Chapter 1: The Mare With No Name
Fallout Equestria: Once Upon a Time in the Waste
Written and Illustrated By SparkusClark
Chapter One: The Mare with No Name
“You see, in this world there’s two kinds of ponies, my friend… ”
It is night in the desert. The burning heat fades rapidly to a chilling cold. A lone pony lies on the dry, cracked earth; gaunt chest heaving rapidly in ragged, panting breaths. Froth covered lips open and a tongue licks out, searching for moisture that is not there. Chest rises, rises, and falls.
There is no one to mourn but the insect on a nearby rock. Soon that too leaves, flitting its way over the nearby hill and past the pool of water beyond. A coyote looks up from its nighttime drink to grin and snap at it. The bug spirals up into the air to gaze down upon the nighttime activities of the desert folk:
Watch as a valiant pony trots from an abandoned mine shaft. Looking up towards the sky, she shivers in her blue utility barding. There’s a click, and the glow from her PipBuck illuminates the land beyond her, drawing the attention of hungry predators.
Miles away two griffons fight to the death in a flurry of claws and feathers, their voices screeching insults. Their prize, a canteen of water, lays forgotten. Neither notice the opening that leaks the precious fluid.
See here, a place where the dead plants shiver and voices seem to whisper among the sagebrush, though there is no wind to speak of.
Further along two towering figures lumber across the waste. One dragging a battered, unconscious pony by its leg, the other has a corpse thrown over his shoulder. The sound of chewing can be heard.
Well and beyond them, a herd of ghouls attack a small farm, their glowing eyes like so many murderous stars in the night. The inequine screams terrify the family as they cower in their home. The farmer fights alone from the rooftop, his companions already fallen to the jagged teeth and broken hooves below. His shotgun roars in the night and something huge bellows a reply from the back of the herd. The wall of the house splinters and the ghouls pour in through the breech. The farmer weeps as they devour his family. He has one shell left.
Away now, past rundown buildings and forsaken settlements to an abandoned railway running east.
And here fresh blood is splattered across a crumbling road as raiders gallop, giggling, into the night. Pastel horns and hooves, newly harvested, adorn their belts and clack together in furious song. They do not see the glimmering eyes that follow them, slinking catlike from the rocky shadows.
In the town beyond, a pair of buffalo are beating each other in a drunken stupor. Their friends watch in passive silence until the winner vomits on the unconscious loser. The neon lights flicker and die as the bar closes for the night.
And again beyond that a lone protectapony marches through the dusty silence, its tinny voice spouting anti-zebra epitaphs.
Moving again. Flying through the dark. No living soul. Nothing of use. And then…
Voices.
Arguing.
One smooth. One harsh. One which sounds bitter.
See the corpse that lies beyond their lights.
The mare that lays within them.
Her eyes open. She panics. Struggles. No good. They have her hobbled. Gagged.
They.
Griffin. Scarred. Armored. “Ah hell, she’s awake.”
Stallion. Unicorn. Well-fed. “Well, that makes things easier.”
Donkey. Haggard. A blinking collar. “But what if-”
The unicorn cuts him off.
“See, now that she’s awake, it means she’s seen us. Seeing us means she could tell folk who we are.”
No. She would forget them if they asked.
He approaches her. Magic flares. A gun. From his holster.
Beg for mercy!
“So instead of wasting time better spent on moving...”
Yell for help!
“We only need to waste a bullet on her.”
Fight him!
He grins. Cheerful.
Do something!
ANYTHING!
“Sorry, but that's the way it goes, kid.”
Her prayers to Celestia and Luna go unheard.
Welcome to the Waste.
***
My entire body hurt. My back. My legs. My hooves. My head, oh Goddesses my head felt loaded with rocks.
I tried to open my eyes, but instantly regretted it as the world rolled and pitched. I groaned and tried to hold my head but my forelegs felt stuck to my sides. As I struggled to focus, I was vaguely aware of something large moving close by. Just as my vision started to fall into place, a giant, hazel eye filled my world and I gave a startled cry of surprise.
Or tried to. All that came out was a spitty “Glck!?”
“Hey there, little earth pony,” the eyeball rumbled, its deep voice shifting and echoing in my ears like a bad… something, the word escaped me.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Opening them only revealed the same eye, just more clearly.
“Still feel as bad as you look?” the eyeball chuckled.
I made another attempt to speak. “Glck.”
The eyeball bobbed, “Good enough. Let’s sit you up.”
Strong, gentle hooves raised me and I realized I had been wrapped snuggly in a patterned blanket to keep me from moving. Probably for the best.
“Still got all your parts inside you?”
The eye was, thankfully, not a free floating monstrosity, instead it belonged to a dusty-brown buffalo.
Sitting back on his haunches, the buffalo propped me up with one foreleg as he reached for a tin cup. This close I could see the grey streaking his fur, most of it in his beard.
“Drink up,” he rumbled, pressing the cup to my lips.
Cool water poured down my throat. My body trembled as the liquid spread through me.
“Easy now,” his command barely registered as I sucked greedily at the cup.
He was patient, tilting the cup so that I never got more than a sip. When I had finished he put the cup aside and carefully laid me back down. Questions as dry and fragile as moths flitted past the light of my mind. One got too close and burst into flames; my brain struggled to catch the ash as it fell away.
“W-…wh-…” My throat worked but the words slipped away.
“What happened?” the buffalo supplied.
I nodded and winced at the thudding inside my skull.
“Careful,” he smiled kindly. “Don’t want to shake anything loose. That bullet took a good chunk out of your head.”
Raising my eyebrows made my face hurt. No, wait, make that my forehead that hurt with a sharp ache. Even though I winced, the expression proved to be a better means of communication than speaking had been.
“That’s right," he nodded. "You got yourself in some trouble. I don’t know with who. By the time I dragged myself down there, they were already gone.”
The fur on his shoulders barely ruffled as he gave a small shrug.
“I did what I could for your friend, but you were more in need.”
He glanced away from me when he said that last part, his face suddenly dark in the campfire light. The gesture meant something, but the meaning was beyond me just then.
“You need to get more rest tonight, little mare.” He rumbled softly when he spoke. “I’ll change the poultice in the morning.”
I found it strange that he was right. No sooner had he said that then my eyes started to droop. I wasn't even aware of when I drifted off, but when it came, the darkness of sleep engulfed me.
***
Dreams. Wanderings of the mind. Pieces of our daily worries, desires, and fears given image, life, and focus. A small incident can haunt you in the guise of a mortal pony. A being that is both your lover and protector can hold you close; keeping you safe and warm no matter how big you’ve become. An enemy, real or imagined, can exploit all of your many weaknesses and failings. And sometimes…
Sometimes dreams are memories.
***
“How many hooves am I holding up?”
I glanced at the buffalo's outstretched forelegs. When I spoke, my voice sounded gravelly and uninterested.
“One… and a stump.”
He gave a wide, toothless grin at my answer, as though this were his favorite joke. I did not laugh. Though I felt that I should have. It had been kind of funny.
He shrugged his skinny shoulders. “Not everyone likes that one.”
It was the next day, or it felt like it was. The old buffalo had been making sure I ate enough food and drank more than enough water, which was dirty, and the only food he had seemed to be a thin gruel made from the same water. Still, it was something and I was in no mood or position to complain. He also made me eat a spoonful of a green-brown paste made from some kind of ground up plants. The paste, he told me, would help me heal more quickly. It tasted like dirt. He had me propped against the wall of the cave we were in. He told me he wanted to do some tests to see how well I was recovering. He also told me to call him Tiny.
“Follow this one with your eyes.”
Even looming over me I noticed that Tiny was quite thin for a buffalo. Dangerously so. I watched as his intact hoof moved slowly left to right, then up and down before coming close enough to leave me cross eyed.
“Good, good. Alright,” he spoke to himself as he gently untucked the blanket, exposing my chest and ribcage.
I glanced down at myself and found that I was both thin in build and from lack of nourishment. I was surprised to see that my coat was a light tan color. How had I forgotten that?
“Okay, breathe in for a count of seven, hold it, then release.”
I did this several times. Placing the stump against my chest, Tiny tapped my ribcage lightly with his good hoof. Occasionally he’d shift the stump to a new spot and tap again.
Being touched left me with an uneasy feeling. The stump of his hoof didn’t bother me; it was an old wound that had healed over ages ago, the skin forming a soft, calloused pad. Was it that I didn’t like being touched? In which case, why?
Tiny leaned back, “Sounds good to me.”
He gave me an assessing look.
“I want to ask you a few questions. Help figure out if your brain-box is working.”
I gave a careful nod, “Okay.”
“What’s your name?”
“………” I sat there with my mouth hanging open. I tried again, “………”
My mind raced with all I knew; yet the place where my name should be was empty, ragged, as if something had been torn from me. Tiny nodded sympathetically.
“As I thought. I was able to dig out the fragments, but it seems the damage was done.”
“What does that mean?”
“Outside of the hole in your head?” He gave another thin-shouldered shrug. “I’m no medicine-buffalo to tell you for sure.”
My mind finally produced something of use.
“Cutie mark. I mean, my cutie mark. That could tell me my name.”
I labored to remove the blanket that piled around my hindquarters. Tiny, still sitting back on his haunches, made no move to help me. I soon found out why.
I looked up at Tiny then back down at my flank.
Same tan hair as the rest of my coat, a ragged black tail, and nothing else
.
I stared down at myself. I was a full grown mare, who had no idea who she was, and I… I was a blank flank?
Tiny was watching me, gauging my reaction. His voice, when he spoke, was not unkind.
“I know that most ponies earn their cutie mark at a young age. Maybe you just haven't found your special talent.”
This was wrong. I had a cutie mark. I knew I did. I must have one, how else could I have gotten this far in life without a special talent?
I carefully replaced the blanket, trying to think of something else.
“Let’s try a few more questions. See if we can figure out anything else about you.”
It was my turn to shrug. “Why not?”
“Do you remember who shot you?”
The dream from last night hovered in the back of my head. “Some... pony did it because I saw him and his friends.”
“Really? You get a good look at him?”
I gave him what passed for a description of the unicorn, griffon and donkey; I remembered now that the stallion had had a light-grey coat, and that his mane had been a dusty yellow.
Tiny produced another lopsided grin. “Well now you know who to avoid. Any idea why you were out there?”
Again there was the paper fluttering of moth wings in my mind. “I was on my way to… somewhere.”
He made noise deep in his throat. “Hm. Anything about the mare travelling with you?”
Nothing.
“Where did you grow up?”
Another empty spot in my mind.
“Friends? Family?”
Only a rapidly fading sorrow.
“Any idea where we are?”
This little moth of a thought held very still. I frowned, “Unless you dragged me very far we should still be in the San Palomino Desert.”
“My people used to call it the Great Bison Desert; it was all one and the same. Now everybody calls it ‘The Waste.’” He scratched his bearded chin. “You didn’t grow up in a Stable did you?”
There was certainty in my bland voice, “No.”
“Hm. Some enthusiasm. You seemed very sure on those last two.”
He was right. There were more moths now, their fluttering filled my mind. “I remember the desert.”
Why had my voice sounded hollow when I said that? Tiny gazed at me, some thought deep in his eyes.
“Well it’s a start,” he said in a rumbling wheeze. “What do you remember about the desert?”
“Well,” I started slowly, “It’s dangerous if you can’t find food or water; but both can be found if you know where to look. A prickly pear can provide water. A leaf of aloe can sooth burns.” The moths rustled and my words came quicker. “Some places are more difficult. The ground steeped in venoms: one burns the body worse than the sun, cooking from the inside out. The other twists the body, wrenching, tearing, grinding…”
I trailed off feeling a little perplexed. Where had all of that come from?
Tiny looked angry. No, he looked… worried? Why?
He tugged his grey beard in thought. “Your tone is elegiac yet your words poetic when you talk of radiation and taint.”
The moths fled at his words, and would have left me lost and puzzled if not for the one that stayed. ‘Radiation’ and ‘taint,’ I remembered those words now.
“Do you know why they infect our desert?” he asked.
“They… fell from the sky?”
That sounded ridiculous even as I said it. Tiny surprised me by nodding.
“That’s right, the war between your kind and the zebras. Tore our world apart not two hundred years ago.”
There was a susurrus inside my head as the moths returned. “The princesses and their…” the word was elusive, “their hoofmaidens?” That sounded right. “They fought to end the war… to bring peace… and failed.” The papery wings fluttered. “The meg-spills? Mespels? Messells?”
“Megaspells?” Tiny offered.
I nodded, “The megaspells fell and the kingdom of Eq…uestria was destroyed.”
Tiny was watching me again with his large, hazel eyes. Something unrelated to the moths niggled the back of my broken mind.
“Wait, you said you're not a medicine-buffalo?”
For a moment he looked bitter, then a smile spread across his face. He chuckled as he shook his large, shaggy head.
“Looks like your short-term memory is doing well. Nope, that was my great uncle. Taught me a thing or two before he died. Me? I’m a PipBull technician.”
He held up his hoofless foreleg to display the battered metal device clamped to it.
“Pip…Bull?”
“A variation of your kind’s PipBuck.”
Here was uneven ground for me. Tiny politely filled me in. “Basically keeps track of your health, where you are, and anything you’ve got in your pockets. Any buffalo that made it to the Stable was given one of these.”
Something in my mind creaked like old leather. I spoke slowly, hoping the thought would not fade as I tried to look at it. “I know that the Stables were sealed, underground… buildings. But built by ponies for ponies.”
He nodded in amusement. “Not many folk know about the negotiations between ponies and buffalo.”
“Because it was two hundred years ago?” I shifted in the blankets; the wall of reddish-tan stone was pressing against my back.
“That and the fact that the wording was...” Tiny waved his hoof in a vague gesture. “But it did include a promise of aid if attacks were made against us. When the megaspells were created and Stable-Tec broke ground, my ancestors made sure Stable B was built for us.”
“And you’re from this Stable?”
He grew somber, “I was.”
I mulled this over. “Stable…B?”
A shrug. “We always assumed it stood for buffalo. Some of us supposed that Stable A was full of alligators.”
Tiny smiled and again I was bothered by how, even though I felt the humor, I couldn't bring myself to laugh at his jokes. However it was a bother I had felt fading.
“And you left your Stable?”
He became quiet. Slowly, he pulled out a necklace that had been hidden in his thick chest fur. A small figurine dangled from the loop at the end. I peered closer and saw that it was a buffalo, crudely carved from a sun-bleached piece of wood. I felt a familiar flutter and realized that I knew just how rare wood was around here. Tiny held the effigy in his hoof, touching it lightly with his stump. When he spoke, his words sounded distant.
“A white buffalo is the most sacred member of our people, a Teacher.” I could hear the capital letter in his voice. “Entrusted with all of our knowledge, traditions, and history. They were our guides, and our hearts. While they could pass their knowledge to any of us, they could only teach us one path or discipline each. The wisdom they gave helped us find our place in the tribes. The cycle…”
There was a silence as his eyes searched for something. I followed his gaze away from the figurine to the wall of the cave above and beside me. There was nothing except the bare rock. What was he looking at? I turned back as he spoke again.
“…when a new white buffalo is born, the Teacher would pass all of their knowledge to their young counterpart. Once the young bull or cow learned every path, could recall every piece of our history, and became the Teacher themselves; the elder retired from their role. Some stayed with the tribe and lived out their years, while others became hermits out in the desert.”
“It made sense then that the younger, his education complete, would be among the protected.”
I nodded because I felt as though I should. Why was he telling me all of this when what I had wanted was a yes or no?
Tiny started to shake as he continued. “When the megaspells started to fall. Those of our people who were selected went to the Stable and sealed the door. Once inside they continued their lives in their new home. But the cycle…” He took a sharp breath. “We were lost. Two hundred years of the same walls, the same food, the same daily activities so many times traipsed… We lived for no other purpose than to keep living. It felt as though the Stable had saved our lives at the cost of our souls.”
His voice trailed off. I waited for him to continue yet his eyes remained fixed on the wall of the cave. I watched him for what must have been three or four minutes. Since I could still see the rise and fall of his chest, either his story was at an end or he had forgotten to finish it. I wondered what would happen if I spoke.
I gave a throaty “Hey.”
Tiny gave a start and his eyes focused on me as though he was surprised to see me. I wondered if this should worry me, and I noted that he seemed older than when we had first started talking.
“Mm,” he muttered absently. “A new generation came… and then another… yet another white buffalo was not born to us. In time the Teacher died, taking all of his knowledge with him. And so we became… lost.”
I thought about this. “Why not have him teach everything to all three generations?”
I could see his eyes starting to tear up and he gave a sad laugh. “He tried to. Learning something from a Teacher takes time. He kept holding out hope that his successor would be the next birth.”
“After his death, each generation inherited less and less from their parents.” Tiny shook his head, “Just because you can be instructed does not make you an instructor. And then there were the forward-thinkers.” He spat the words out as if they were a curse. “They took it as a sign that the old ways were as dead as he was. They abandoned our traditions and threw themselves into the technology around us.”
I nodded, his situation was starting to come together in my head.
“And you left after his death.”
It felt strange to be able to piece together someone else’s life while my own was still so broken.
Tiny gave another hollow chuckle, “Oh no, his death was well before my time. By the time I was born the old ways were only held onto by a small group.”
“Which you were not a part of,” I guessed.
“My parents were technicians,” he rumbled. “I was raised amongst the casings and wires of PipBulls. Yet I was intrigued by my great uncle and his friends…”
He sighed as he turned the necklace over in his hoof. “I was a charismatic young bull. I was able to persuade enough of us, including my younger cousin, to petition the Overelder to allow us to leave. We felt it certain that if the Teacher had not been born in here, she must have been needed more by those that had been left outside.”
“You said the cycle was broken.”
“We felt convinced that to try was better than to give up. To lose the last of the traditions that had been so much a part of us.” His eyes found me then. “You did not see how empty our lives had become, little mare.”
I nodded because, again, this felt like what I was supposed to do.
“Our group was allowed passage into the unknown on the other side of the Stable door. Some of us were elders, most were young bulls and cows.”
There was an expression on his face that I could not read. When he spoke, his words were full of contempt and regret.
“As I said, I had a way with words. I had helped sway them back to our beliefs. Together we were full of conviction, knowing that we would return our people’s saviors. We basked in the powerful glow of our virtuous hope.”
I glanced around the cave, at his meager possessions and scant supplies. “What happened?”
“The Wasteland crushes hope.”
Again his eyes gazed deeply at the stone next to my head. I wondered if I would have to bring his attention back when he looked at me, blinked several times, and his smile returned.
“You probably need some more water.”
I considered this, “Yes. I think I do.”
Tiny nodded and tucked the necklace back into the bushy depths of his chest fur. Then he turned and slowly dragged himself over to where he kept a few jugs of water. As I watched him I realized I had been mistaken. Tiny had not been sitting back on his haunches the entire time. He no longer had any rear legs.
***
I lay awake later that night, staring at the roof of the cave. My dreams had been… empty. I must have awoken at some point, but I was unsure of when that had been. I felt I had gone from asleep to awake in the time between one breath and the next. Then I realized I had heard something.
A snuffling sob came from Tiny’s bedroll.
I craned my neck around and could just make him out in the darkness. From the light of the dying embers, it looked as though he held a bundle of rags to his chest. I realized I could hear him, his words drifting through the quiet stone chamber.
“Cousin?...... I’m sorry Cousin. I’m…... I’m sorry everyone. I- I killed you all…..I’m so sorry.”
I rolled back over. Soon the sobbing subsided.
Or maybe I just fell back to sleep.
***
There was a surprise waiting for me the next day. A pair of saddlebags. My saddlebags apparently. At least, they had been on me when Tiny had dragged me up to his cave.
I was strong enough now that I could undo the buckle without his help.
Tug the strap with my teeth. Flip the catch with a hoof. Easy. Tiny busied himself on the far side of the cave as I sifted through. The first item I found was… odd.
It was a small sculpture of a pink earth pony, her mass of hair crackling with energy. An engraving on the base read ‘Awareness: It was under ‘E’!’ I frowned at her smiling face. If this was mine, why had I carried around something so obviously unessential?
I tossed it aside and felt somehow… less. I shrugged as the feeling passed.
Next was a woven necklace with some blue beads.
Gaudy. Useless.
A book of pressed flowers and leaves.
Heavy, but could be used to start a fire.
A length of rope.
Curious, but there may be a need.
Three bottles of dirty water. A box of ‘cake’ and a can of ‘Magical Fruit.’
Now these I could use.
A hoofheld lighter.
It flicked easily to life. Good.
A metal case that held a gun.
I set that to the side for later.
Ten bottle caps.
Why would anypony carry those?
I tossed the caps aside as I turned the saddle, investigating the other bag. Maybe there would be something in this one to tell me who I was.
An empty pack of cigarettes.
Well that explained the lighter, my raspy voice, and the way I occasionally shook.
A hunting knife.
The blade looked dull and was pocked with rust. It could still be useful.
A round ball of cloudy glass the size of an… apple? Yes. That was the right word.
I tossed it in the pile of trinkets. Useless.
Three bent tin cans.
Very useless.
A foldable hat. Brown, well worn with a wide brim circling the edge.
Help keep the light out of my eyes and shade my face and neck. Useful.
The final item was a cracked hoof-mirror.
About to toss it, I paused.
Slowly, I turned it towards my face. A sandy colored mare looked back at me. Her eyes, long and delicate, hid irises that looked blue-grey when she tilted her head. Her mane was gone, though dark stubble poked through her scalp. Shifting the bandage revealed a gash that traced red lines of flesh across her forehead.
I frowned, which wasn’t that hard given how my face already looked set that way. Nothing had come back to me. I had felt no dawning recognition when I looked at a face that, despite the healing scars and shaved mane, should have been instantly familiar.
I tossed the mirror aside as I made a note to ask Tiny how he had managed to do surgery with only one good hoof.
***
The days settled into a routine. Eat gruel. Take a nap. Watch Tiny mix herbs. Eat the resulting paste. Another nap. More gruel. Fall asleep. Wake up. Do it all over again.
The cave was usually quiet. Tiny seemed to be all talked out after our big discussion. For my part, I found myself not minding the silence. I started to spend the downtime inspecting the gun from my saddlebags. It turned out to be a revolver. It was worn from use but, to my untrained eye, still in working condition. The case also held two speedloaders, a cleaning and repair kit, but no bullets. With the Waste outside being so dangerous, why would I have been carrying it in a case in my bags? Answers still eluded me.
The first few times I tried to take the gun apart ended with pieces littering the ground around me. After a few days I was familiar with the parts (hammer, bite-grip, barrel, tongue-trigger, etc.), disassemble it with little trouble, and put it back together with even less.
Eventually an exercise regime of sorts was worked into our routine. Tiny said it would help me “recoup my faculties” as I healed. We started simply enough: Pushups to recover my strength. A game with three tin cups and a pebble to help my perception. Carrying heavy loads in my saddle bags to build up my endurance. Light conversation was supposed to help my communication. A few books were on hoof to read; he said it would help me feel intelligent. An easy game of catch was supposed to keep me agile. I felt the most confused by the guessing game. Tiny said that after what had happened to me I would need the luck. Which puzzled me. Yes, I had been shot in the head, but surviving should prove I was lucky enough.
Even so, the rhythmic structure of our days felt natural to me, and, as my body rebounded, I made Tiny increase the difficulty.
Push ups began to add muscle. With my thin frame I would probably never bulk up, but I could still build what was there.
Tiny eventually let me try my hoof at the cup game. Though no matter how fast I shuffled the cups back and forth, he was always able to spot the pebble.
With each lap I cantered around the cave, another item would be loaded into my saddlebags. Eventually they were so heavy I was forced to move at a slow plod. I found I enjoyed pushing myself for that extra lap.
Catch evolved into what I think was called ‘Kelpie Uppie.’ I would try to bounce a cup from hoof to fetlock. Flip it up to my forehead. Balance it for a moment. Then back down to juggle some more.
Conversation however was completely abandoned and except for some magazines about guns and armor repair, the books were not very interesting.
Tiny kept insisting on the guessing game.
***
I was unsure of when I first noticed Tiny’s gradually dwindling supplies, or even that the old buffalo was becoming more malnourished while I was feeling better. One evening, despite myself, I decided to broach the subject during our meal.
“We need more food,” I rasped between bites. “Water at the least.”
Tiny paused with the spoon trembling in his hoof on its way back to the bowl. I made another note to ask him how he had been able to patch me up. He chewed slowly, thinking, I suppose. I ate a few more bites. The old buffalo finished his mouthful with a heavy sigh.
“We,” he said pointedly, “do not need any more.”
I eyed him warily. “Pretty sure we do.”
My gesture took in the empty water jugs and the single sack of oats.
“That will give us four meals. Maybe.”
He watched me carefully beneath hooded eyes. “Or it will last one of us eight meals. Enough to find a town and trade for supplies.”
I frowned, inspecting my wooden bowl as I took another bite of gruel. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed.
“What about the other one of us?”
He shrugged.
“I suppose what happens naturally.”
We finished our meal in silence.
***
Going through my exercises the next morning was more from routine than need; I was as recovered as I was probably ever going to be. Breakfast was its usual quiet affair. When we finished, Tiny helped me pack my saddlebags.
“You’ll need this,” he said, passing me a small cloth bag.
I shook it and heard the clink of metal. “Bullets?”
Tiny gave a wry smile, “No, bottle caps. Most folk use them for trade.”
Packing them away, I made sure to grab the ones I had previously discarded.
Without any bullets, the gun went in alongside the few items I had saved and the last of our, now my, supplies. He’d even given me the blanket I had woken up in.
Tiny watched as I cinched the bags until they were snug on my back.
“Any plans?”
I considered this, for I had no real idea. Then I felt the papery flutter of a thought at the back of my mind.
“I’m going to find that grey unicorn, and I’m going to shoot him.”
Tiny suddenly looked much older.
“You survived by a miracle alone only to waste your life on revenge.”
Thoughts fluttered through my head before one settled to the forefront.
“It’s not about revenge. It’s the principal of the action. Nopony should do what he did to her.”
Tiny raised an eyebrow. “Her?”
I felt lightheaded. “Me. I meant, ‘what he did to me.’”
He considered this for a long while, looking past me as he had when we first talked. I glanced behind, just to make sure. Nothing. Eventually his eyes focused again.
“Wait here a moment.”
Without another word, Tiny shuffled around and dragged himself towards his sleeping pad. The worn blanket he sat on left a smooth trail in the dirt wherever he moved. Soon he returned with something cradled in his stump. It was the bundle of rags I had seen him clutching when he slept. Carefully he unfolded the rags until he held another, smaller, PipBull. It looked like there was still some dried blood on one end.
Tiny’s voice was heavy when he spoke. “This belonged to my cousin, Don’t Jump.”
The quiet of the moment was broken, “Don’t Jump?”
Tiny gave a small smile. “He liked to climb things when he was small. His real name was Fridge Fixer, but I just called him Cousin. Buffalo tend to have several names,” he explained.
“Cousin was…” Tiny clenched his jaw for a moment. “He was about your size when we left the Stable.”
He looked up at me. Standing, I was almost half a head taller than the slouched old buffalo’s hump. It was still odd after so much recovery time had been spent laying on the ground.
“I don’t know what the Waste has in store for you little pony, but I think you’re gonna need this.”
Not waiting for my answer, he used a tool of some sort to open the smaller PipBull and fit it to my left foreleg.
I frowned, feeling confused. “Why are you doing this?”
He shrugged, focused on his task. “I was already at my end.”
I blinked, more puzzled. “You came here to die.”
He chuckled dryly as he connected some wires from the PipBull to his own. “I am too old and too crippled to do much else. So I took enough to find a place and make my peace.”
I still felt lost. “And helping me?”
“Helping others is rarely done in the wasteland.” He shrugged his gaunt shoulders again. “I felt a bit of good might balance something. Ah, there we go.”
My vision flickered as a dozen yellow symbols brokered for my attention.
“What… did you do?”
Tiny gave a proud smile. “The PipBull has a range of uses. What you’re seeing now is the… oh, what was the pony term for it? I can’t recall. We referred to it as the Everything Up Ahead or E.U.A. That will let you know the direction you’re trotting, what you’re carrying, where you are, and even if you’re not half dead yet. Actually, it’ll even let you know if something nearby wants to kill you.”
I frowned again, trying to let my eyes adjust. “How does it know?”
His shoulders bobbed in his favorite movement, “Pony technology could do a lot. I’m just glad they made these things accessible to other species.”
I found the blinking lights distracting. “Can I turn it off?”
“You just have to think about it. Same thing with the S.A.T.S., the Stable-Tec Arcane Targeting Spell. It lets you focus better during a fight.”
That part surprised me. “You think I will be in many fights?”
“You’re the one who wants to shoot a pony.”
Silence settled between us. I was about to turn to leave when Tiny spoke again.
“I was born under ground and I chose to die underground.” He looked me in the eye. “It might be happenstance that led me to choose this cave, maybe not. If I hadn’t, I think you still would have gotten help.”
Now I was at a complete loss and told him as much. He grasped my foreleg in response. I felt a crawling sensation in my stomach and I tried to pull away, but his grip held me in place. Luna above, how could a beast so frail looking have so much strength?
“There’s something about you little mare. Something off.” His voice sounded distant and muffled as my heart thudded in my ears. What was he talking about?
“Great-Uncle explained it to me back in the Stable.” Tiny’s gaze was distant again. I twisted my leg around in his grip.
“Maybe you were too far gone, I’m not sure, I panicked. I wanted to help, to- to make up for what had happened.”
Celestia help me, why wouldn’t he just let go? My stomach was in knots and I was sweating though I felt like I had been drenched in cold water. A word blazed in my mind, trapped. It wasn't touch, it was the fear of being ensnared. I struggled harder, but Tiny hadn't seemed to notice, his eyes lock on mine.
“I tried my best… I- I don’t know. Maybe if I had learned more, if I hadn’t been a PipBull technician, I could have done more, done it right.”
Tiny bowed his head, his grip loosened and I yanked myself free. I was shaking so badly I had to force myself to stand. He just sat there, looking older than ever.
I had no idea what to say or even what to do. So I did the only thing I could think of.
I turned and galloped away as fast as I could.
---------------------
Footnote: Introduction Complete
Trait: I Am Not Lanky – Your determination to prove you are not ungainly has given you +1 to AGL. However your long leg bones mean you are more likely to be crippled.
Event Trait: Desert’s Blessing – Something has granted you a familiarity with the desert and you receive +10 to Survival. Leaving the desert removes this bonus, and grants you a -10 penalty to your Survival skill for being in unfamiliar surroundings. Note: This penalty counts while being inside large structures such as Stables.
Quest Begun: Returning the Favor
New Mission: Ghost Dance
New Mission: The Mare With No Name
Alert: Hardcore Mode Activated – Potions do not instantly heal hit points. Crippled limbs need special attention. Ammo has weight. Companions can suffer permanent death. Food, water, and rest are mandatory for survival. Note: Complete this entire story in Hardcore Mode to unlock a special ending.
Stats
Page generated in 0.03 seconds
Total duration
660 users online
826,529 hits today, 1,872,792 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
this looks good so far
2620381
Thank you. Any advice is welcome.
This... this definitely worth reading! You've got yourself a good start, trust me. More for my "to read" list...
Though there is one question. What did you mean by "potions do not recover hit points automatically"? Maybe word "instantly" would be more precise?
Also:
"Automatic Perk: Desert’s Blessing – Something has granted you a familiarity with the desert and you receive +10 to Survival. Leaving the desert removes this bonus, and grants you a -10 penalty for being in unfamiliar surroundings. Note: This penalty counts while being inside structures such as Stables."
This entirely could be a Trait rather than perk. Perks grant you positive things while Traits grant both positive and negative things. You didn't specified where this -10 penalty aplies. Is it for Survival only or for all skills?
This is pretty interesting. I only started playing FallOut recently and I started with New Vegas. I actually started thinking that it was going to be like it since the first scene reminded me of when Benny shoots the player in the head in the opening scene.
Overall, mot definitely not a bad start. We'll see how it goes on.
-BTW, I assume potions are Stimpacks?
-Was New Vegas an inspiration? I'm catching bits like the opening scene and some similarities between Tiny and Doc Mitchell.
-Loved the way you included S.P.E.C.I.A.L. into this.
Welp, there's my two cents. Write on!
2629964
A good point on the Desert's Blessing Perk/Trait. So much to keep track of, I really appreciate you catching that.
2631927
Thank you! I'm looking forward to how this will turn out too.
For your questions:
-Yes, potions are the equivlent of stimpacks. It was one of the establishing ideas or "rules" of Kkat's original Fallout Equestria; which I strongly recommend because it is not only amazing, but it is also what inspired me to write my own off-shoot.
- And yes, New Vegas was the base inspiration, but I'm hoping to take OUTWaste in its own direction.
-Thank you, I thought it would be cool to have the S.P.E.C.I.A.L. be part of the character's recovery, rather than a statistic adjuster.
I'm working on chapter two and really appreciate the feedback.
Write on, write on!
This is good so far. Though, I'm not sure what voice you're trying to convey at times to the readers. Sometimes it felt like you were telling it from the first, while others it felt like the third person. But that is a small nitpick that I had to get off my chest. The story itself is written fairly well, with few not no errors at all. Over all, the story flows nicely (with an exception to the voice issue I had already stated) which is always a plus. But, as Deathpony said, "This looks good so far" and I hope you really do continue this. It has some real potential.
- Noakwolf
2657584
Thank you Mr. Wolf. I'm actually hammering out the rough for chapter 2 now. Hope I can live up to the praise I've been getting. Stay tuned!
2631927 I'm not sure if New Vegas is a good game to start the fallout serie, yes it is a good game but you just don't have the feeling you're in a dead world like in the other ones.
2688992
True. There are a number of ways in which New Vegas broke with the original series. However I started my journey by playing Fallout 3, so the dead world is not unknown to me.
2695237
Are you sure you read my comment or are you just here to troll?
2696295 Are you trying to apply logic to the Fallout serie? Seriously? We are talking about the game where China was stupid enough to make a nuclear war with most armed country of the world, where humans can survive hundred of years because of radiations and where people can survive in underground shelter for generations without going outside.
Fallout is not and never will be logic, the fact they survive to a almost dead world in Fallout 3 isn't so far-fetched compare to all that.
2695226
Regolit: I appreciate your comments on my writing, your concern for my opening, and the suggestion that I avoid New Vegas-like setting.
However, due to your excesive swearing I will be deleting some of your comments.
Don't mistake my intentions, feel free to comment at any time; but when you do please refrain from swearing so often.
And yes, Fallout 3 does have its faults, but at least it wasn't Fable 3.