temporary tombstones, that marked where they’d fallen.

By the time I reached them, there was nothing left in my stomach, and only the sour tinge of vomit on my tongue.

Stumbling, I fell against the still smoldering wreckage.

I heard them coming back, their whoops and hollers echoing between the hills, but I couldn’t make myself care.

New Prompt: One Last Round
(You guys know you can participate more than once, right?)

3403719 claim: "one last round"

3403719
One Last Round:

He had no idea my crosshairs were dancing on him as he slowly crept out of his hole. He had been hiding in an old-as-dirt mineshaft for three days. And you can bet I had been waiting for him, dusk to dawn. I could tell by the relieved look on his face that he thought I was gone--he was sorely wrong; I was a revenant. He was good, but now I had his number. He had all but asked for this.

I remember what my sister would always say, and apparently she got it from our mother. She would say; "Krrigié artt enn arivi tecríe alieas" Which meant, "live free and fly hard, or die trying" She said it came from our forgotten bloodline or something.

Now, I'm no Pegasus, but I guess a little filly takes things like that to heart right quick. And that's just what I was doing. I could be 'home', but instead I'm on this unholy quest. I hope my sis would be proud of me. I was her henchmare. He had taken her from me, and now I was going to tell him how I felt about that.

I blinked my sleep deprived eyes and steadied my breath.The sand had blown almost completely over me. Two weeks I had been stalking my prey, three of those days I've been waiting here, and now here he was, standing before me. He stood there on shaking legs, obviously as sleep deprived as I. He slowly looked around at the hellscape before him. I gently eased all the slack off my trigger, then pulled it that last millimeter.

A dull roar overtook my hearing, and my vision blurred as my scope slammed into my muzzle. I rolled onto my side, holding my hooves to my face. I looked back at my rifle. The whole bolt had been blown open with the barrel ripped entirely from the receiver from the force of the discharge.

And thus my luck reins eternal, but that was inconsequential, I wasn't turning back now.

"Oh--it's going to be one of 'those' days," I said to myself, wiping my muzzle with my forehoof.

I levitated up the scope, which was smeared with my blood but relatively undamaged. He was gone; fled back into his hole like the animal he is. Guess I'm going down the rabbit hole.

I dropped the scope next to the useless rifle that had exploded in my face. I took off my saddlebags and bandolier for my rifle and dropped them in the sand.

I levitated my sisters pistol out of my bag. I pulled the slide back, the empty magazine locking it in place. I ripped the bullet from my necklace, and slid it into the open chamber.

I looked up at the sun that I had gotten to know very well these last two weeks, tears streaming down my cheeks from my recent injury--mostly. It does seem like a good day to die, time to seize it. He should have known not to mess with somepony who has nothing left, especially when you took what she did.

One last round; Thirteen millimeters of lead...and it just so happened to have his name on it.

This is for her, you bastard.

Hope I did that right; I wrote this on my phone after a 6 hour airsoft match, so excuse the everything I may have messed up.

Next prompt: Forget

3404405 , I shall claim "Forget"... if that's alright.

Prompt: Forget

What am I supposed to do again? I tend to forget these things easily. Where in the world am I? What am I doing here? Something important needs to happen and it starts with this blade.

Who am I? What is my name? From where did I come? To where am I going? It’s so hard to remember. Vaguely I hear the voice of another. It speaks of a bullet stuck in my head. It missed my vital brain matter by that much. What nonsense is this voice speaking?

The blade sits just to the left of my damp mattress. It needs to go somewhere. I think I need to take it. But to where does it need to go? I forget.

A stranger wanders in. Her eyes look weary yet stricken with desire. I can’t stand to look at them. I pull a tiny switch. I pick up a similarly small piece of metal and replace the one that went flying. I hear a short scream that leads to silence. At least I no longer see the eyes.

The voice tells me that I have done this before. But, I don’t remember doing anything like this before. Surely it knows not what it talks about.

What am I supposed to do again? I tend to forget these things easily.

Next prompt choices: Not again
Objective
Rock-a-bye
(You said we could do more than one prompt. Perhaps I misinterpreted what you meant.)

3404405
That was pretty awesome, actually. Good work.

3404738
A little bit. I more meant that you can write more than one prompt. But don't worry about it too much, having extra prompts lying around isn't a bad thing.

3404859 thank you. I'm new(ish) to writing, and don't do it much, but when I do I try my best. I figured this would help me get into it more.

3268210 3273886 3277839 3294358 3303286 3404405 3404738 3275815
3285963 3266416
As this is a group project, it necessitates a certain amount of continued participation from you guys. In that vein of thought, here are five simple ways you can help keep things going.

1) Favorite the story itself [Link]
2) Check back here regularly,
3) Read the stories here, and...
4) Give the ones you like a thumbs up right here, and/or comment with praise or criticism as you deem necessary.
5) Write another prompt.

3405784 , I'm half-tempted to claim my own "next prompt", but I think that defeats the purpose of a group collaboration such as this.

3405854
Just a little
Still, here's a list of all the open prompts...
Sweet tooth
Turnabout
Tongue tied
Not again
Objective
Rock-a-bye

3405891 , In that case, I claim "Turnabout".

Prompt: Turnabout

It was one of the most peculiar situations he had ever faced. That was saying something considering the fact that he was fighting a bunch of spore-grown pony-shaped monsters last week. The week before that, he was severing heads for oddly specific bounties. Three weeks ago, he was having a conversation with his own brain. Every time he thought it couldn’t get any weirder, the wastelands decided to throw one more slider.

He was being walked into an open courtroom already filled with various angry folks. But that wasn’t the weirdest part. The peculiarity of the occupants was that no one was trying to kill each other, at least not with visible weaponry. In fact, the most threatening thing that permeated the atmosphere was the number of angry stares and the choice of words being exchanged between those of opposing opinions.

The fellow was shoved into a stand that was falling apart while some pony not much older than he was stepped into the other stand. Both he and the stranger turned when they heard a loud whapping noise. It turned out to be a piece of cinderblock being slammed by a mutant.

He heard that court was in session. He was baffled by the statement. Since when did ponies hold court? Usually sentences were carried out by who was quicker to the trigger and who survived explosions next to their eardrums.

The receiver in his ear sent his client’s voice to him. The orders were crystal clear: Defend or die. Against his better judgment, he declared himself as the defense and ready.

---

Through orders, he fired at the judge’s hoof just before a guilty verdict could be declared. The witnesses fired upon the plaintiff as well as the rest of the jury. Ah, now this was more familiar to him. Questioning and objecting wasn’t really his style.

The only turnabout he cared for was returning grenades to their senders.

Next prompt: Slots

3406025
Ha! This needs to be a mod.

3405891 , Ah, what the heck? I'll claim "Sweet tooth".

Prompt: Sweet tooth

You’re all alone and you wonder why. You can’t shake this strong feeling that death is quickly approaching you. Using the various corners of the building, you hide from the motion-sensitive cameras. In light of these circumstances, you refuse to release any liquid from your eye ducts. After all, you feel pretty sure that the promise of a baked reward was falsified information.

Whoever it was that placed you in this sterilized facility had the foresight to take away most of your weaponry. It seems that you’re more of a threat to the scum of this world than you could even imagine. The only “gun” that one of the rooms gave you was a space-bending device that rips holes in reality. The catch is that you can only have two holes open at once and they must be ripped in flat surfaces such as the walls and floors. Additionally, they don’t seem to work on all the surfaces in these hallways.

Eventually you pass enough of the “testing” phase to satisfy the mechanical voice overhead. You see the robotic pony waving at you and smiling as the moving platform carries you over an oven-heated area that is stated to be over 4000 Kelvin. Of course, you’re having none of that and rip two holes in reality just in time to escape dehydration of the extreme variety.

It seems that the android wasn’t as smart as you originally assumed. All of your gear is in the box on the floor that you just propelled yourself to. You pull out your favorite gun before delivering a few well-placed bucks into the cyborg's joints. It seems to shiver on the floor, which begs the question of whether a robot such as this can experience fear.

“But… there was going to be… cake,” murmurs the android.

You briefly pause, not out of mercy but out of pity. You click your weapon.

“I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,” you admit before pulling the trigger.

Next prompt: Fixation

3406543

dehydration of the extreme variety

is my new favorite line.

3406025 3405784

Prompt: Slots.

I walk around the fallen metal letter partially blocking the entrance and head inside what was once the Sands of Time Casino. The receptionist’s desk at the front had been smashed long ago by a statue that is now rubble from many gun-toting fools. A look to the right reveals the rows of toppled slot machines with debris from the floor above piled atop them. Diffuse yellow light illuminates the room from the daylight filtering in through dirt covered windows. Checking my Pipbuck’s map, I can see that my destination is not far away. In fact, it was within sight if I am able to measure the distance on the screen correctly.

I set the leg down and begin my trek towards the machine. It stands out among the others in that it is still standing, and running, The neon green glow of the neon lights around the three dials is like a massive beacon in the room. As I approach the machine, I stare at the slightly charred front and its shattered red light atop it. The game is simply called ‘Sunrise Surprise’. Each of the three dials has a picture of a full sun on it, above and below are other things including Princess Celestia’s face. Below the dials is what appears to be a drawer that I cannot open. Above the dials is the payouts, three winged suns is the jackpot while three full suns is the next highest payout of times fifty.

Rooting through my bags, my hoof hits the old pre-war bits I was given. The machine easily takes five of them. I cringe as they clink to the bottom almost too loudly. However, the job board wanted the jackpot, which is supposed to be something grand. My hoof grabs hold of the old dusty lever and I yank down on it. The machine responds with a loud clank and a loud bell as the slot machine’s dials begin spinning until they become a blur. They whirl around as the bell dings on each revolution, causing it to constantly ring out.

I sigh deeply and wonder why the old farm pony only gave me five bits, which was enough for one pull of the lever. Perhaps he expected me to win more from it, or perhaps he assumed I had more. He didn’t seem at all there.being that he was a ghoul. The first dial slams into position on a winged sun, causing me to tilt my head and break my thoughts. I glance up at the payout and see that a winged sun and any combo pays out twice what you put in. The second dial slams into position with a ding, drawing my attention to it and I see it is also a winged sun. I feel my lips curling into a small smirk as I watch the last dial in the hope that my luck holds.

It slams down with a ding and the machine says, “you’re a winner!” the bell begins dinging like crazy as the light above tries to flash, but only succeeds in sparking wildly. The drawer pops open and a red banded metal apple jumps out. My gaze follows it, my eyes widening when I see that the stem to grenade was missing.

“Oh, buck,” I mutter.

Next Prompt: Zebra

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(Double posted on accident)
Prompt: Zebra

I think I went over the max words ... i'll try to cut this down, now that i have it posted. Sorry, when I saw this prompt, I jumped on it. This is intended to be an untold part of the FO:E sidefic I'm writing involving one of my main OC's, so in my excitement, I forgot about the max. Edit: I can't really cut this down too much without it losing its rhetorical effect ... so feel free to disregard this post.

]They came in the night, searching for the one who had taken the lives of their own. If they could not find the murderer, they would find blood.
And they did.
Masika slogged through the snow, tears freezing along her cheeks as her village burned behind her. Her entire village, slaughtered … butchered like animals. By ponies. The zebra mare turned her head over her shoulder as the snowfall began to thicken, and she watched, with contracted, glistening pupils, as the inferno that burned over her village consumed every corpse, every hovel, every memory of her life until there was nothing left.
Nothing left. Her family, her friends, her neighbors. Dead.
All because they needed firewood.
Winter had come, and it, like the last nineteen years of her life, brought not a warm hearth and gifts like it may have two hundred years ago, but death and darkness. It had only been three weeks into the winter and her village had lost many a zebra to the frost.
In the forest that her kind had been forced to reside in, there were many trees – but of them, very few could actually burn. It was difficult igniting a log that had been charred to a blackened husk. Without fuel, there could be no fire.
Without fire, there could be no warmth. And her village would continue to die.
Like many scarce resources, it was fought over. Killed for. Just like in the war her ancestors had fought with the ponies. The past had repeated itself, and now everyone was dead. Her father, Baako, had told her, the night before, that ponies never changed, that for them, the war had never ended. That war never changes. He had told her to not leave the village, lest she lose herself in pony territory.
She knew not of the world outside her village. But she did know that there were not enough zebras, not enough ponies left to afford bloodshed. The war had ended two hundred years ago, and she had hoped ... she had hoped that it had ended for them too.
She was tired of freezing in the snow.
Despite her efforts, she was still freezing in the snow, but now, without a home to return to. She was the only one left, spared from the slaughter by sheer chance. If only they had listened … if only her father had listened … if only he had let her turn herself in. This never would've happened.
She had killed them. A stallion and his two colts.
Her village had not had firewood in nearly three days. Since winter came, there were not enough stallions to work outside. One would bear the responsibility of two, or three, or four as more of her kin perished to the cold bite of the Northern Wasteland’s frozen wind.
In the darkest hours of the night, defying her father’s whims and the roles of zebra society, she had ventured off into the forest to ease the burdens upon the shoulders of her village's weary stallions, in search of firewood to enkindle her family’s cold hearth. She had hoped the ponies would understand her village’s suffering. That they would be charitable souls who pitied the zebras who froze and died in the forest while they lived within their metal shelters in the pony settlement of Dusktown.
She was wrong.
That night, she had found herself lost. In pony territory. Like territorial beasts, they descended upon her. They would not listen to her pleas for pity, nor pleas of reason – not even when she begged upon her knees. They simply didn't care if two dozen zebras perished in the snow. They simply wouldn't understand the plight of the zebra.
She killed them that night. They would not let her leave with her firewood.
That night, her family warmed their hooves by the fire.
And on this night, her family had burned in the fires that had consumed her town.
All because they needed firewood.
As she plodded away from the inferno she began to understand. Her father was right. War never changes. And neither do ponies. She understood this now. The ponies could never let go of the past; for them, the war had never ended, and old hatreds continued to burn even as the world had burned out.
As she waded through the snow, she found herself lost once more amidst the shifting, ashen tides. In pony territory.
A light shined upon her face, as a wagon approached.
She lifted her hoof to them, clinging to a sliver of hope and denial that the ponies within would take her with them to warmth and safety. She hoped that they were not the same, that their hearts were not blinded by the ancient hatred that burned between their two races.
Again, she was wrong. In the back of the wagon she rode, in chains.
War never changes. And neither do ponies.
Masika knew this well.

Next prompt: Snow

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Word count is more of a suggestion, don't worry about it.

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Yay! It was fun deviating from the usual grind, so I'm really interested in doing this again in the future.