Fallout: Equestria - The Hooves of Fate

by Sprocket Doggingsworth

A Voice in the Dark

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX - A VOICE IN THE DARK
"A civilization that proves incapable of solving the problems it creates is a decadent civilization. A civilization that chooses to close its eyes to its most crucial problems is a stricken civilization. A civilization that uses its principles for trickery and deceit is a
dying civilization." - Aimé Césaire.

I know I said this before, but the whole "lesser of two evils" idea fucking irked me. I mean, like...really really really really really really reeeeally really irked me.

'Cause you've got aaaallll these resources, and aaaall these ponies working together.

They should be fighting for a better world! A greater good! Why the hell would anypony devote their entire lives to laboring away in support of a society that's, like...you know...fucking evil?! Even a lesser one?

It's crazy.

I thought back to my conversation with Blueberry Milkshake the day after I first discovered the Wasteland.

'Are ponies good?' I'd asked, desperate to make sense of the horrors that I'd seen.

And after a long, quiet, deliberation, she'd concluded: 'When they want to be.'

It seemed pretty sagely at the time. But the more I learned about the Wasteland - the deeper I delved into the secrets of Safety - the stronger it grew on me that Blueberry Milkshake had been totally wrong.

Ponies don't become good simply because they wanna be. It's way more complicated than that. The real tragedy of Safety, and its underclass of slave laborers, is that it's pretty much impossible to opt out of. You can't fight for the greater good within its walls. Nopony has any choice at all!

Our morals were nothing more than luxuries.

Safety children couldn't rise up against their meal ticket. Safety teachers couldn't fight for a world without slavery, no matter what they personally believed.

We were stuck. All of us. By circumstance.

'Cause the lesser evil - in the end - is the one that hurts somepony else.

* * *

And that's the evil that Glenn tried to sell us on. We talked for hours. About making the best of it. Some shit about accepting what we couldn't change, strengthening ourselves to fight for whatever we could, and learning to discern the difference.

But I didn't care. And neither did Cliff Diver.

The field of psychology - of emotional education - was being bastardized to measure sanity by how well we fit in with assholes that were totally in favor of fucking slavery.

It made me wonder if maybe Screw Loose was saner than everypony thought she was - if turning into a dog was actually the most reasonable reaction in the world to confronting your past as a torturer - to fleeing the monsters who made you torment others in the first place.

"Rose Petal," said Glenn. "What do you think?"

I'd missed the set up of course, but for once, I didn't feel guilty about it. Didn't flinch. 'Cause fuck Glenn. He was a traitor to everything good and decent in this world.

"I think we should all try to get along," I answered mechanically.

Delicate-like, he ran the feathers on his open wing tips against one another. "I understand what you're going through," he said. "And you're not alone, but for right now, we have to focus on keeping you hidden. Keeping you safe. I know that this is a shock to you. And we can take all the time in the world to sort it out...after we get through the next couple of days. Can you do that?"

Foster interjected, "Yes." She raised a forehoof in salute - a gesture of false respect for authority.

"Cliff?" Glenn pleaded. "Rose?"

I nodded, though it pained me to. "I'll lie low."

Glenn tilted his big avian head to Cliff.

"Yeah," whispered Cliff Diver. Just sorta starting off into space.

It had been hours of talking, and explainifying, and arguing. We were all pretty worn down. But Glenn had finally gotten us where he wanted us - calm enough not to throw furniture around.

"Good," he said.

"So, what activities are we cleared for?" Foster asked, always the strategist. "What are we allowed to do?"

"Well," Glenn got up out of his stool and streeeeetched till all his feathers poked up like a hedgehog. "I'd say it's safe for you to participate in any activities within Safety's walls, though I'm going to hold off on okay-ing you for actual classes until the holiday's over."

I closed my eyes. Pictured Misty wandering the marketplace without me. Frustrated. Scared. My presence earlier had rattled him bad. Misty needed to talk to me. Even more than I needed to talk to him, (which is quite a feat).

By now, rumor had probably reached him of my 'Rose Petal'ing' in class, so who knew what fresh worries he'd piled on top of it.

"Sorry about the market," said Glenn. "Under normal circumstances, I'd say it's the best thing for you."

"How so?" said Foster.

"There's more to Fillydelphia than slaves and armies and children," Glenn answered. "The market itself attracts artisans and merchants who sell their wares under the protection of Fillydelphia's walls. Fillydelphia also has a class of free administrators who help keep this empire running - ponies and griffons who are willing to spend their bottle caps on fine foods, and clean clothes, and new innovations that Fillydelphia makes possible."

"So free ponies," said Cliff. "Selling stuff made with materials produced by slaves."

"Yes," Glenn tightened his beak. "It can be most, um...informative."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Bottle caps?"

Glenn cocked his head in confusion. He reminded me of my neighbor's parrot.

"You work for bottle caps?"

"Yes," replied the griffon. And before he could explain, I busted out laughing.

"Well, you see--;" Glenn raised a talon o' pedantry.

But I erupted into a wild cackle, fell to my knees, and strained to catch my breath. "You're...enslaving...ponies...for...bottle caps." I fought to catch my breath. "That's...so...so...so...stupid."

* * *

So yeah. Our session went about as well as you might imagine. And when all was said and done, Glenn had each of us sign a contract - an agreement to behave. He also offered us another peek into his library (which we declined).

With a sigh o' disappointment, Glenn escorted us to the door.

"Alright kids," he said. "Why don't you go home and try to get some rest. I'm sure you're eager to talk with one another in private too. Without a bunch of adults everywhere. It'll be good for you."

"Yeah," Foster rolled her teenagerly eyeballs. "It'll be good for Miss Honey as she listens in on our conversation."

The griffon flinched. Crunched up the feathers above his beak, and recoiled in shock. But there was no hint of fear. No worry over being unmasked. His eyes just narrowed what-the-fuck-ishly.

"Miss Honey would never," he said, and meant it.

"Miss Honey also swore she wouldn't ask us how we got here," said Foster. “But she did that when she interrogated us. How can we trust her promises anymore?"

Cliff put a hoof to Foster's chest. Like she might need to be restrained at any moment.

But Glenn tightened up. Like every muscle in his face was spring-loaded. He was sure as hell holding back some secret or another. "You're not being spied on," he said. "You have my word."

"Hmph," Foster replied.

Glenn rotated his head to me at an angle no mammal could possibly manage. "I'll arrange to have your meals brought to your dorm room, if that's what you prefer?"

"Yes," I said. "Thank you."

"Good," he said, rotating back around to face Cliff and Foster. "You've clearly been through a lot. Take care of yourselves. We'll start fresh in the morning."

* * *

The three of us trudged down the long circuitous hallway of the Green Building. Once Glenn's office was far, far, far behind, Cliff whispered to Foster, "What was that all about?"

"Yeah," I said. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she replied, chipper as morning birds. "I needed to know if our rooms were being spied on, like the slave quarters, or the boy in the coma. Glenn showed no sign of defensiveness or fear of being found out."

"He's keeping something from us," I said. "That's for sure."

"Obviously," Foster replied. "But it's safe to hold court with our special friend this evening, and that's all that matters."

Apart from a brief Foster-y smile o' self-satisfaction, we went back to dragging ourselves home in silence. It's easy to forget sometimes that Foster has this weird switch in her brain that lets her turn her manipulatey powers on and off at will. Like magic.

* * *

Pomf! Bananas Foster, now thoroughly exhausted, collapsed on our couch. While Cliff and I hovered over the big white crate right outside our door. It was made of a strange material - beaten, discolored, and worn from use, but hygienic nevertheless. Its flappitty lid was tied shut with twine.

Cliff nudged the mystery box into our room with his head. Once the door was closed safely behind us, he chomped the twine and opened the flap.

"It's dinner," I said as the scent of potatoes burst out with a poof.

Glenn had told us that he'd arrange for food to be delivered, but I didn't expect that stuff to get home before we did.

I plunged my head in. Pulled out a bowl of chunky mashed potatoes with bits of skin everywhere, and a quesadilla-type thing with pesto goo. It had been hours and hours and hours since I'd eaten, so I whisked my helping over to the table and plunged my face right in.

"Mmmph," Bananas Foster groaned into a pillow.

While Cliff just paced. Back and forth, and forth and back, and forth again.

I fixed him a plate. Some potatoes, and one of those quesadilla-looking things covered in mystery sludge, this one smelling of dill. "You should eat," I said, and slid it in front of the empty chair beside me.

"Thanks," he said. "But I'm not hungry."

Pace pace pace pace pace.

"Rose is right," Foster mumbled, face-still-in-pillow. "You should definitely eat."

"No, thanks," he replied.

The couch groaned under Foster's weight as she scooped herself up. "We're gonna meet Misty soon, and we don't know what we'll be called upon to do." Foster pointed to the kitchen table with her face. "Eat. You can't afford not to."

"What about you?" Cliff snapped. "You haven't been eating. There are no, uh...nurses here…or...anything."

"I'm getting love from you two," Foster replied.

"Really? Is that enough?" I said. "You're not even hypnotizing us, or making us drowsy or anything."

"You love me for who I am," she said. "Like Mother used to."

Cliff stopped pacing.

The room fell silent.

"...That's probably why I'm better at changing than I used to be back when I was hungry."

Cliff shuffled over to the kitchen table. Sat beside me. Eyed his quesadilla with pity like it was a dying puppy. "I'm sorry," he said. "I...I can't. Slaves made this."

I lowered my own quesadilla-majig. Suddenly unsure whether or not it was okay to eat.

But Bananas Foster rose to her hooves. Came right up between Cliff and me, and mournfully reasoned: "It'll go to waste if you don't."

Staring down the appetizing goop, I knew she had a point. "Foster's right," I sighed. "In No Mare's Land, I ran around the whole night with nothing but a single onion to chomp on. Anything can happen tonight, and you should probably conserve your energy, and eat something. Misty could be here any minute."

Knock knock knock.

"Ah!" I threw my forehooves in front of my mouth.

Knock knock knock, went the door yet again.

Cliff and I tossed glances at one another while Foster crept to the door. Hooves like feathers. Limbs like rubber.

"It's Scribbles," said the door in muffled whispers. "I'm not here to judge you. I promise."

Foster looked to Cliff and me, unsure of what to do.

"Let her in," I said. "Quick."

There was no telling what the other kids had been told about us. Or if Scribbles was gonna get in trouble for tryst-ifying in our dorm room.

Bananas Foster twisted the deadbolt with her teeth and shook the chain loose with her hoof. The door wedged open. Just a crack.

"Can I please come in?" Scribbles tossed her head over her shoulders. Watching the hallway. Scared of being seen.

"Of course," said Foster.

Scribbles slipped inside, and closed the door behind her. Her saddle bag overflowed with weird wires and stuff.

"Are you okay?" said Cliff, abandoning the meal he hadn't even touched.

"Yeah," said Scribbles. "How about you?"

A hush fell over the room. It was a damn good question. Were we okay? I didn't even know.

"Pistachio told me what happened," Scribbles added.

"He did?" Cliff tightened up like a sock puppet pulled inward on itself.

"I'm not here to judge!" Scribbles waved her forehooves in the air.

"You stated as much," said Foster, gesturing for Scribbles to come further inside.

Our guest feigned a smile. Took five or six hesitant steps into (what passed for) our living room before Cliff rushed in, and pressed her. "So what are you here for?"

"I, um...um...um…moral support, I guess." Scribbles flashed a nervous little smile. "And also, I, um...wanna show you something," Scribbles pitched her voice upwards like she was asking a question.

"Okay," said Foster.

Scribbles kaplonked her saddle bag down on the coffee table. In it was a basket o' wires. A box full of tiny glass bottles. And...

"A potato," I said dryly.

"There's an old mare running an oddity shop at the market," said Scribbles. "Her health isn't so good, and she doesn't give a damn what Red Eye thinks anymore. She doesn't give a damn about anything come to think of it."

"And she gave you…" Foster pointed at the pile of junk on our table. "…A potato."

Scribbles nodded. "I felt you all should know."

"Um...okay," I said. "So that's a contraband potato?"

"Oh!" Scribbles looked to all of our confusitty faces. "You don't know. Here let me…"

Scribbles nudged her way in between Cliff and me, leaned over the table, and started arranging the junk. The book-sized frame had a row of little glass bottles inside. It stood front and center on the table, branching out to an array of wires that Scribbles got fast to work twisting and tightening.

"You can draw, and do all this?" I said.

"Drawing's my special talent," she answered. "This is just basic... everyday…stuff. You bunker stunkers really don't know shit, do ya?" Scribbles snorted out a laugh.

"No," Foster answered dryly. "We really don't."

"Fuck, what time is it?" Scribbles asked.

My hoof drifted instinctively to the pocket watch that lived in the mojo bag around my neck. Even though it wasn't, like...a regular watch, and more of a use only in dire temporal emergency Pinkie Pie watch.

"Anypony?" said Scribbles.

We all shrugged.

"What's going on?" asked Foster. "Why?"

"I wanna show you something." Scribbles dove into her saddle bag once again, this time in a frenzy. From all the clanking around, it sounded like she had an entire fucking drum kit in there. After a lengthy cacophonic percussion solo, Scribbles finally produced a little clamshell that looked like one of my sister's pocket mirrors. She opened it up, and read a display. "5:56?!"

Scribbles threw herself into her work. Assembling all of the pieces till they were just so. While I eyed the door. Half expecting Misty Mountain to knock on it any second, and freak poor Scribbles out.

"I'm sorry," she said sensing our confusion. "I can't explain it. Just give me three minutes. And you'll have all your answers.”

Without any direction from our guest, my friends and I all sat down simultaneously on the chairs and couch surrounding Scribbles' table o' junk. As if to collectively say, 'Okay, I'm intrigued.'

None of us had any idea what was going on. We only knew that she was earnest in her enthusiasm.

"Does Pistachio know about this?" Foster asked.

"No," Scribbles replied with a horseshoe magnet in her teeth.

"You're always sneaking around together," I said.

"Pistachio loves the thrill of sneaking around. He doesn't actually have an ideology."

"And you do?" Cliff leaned forward.

Scribbles bent over the contraption again, distracted by the fine work of twisting frayed wire-ends together. "6:58," she muttered.

"What is that ideology?" Cliff repeated the question.

"No cages." Scribbles flashed a devious smile, and leapt back to observe her work. With a quick enthusiastic nod, she dove back in, raised a fork, and jammed it into the potato. "6:59," she whispered; and at long last, straightened out the box she'd assembled, and flipped a little switch on.

The contraption started making unnatural noises. Like ghosts howling. And eggs crackling on a pan held way too close to the fire.

Scribbles made a few fine adjustments to the wires, and the ghosts and eggs started to bobbing and weaving and dancing around one another. Until at last, a voice pierced the ether. Dark and rich and clear.

"...oooood evening, wastelanders! I'm DJ Pon3, and you're listening to the Evening Report. If you heard it at all, you heard it here first, and you heard it from me, 'cause there sure ain't nopony else on the air." The Voice chuckled at his own joke.

"There's a lot going on in those cold, windy barrens lately, and I gotta tell you folks, it's bleak. In Los Pegasus yesterday, a brawl broke out as Mayor Daisy Belle's goons tried to evict local merchant, Silver Cream Sundae, from her booth. Sundae put up a damn good fight, and took out one of the bastard's eyes, but ultimately was overtaken. Mayor Daisy Belle's forces dragged Sundae by her mane, dropped her from the top of the town wall, and left her to languish broken-legged in the cold.

'I'm getting similar reports in Whinnyapolis, about a merchant named Lavender Cloud. In South Hoofton, resident Sunset Frosting was evicted from her own home for the crime of being sick and coming up three bottle caps short on her rent. In Bucklyn, it was Blade Sparkle, Sandy Beaches, Gem Digger, and Frosty Dawn. All separate incidents. All residential. All in one day. Beaten, bruised, broken. Every single one of them. The details of the brutality differ, but the story's always the same.

'These parasite "mayors" lay claim to some heap of ancient rubble - any plot anywhere that could conceivably act as a wall - and they staff it with the scum of Equestria."

The machine crackled a bit. And all of us leaned in reeeeal super close to hear. It was then that I noticed that the 'bottles' in Scribbles’ box were glowing faintly and giving off warmth.

CkcKkKkK

"...They lure us in with their promises to 'keep us safe' as we gather to trade our bodies for bread - or to sell what little we can build, and scavenge for. Or even something simple like a safe place to sleep for the night.

'But all those guards - all that noble violence that they swear up and down is gonna keep you safe - the worst of it gets turned on you the second you're a single bottle cap short.

'We've all seen it. It's a story so common, a lot of folks wonder why I even consider it news.

'Well, I have a message for the neighsayers out there. The roadlords and the warlords and the landlords and the whorelords. I have a message for the ponies who stick up for these thugs too. You toadies who'd rather kiss flank than look down and notice the blood on their hooves. Are you listening?

'Turn up your dials and lean in reeeeal close to the speakers 'cause this is important…You ready?...Good."

The DJ stopped to clear his throat and get all intimate with the microphone. Like he was whispering a secret into our ears. “Fuck...you. These ponies matter. They have friends. Sisters. Mothers. Daughters. Sons...They have names. Lives. They work, they struggle. Every last one of them fucking matters.

'And before we go any further - to all you decent ponies out there - if you take only one message to heart out of anything I've ever had to say - it should be exactly this.

'You. Matter. Your neighbor matters. So I want you to say it. Get up off your stools, and say it out loud. Say, I matter, damnit.”

Scribbles, entranced by the potato machine, whispered softly to herself, "I matter, damnit.
I matter. "

DJ Pon3 stopped, and let the silence fizz and crackle for a moment. I could see him - in my mind's eye - sucking on one of those fire sticks that'd stunk up the trenches back in No Mare's Land. "It's happening more often, you know," his firey voice grew somber.
"Remember that autonomous village way up north in the hills of Cataloneigha? You long-time-listeners have got to know. It was all I talked about for a whole year - how they fended off raiders all by themselves. No rent. No protection fees. Well, folks, we lost contact a few months now. Same with the merchant-run village out West by Appaloosa." DJ Pon3 sighed. "Sightings have finally confirmed that both compounds are empty.

'...But they weren't burned or sacked at random like typical raiders do. No. Just hundreds of doors left swinging open in the wind.

'These attacks were disciplined. Targeted.

'And at the end of the breadcrumb trail are all these new caravans you see. Captured slaves getting driven into Fillydelphia."

Suddenly the DJ's voice cut out, and a different recording fizzed to life. A darker voice. Harsh and thick like grinding tree roots. "Progress," it said. "You are all here to build a better Equestria. It is your labor - your contributions - that will pave the road to freedom for Equestria's children. Your toil will not be in vain. Your sweat will rejuvenate the soil. Your blood will fertilize it. You have all been gifted with the noble task of constructing the future. A future, my little ponies, made possible by you, Fillydelphia's proud essential workers."

The box took a few seconds to make some more sizzly frying pan noises before the DJ jumped back in.

"This is the shit that Red Eye blares out of the speakers in Fillydelphia's factories and mines," DJ Pon3 continued. "This is the bullshit that the once-free workers of Cataloneigha have to listen to as Red Eye breaks their backs.

'He believes it too. That's the sick part. Red Eye blabbing on and on about the future. While his army rapes the present. Waxing on about fucking freedom. While his thugs explicitly target the free. Why?

'Because it's easier than going to war with every gang in Equestria.

'My little ponies, there's a new kinda raider in town. Every town. All across Equestria, sieges like this have grown more deliberate. More organized.

'And these marketplace tyrants and paramilitary landlords? They fucking love it. That's what all these crackdowns are really about - these evictions. With pockets of free Equestria falling under Red Eye's control, even tenants hundreds of miles away lose their bargaining power.

'They have no other place to go. And they no longer have the kind of hope - the kind of drive that made these shining dreams possible in the first place.

'And what's worse, you hear these two-bottle-cap brutes laughing it up over bathtub gin. How ponies like you and me can't self-govern. How we're powerless to defend ourselves without big strong murderers everywhere swaggering around to keep the peace.

'Yeah, Wastelanders, it's grim out there. But you know what? The goons are losing their grip too. They didn't stop Red Eye from growing back when they had the chance. And now they're stuck with him.

'The world they know is dying. It was only a matter of time. But they finally sense it now, and they're afraid.

'I don't know, folks. It's hard to keep hope alive in times like these - when the nights grow long and the days grow faint - but we'll have a summer again. Wait and see.

'Red Eye's not the first stooge to get big ideas about the way Equestria should be run. I should know. I've been around forever, baby. But ponies like Red Eye always fall, and their big shot colonels and generals don't give a fuck about their visions of brave new worlds. The confederacy of gangs that have recently sworn allegiance to that big ugly flag of his? They're gonna tear each other up in the aftermath.

'So keep building communities as best you can. Keep caring for one another. Keep fighting. 'Cause the Red Eyes of the world always fall. Landlords and gangsters always murder one another in the aftermath. And you know what? Their crisis is our opportunity.

'And in the meantime, Wastelanders, keep telling each other's stories. Listen to the voices that cry out in the night. And, if nothing else, remember that you matter."

Suddenly, music started to play. The intro was a gentle melody, with a light jingle of sleigh bells keeping the beat.

"I'm DJ Pon3, and this concludes the Evening Report. How about a nice Hearth's Warming tune of old? To rekindle your brightest hopes in these darkest nights. That's what the holiday's all about, isn't it? Here's Sweetie Belle with 'Good Princess Whinnyslaus.' May you follow the hoofsteps of the righteous, and always be warm."

My friends and I watched the device in stunned silence as the DJ's voice gave way to song. Bright and crisp staccato melody softened by velvety vocals. My heart pounded in my chest as the verse bounced along, and I leaned in closer, listening, hoping that the voice would come back with just one more thing to add.

"That's some potato," said Bananas Foster.

"Yeah," Scribbles exhaled a breath she'd held for Luna-only-knows-how-long.

I didn't say a word. I just fixated on the machine. That voice was like cool water in the middle of a desert. I needed more!

But the song just wafted on and on and on with no sign of narration. No sign of DJ-Pon3. When at last, it drew to a close, 'Good Princess Whinnycslaus' was followed by yet another tinny recording. Some old timey jazz stuff.

DJ Pon3 wasn't coming back. The only voice I heard was my own. Pestering me inside of my mindskull. To get out there. Help those ponies. Stop Red Eye and the landlords from fucking up everypony's lives.

It bucked at my brain. Yelled at me to run outside that very instant - to dash up to the first blue jumpsuit slave pony I could find, and set her free, and…raise an army...or something.

"So," I said, clipping my forehooves together. "What are we gonna do?" I said aloud.

Scribbles was the first to pry her eyes from the machine. "Do?"

"Yeah," said Cliff. "We have to do something. Don't we?"

"Like what?"

Cliff shrugged. Grunted vaguely to the tune of 'idunno.' "Stop Red Eye or whatever," he said.

"And all the landlords," I added.

Scribbles laughed. But my friends didn't.

"No," said Cliff. "When Red Eye falls, the landlord problem will take care of itself. DJ Pon3 said so."

"Wait, are you serious?" said Scribbles.

The alarm in her eyes seemed to grow limbs of its own, and reach out and chop my head in two with a great big Scimitar O' Panic. Scribbles wasn't planning an insurrection. She wasn't planning anything at all!

"Nah," said Foster, thinking quickly. "They're just messing around."

"Red Eye's gonna be here - in Safety - for Hearth's Warming," said Cliff. "That'd be the perfect time to strike."

Foster threw her eyeballs at Cliff - eyeballs that screamed, 'Would you shut the fuck up?'

"Well you shouldn't joke about that.” Scribbles yanked the fork out of her potato, and coiled the wires up with her teeth. "It's a dangerous habit."

She got to work, frantically disconnecting all the miscellaneous dangly bits from the box o' glowy glass tubes. Once they were all free, Scribbles slid the magnet into her saddlebag.

"Why not?" said Foster, soft and steady.

"You never heard about Rabble Rouser?" Scribbles answered.

My friends and I shook our heads.

"She was a student here a few years ago," Scribbles' voice fell to a whisper.

"Before my time. Miss Honey's prized pupil…Till Rabble tried to organize the staff - the slaves - against Miss Honey, and all of Fillydelphia too!...She caused a lot of trouble."

"With a name like 'Rabble Rouser,' you think Miss Honey would see that coming," Foster observed.

Scribbles squinted in confusion.

"Nevermind," said Foster. "Nopony ever notices that shit."

I held up a hoof, ready to interruptify. To point out that I, a pony, totally did notice that shit. It had bugged me forever. This connection between names and cutie marks.

Did our parents just sorta psychically know? Or did the name alter fate itself? Either way it happened too damn often. I had Rose Petals on my flank that had nothing to do with the talent I discovered the night I first fell into the Wasteland. Even my very first cutie mark attempts - months before that - had been in gardening, trying to get a fate to match my name.

"Anyway," said Scribbles. "When Red Eye's griffons finally got a hold of Rabble Rouser, they dragged her away, and she never came back."

Cliff looked to me with troubled eyeballs. Miss Honey had told us both her half of that same story. And hung her head with regret the whole time.

She knew what had happened to Rabble Rouser.

"So please," said Scribbles as she scooped up the last of her talking potato machine. "Don't joke like that."

"Sorry," I said. "I figured...you know, it's just between us."

"I get that," said Scribbles. "But it's still a bad habit. These walls are thin. You never know when trouble might be waiting on the other side."

Knock knock knock knock knock! Went the door.

All four of us leapt up, and screamed, "Ahhhh!"

I clutched my heart. Just for a second or two before it dawned on me: "I'm expecting somepony." I made for the door.

Scribbles clutched her saddlebag. Violently stuffing the stray wires inside as though they were the tentacles of a particularly feisty squid.

"Don't worry," said Foster. "He's a friend." She projected a certain kinda calm. Gravity. The kinda voice that could put a manticore to sleep after it'd had sixteen cups of pep tea and a donut.

Knock knock knock knock, went the door, softer than before, as if it knew that we were nervous.

"Coming!" I leaned my flank up against the door and surveyed the room.

Cliff had pressed closer. Eager to meet Misty Mountain right and proper. And Foster had held back to soothe Scribbles if she needed to.

Scribbles herself just held perfectly still. Determined to get it together. "A friend?" she squeaked.

"A friend," Foster asserted, voice hard as granite.

Scribbles moistened her lips, and plunged her throat apple down her neck like a doom-yoyo. She knew what Foster meant. That the pony on the other end of that door was a 'friend' - not only to me - but to The Cause - the rebellion - the mission (whatever the hell that was gonna turn out to be).

"Okay," squeaked Scribbles. "I trust you." She lifted her head up high to force our attention away from her throbbing heart and panting chest. And gave us the go-ahead nod.

"Hay," I said soothingly.

Scribbles slowed her panicky breathing down and forced herself to look me in the eyeballs.

"No cages," I said.

"No cages," she summoned a mini-smile.

And at that, I opened the door a crack...

Misty Mountain shoved his way straight in. A giant Equestrian flag scarf hung loosely over his shoulders. A pendant bearing the likeness of Red Eye dangled from his neck. And he wore a pair of novelty glasses made outta coat-hanger-wire twisted into the shape of Hearth's Warming trees.

"Are you crazy?" he said. "No, wait. Why do I ask? I know answer. You are crazy! I say, 'no Rose Petal'ingk'. 'Den you are Rose Petal'ingk!"

"No, she wasn't," Cliff stepped forward. "I was Cliff-ing."

"What zhe Hell does dat mean?"

"My name is Cliff," he answered. "I'm the one who threw my desk."

"Great," Misty pointed a hoof at me. "Is everypony you hang out with crazy, too?" He glanced over my shoulder, noticing Scribbles for the first time. "...Oh, hello."

Scribbles waved a hoof. "I'm not crazy."

Misty Mountain froze. Suddenly aware of the danger that the presence of a stranger actually posed.

"She's cool," I said. "She won't get us in trouble."

With a deep deep breath, Misty summoned his composure, levitated his wizard hat, revealing a vast tangle of purple hair. It looked like a twisted bush of razor wire from No Mare's Land, only somehow, even more horrific.

He tipped the pointy cap to Scribbles - a gesture of gentlecoltly polite-itude. "Excuse me. Moment," he said to her gently before spinning around and shouting at me again. "Three hours! All you had to do was go three hours with no Rose Petal'ingk. No Cliff-ingk."

"Uh...I should be goingk," said Scribbles. "I mean, going."

Before I could even say 'thank you' or 'goodbye,' she swept her way out the door.

"Thanks for potato time!" I called out, even though she was already gone. It was that old Rose Family training - to fear being perceived as an inhospitable host more than death or torture or shadows.

"Oh no," said Cliff. "Is she gonna tell? Is she gonna tell on us?"

"I wouldn't worry about it,'' said Foster, cucumber cool.

"How do you know?" Misty snapped.

"I know."

"Great," said Misty. "Dees one knows!"

I was about to yell right back at him, but he whipped around. Gripped my shirt with his hooves.

"For fuck's sake," he said. "Do you have idea what you have done?"

His eyeballs burned as beads of coal. Not with mere frustration. But fear. Real fear. The kind that made my evil hoof start to shrivel into a stump of frosty cold. And trickle dread up my spine like some kinda doom icicle.

"Rose," Misty pressed closer, quivering as he spoke. "We can't reesk dees attention."

"W-What do you mean?" I stammered.

Misty Mountain pierced me with a feral gaze. Like a wild animal backed into a corner, clawing at the air, defending its young. "I have beezness in Red Eye compound," he said, voice as cold as the shadows themselves. "I have a plan. And you cannot fuck it up, you are understandink?"

I shook my head.

"Rose Petal," he said. "I have to act tonight."

Author's Note:

PATREON

If this story, or my Heart Full of Pony essays have touched you, please consider supporting me on Patreon.

For those of you who already are pledging, seriously, and for real, thank you. Your support means a great deal to me. /]*[\

SPECIAL THANKS: As always, I would like to thank Seraphem for his tireless assistance providing feedback during the editing process, and Kkat for writing the original Fallout: Equestria story that inspired me to write Hooves of Fate in the first place.

THOUGHTS:
I hope you all had a Happy Hearth’s Warming, and have a safe New Year. Thank you all for your readership and support, and your comments.

I always related to the Wastelanders, and their reliance on DJ Pon3 - their thirst not only for news, but for the kinds of ideas that tied their struggles together, and made sense of their very lives. We live in troubled and confusing times, and I think a lot of us are reaching around in the darkness, trying to find that voice, especially as our old systems prove increasingly incapable of dealing with crisis, and our existing power structures fight only to prevent real change.

I’m not looking to ignite a political debate, but suffice it to say that writing DJ Pon3 was a great joy. I deeply feel both Littlepip and Rose Petals’ longing for clarity.

I dedicate this chapter to the innocent who suffered needlessly in 2021. May they know justice, and may 2022 bring us brighter days.

Comments

[Mishkiel]

Fucking tell em, DJ

[Alchemik]

Can someone get the number of that cliff that just ran me over?

In other news, potatoes: tasty food or keys to the most powerful weapon? More at Next-Chapter-o'clock.

[Slavenger Karl]

Most of the story doesn't flow like fallout equestria but I smell we get a couple chapters of survival action again.

[Isenlyn]

Hey.

Didn't comment here in years.
I still love this story, and especially how you portray Rose Petal, it's really like peering into a child's mind. ^^

I'm also still trying to find if we're in Fillydelphia before, after, or during the time Littlepip was there, because in the original story she did pass through the school and that would be awesome for Rose's crew to cross path with her, even just for an instant. ^^.
And that would also mean that Murky Number Seven is there, I my heart will probably break if it's the case. ^^

Continue that awesome story, I look forward every chapter and they deliver, even if they're soooo short. :'(
I need more Rose, Banana, Cliff and all the other in my life. ^^

[Sprocket Doggingsworth]

11106174
Thank you! It's delightful to hear from you.

To answer your question about Fillydelphia, Rose has an internal clock, as you know. A basic gist of how long it's been since the bomb.

At the beginning of this adventure, I gave the number. She's basically a few years before Littlepip.

Sorry to disappoint.

[Isenlyn]

11106433
Thank you for the clarification.
I didn't quite catch that. ^^

And thank you again for this story. We'll see what awaits for our favorite trouble maker next time.

[Reese]

"trickery and deceit is a
dying civilization." - Aimé Césaire."
Was that line break supposed to be there?

""Well," Glenn got up out of his stool and"
""Well," Glenn got up off of his stool and"?

"Her saddle bag overflowed with weird wires and stuff."
"Her saddlebag overflowed with weird wires and stuff."?

"her saddle bag down on the coffee table"
"her saddlebag down on the coffee table"?

"Scribbles dove into her saddle bag once again"
"Scribbles dove into her saddlebag once again"?

"she said sensing our confusion. "I can't explain it. Just"
"she said, sensing our confusion. "I can't explain it. Just"?

"surrounding Scribbles' table o' junk"
"surrounding Scribbles's table o' junk"?

Also, this is going back a bit, but:
"Scribbles threw herself into her work. Assembling all of the pieces 'till they were"
"Scribbles threw herself into her work. Assembling pieces 'till they were"?
Mechanically, the former is fine, but I was very confused as I read on by how she still appeared to be putting things together when the text quoted here had clearly indicated to me that she'd finished. I've now realized that I think you meant that was what she was doing, not that she'd done that, but I still don't read that from the quoted text as it is. Up to you how and of course even if to handle this, but I thought I'd both let you know and make the suggestion. Sorry about the bother.

Ah, and going back for another reason:
"She opened it up, and read a display. "5:56?!""
"She opened it up, and read a display. "6:56?!""?
It doesn't look like she's meant to be spending over an hour doing this, but two times a short while later are 6:58 and 6:59.

"Good Princess Whinnyslaus"
"Good Princess Whinnycslaus"
There appears to be some inconsistency in the song's name.

"Scribbles' voice fell to a whisper."
"Scribbles's voice fell to a whisper."?

"you think Miss Honey would see that coming"
"you'd think Miss Honey would've see that coming"?
Though that's dialogue, so I'm not sure if the current version's just the way Foster's saying it.

"I had Rose Petals on my flank that had"
"I had rose petals on my flank that had"?

"Misty Mountain shoved his way straight in."
"Misty Mountain shoved his way straight in and kicked the door shut behind himself."?
Again, not a mechanical fault in the current version, but I kept waiting for a mention of the door being closed, and I was becoming increasingly doubtful that Misty Mountain would be saying and doing the things he was with it open. Though possibly I just missed it, or haven't gotten to it yet at this point and he would have been doing those anyway; if so, sorry for the misinterpretation.

"Thanks for potato time!"
Okay, that I found a particularly humorous bit of phrasing/naming. :D
...Not entirely sure why. I mean, lots of nice bits of phrasing, so not sure why that one stood out to me at that time. [shrugs] But still. :)

Ah, and end of the chapter! Despite me being very behind schedule, and with a big backlog to get through, I still want more. :D
Thank you for writing!

Ah, yes, and Happy Belated Hearth's Warming and New Year both!
(May or may not have said one or the both of those to you before, plus or minus the belation, but I wan't sure and wanted to make sure they were covered. :))

(Written around the start of the music in the broadcast, before continuing on to the rest of the chapter, but put here due to length:)
DJ Pon3's broadcast was interesting.
"How we're powerless to defend ourselves without big strong murderers everywhere swaggering around to keep the peace."
The thing is, though:
"Well, folks, we lost contact a few months now. Same with the merchant-run village out West by Appaloosa."
"Because it's easier than going to war with every gang in Equestria."
Present events do rather seem to be more supportive of the view of the thugs with the bathtub gin. Independent autonomous communities can't hold out against Red Eye, because his forces are much larger, much better equipped and supplied, and willing, I assume, to just blow any autonomous communities they can't capture to bits and kill every mare, stallion, and foal there to stop them from being pockets of resistance. If you can't hide from Red Eye, you need a combination of a willingness to make deals with him and as much force as you can get to influence the deals in your favor. And as the DJ says, it's not you, the ordinary pony, the -lords are afraid of -- it's Red Eye and his army. The trick to being as safe as possible would appear to be getting your own big strong murders and keeping them as well-disposed towards you as possible. Except:
"Red Eye's not the first stooge to get big ideas about the way Equestria should be run. I should know. I've been around forever, baby. But ponies like Red Eye always fall, and their big shot colonels and generals don't give a fuck about their visions of brave new worlds. The confederacy of gangs that have recently sworn allegiance to that big ugly flag of his? They're gonna tear each other up in the aftermath."
That doesn't exactly inspire hope if you, random charismatic and well-intentioned Wastelander, think you have a big idea about how to help the Wasteland, does it? Even if you're right -- and as the broadcast says, Red Eye thinks that he's right, too -- the people you have fighting for you, because you almost certainly are going to have to fight, against raiders, against the -lords who don't joint you, etc., can't be trusted and will probably just turn your idealistic vision to their own brutal gain.
Their crisis is our opportunity, says the DJ, but opportunity for what? If people like Red Eye will keep rising, and then falling again, without having made things better even by their own metrics, if the Wasteland despite all efforts for all various views of good and ill is still here... what is the hope supposed to be for, exactly?
And the broadcast doesn't seem to have an "exactly". Keep building good communities, keep caring for one another; keep doing good, and trying to help those close to you without hurting those more distant. Even though that's both hard and more likely than not to, after a point, not be enough. Keep hoping that things will change for the better, even when there don't seem to be much in the way of grounds for that by the DJ's own admission.
One gets the sense that DJ Pon3 is trying to live their own advice, in that they also would very much like to know what on Equus they're actually hoping for, exactly, but are trying to do their best in the meantime.
Hope that the next good major effort for change might be the exception -- perhaps someday a collective rising or a hero will succeed.
Hope that the next "good", or more outright bad, effort won't be -- the Red Eyes of the world always fall.
It's a tenuous thing -- but to the oppressed who have no other hope, better than nothing.
(Perhaps not very organized thoughts, sorry -- but I'm low on time, still, and I thought you might prefer seeing the above disorganized to seeing it not at all.)

[Sprocket Doggingsworth]

11106747
Cataloneigha and Appleoosa, according to the evening report, had been doing quite well for themselves as autonomous militia communes, defending their towns against gangs and organized raiders. It was only Red Eye's concentrated assaults they couldn't withstand.

As for hope, she's advising the Wastelanders to keep organizing as best they can so they are in a position to step into the power vacuum after all the rival gangs, (formerly united under Red Eye), decimate each other.

Her hope is in militant autonomous communes, as that is the only viable social structure for liberating the common pony at that time. (Pre Littlepip).

[Reese]

11106849
...I'm not getting the logic behind the spoiler tags, sorry, why they're on the first two paragraphs and, given that, why they aren't on the third. So I'll just put them on all the body paragraphs here, just to be safe; sorry about the confusion.

"Cataloneigha and Appleoosa, according to the evening report, had been doing quite well for themselves as autonomous militia communes, defending their towns against gangs and organized raiders. It was only Red Eye's concentrated assaults they couldn't withstand."
Right -- but they indeed could not withstand those. And it sounds like at least the one in Cataloneigha only lasted about a year.
Also, looking back at the text, I don't think I'd gotten that it had been tested successfully against organized raiders, either. The attacks that brought them down were specifically called disciplined and targeted, unlike typical raiders.

"As for hope, she's advising the Wastelanders to keep organizing as best they can so they are in a position to step into the power vacuum after all the rival gangs, (formerly united under Red Eye), decimate each other. "
Ahhh, thanks!

"Her hope is in militant autonomous communes, as that is the only viable social structure for liberating the common pony at that time. (Pre Littlepip)."
And thanks!

Okay, so I didn't get that meaning from the text, sorry -- though the meaning I got from the text is not incompatible with that.
Of course, there's the chance those communes would turn into warring, tyrannical, and/or imperialistic city states -- but since that's basically the state of the Wasteland now, perhaps a bit better or a bit worse, and there's the chance that some of them both don't go that way and manage to survive, that seems like a worthwhile goal to pursue.
Hm. I'm not sure what to do about not having understood that from the chapter text, though. Have you gotten feedback on this particular thing from others? Perhaps it's just me.

[Sprocket Doggingsworth]

11106903
Rose Petal has no context for what she's hearing, and we don't have that much more info than she does. It's a fairly precise analysis, and I think what really matters (more than the actual details) is proof that Red Eye is actively making the outside world worse, and that there are functioning models of resistance in the Wasteland that he's crushing.

The lesser of two evils is a lot more evil than Rose was led to believe.

[Reese]

11107467
"Rose Petal has no context for what she's hearing, and we don't have that much more info than she does. It's a fairly precise analysis"
Ah, thanks! I think I do recall pondering "We don't have enough context" as a potential explanation -- but if you wanted that full meaning clear to the reader, the insufficient context would still be a problem. Glad to hear it sounds like you don't think it is.
(And it does make sense: regular listeners take a meaning like yours because they have the context, and Rose and Cliff take a meaning like yours because they're heavily idealistic and skate over the holes left by missing context.
(Actually, thinking on it, it's even more that than I thought before -- because they're trusting DJ Pon3, who they know nothing about other than that he's saying things they like the sound of. We the readers have background on him and Homage that gives weight to the claims made by the voice on the radio, but for all our three protagonists actually know, DJ Pon3 is just a crazy pony holed up with an old radio transmitter, or a creation of Red Eye to encourage dissidents to reveal themselves, or the like. But I'd so accepted the context I knew that I hadn't even thought of that aspect before.)
I'm quite curious about Foster's true thoughts on this -- though I'd not be too surprised if she ends up keeping those to herself.)

"and I think what really matters (more than the actual details) is proof that Red Eye is actively making the outside world worse"
I thought readers and characters already... Hm. Actually, did our protagonists actually know that already? Now that I think of it, possibly not. Thanks!

"and that there are functioning models of resistance in the Wasteland that he's crushing"
Ehh. Once again, though, I'm not sure how much that comes through in the text. You appear to be satisfied with it, though, so perhaps it is just me; if so, glad it isn't a more widespread problem.

"The lesser of two evils is a lot more evil than Rose was led to believe."
Yeah, this comment conversation has got me thinking back and trying to sort out more what I know about Red Eye's empire and what Rose knows about it.

So thanks for the conversation. :)

[Kkat]

11106484 It depends on how pedantically the story is holding to the original Fallout: Equestria timeline. In the story, characters would refer to things as "200 years" after the apocalypse, which would be a match to the "200 years or so" that Rose calculated in her freefall.

That number is, however, a generalization. In the Fo:E chapter "Generous Souls", we are given a much more definitive timestamp: Littlepip entered Fillydelphia 202 years, 37 days after the apocalypse (with an error margin of about 2 days). At one point, Littlepip mentions that it is summer. If "200 years or so" has an error margin of less than a year and we are a few days before Hearth's Warming, then I believe Rose is in Fillydelphia roughly a year and a half before Littlepip. Assuming Sprocket is taking on the burden of that level of adherence to detail, which they don't have to.