You have amnesia. All you know is someone tried to kill you, and that you want to kick her ass. 2nd Person Rainbow Dash POV.
You wake up with no memories, a bullet wound to the head, and an intense craving for sarsaparilla. The only clues to your past are a couple of guns, the word of the creepy robot who saved your life... and your empty grave.
Unrelated to but inspired by Fallout: Equestria, taking place in the world of Fallout: New Vegas.
Vote on what happens next in the comments.
Rainbow Dash = Courier Six Applejack = Sunny/Cass Rarity = Boone Starlight = Veronica Twilight = Arcade Fluttershy = Red Lucy Pinkie = a Boomer OC Lightning Dust = Benny/Ulysses Sunset = Joshua Graham
You awaken, head throbbing, vision blurry. A ringing voice floats around your ears but you can't quite make out what it says. Everything is bright. Too bright. It hurts. You screw your eyes shut trying to block out the light but it only makes the ringing louder. The pain intensifies. Everything hurts... especially your forehead. Feels like there's a knife embedded in it. What happened last night?
“Look who’s awake.” A voice says. Soft. Tender. Feminine. Vaguely familiar though you can't place it anywhere. You run through the list of people you know trying to figure out where you know that voice from but you can't remember anyone in particular. A hangover? Are you drunk? You don't feel drunk. What happened last night?
Something bad.
You lurch forward, and pain floods your ears. Suddenly you're underwater. Breathing is now impossible. You're dying. Everything hurts. It's too bright. Head aches. Hands grab your shoulders. The floor is close. You're on your knees. Bare wooden floors. Cold. Familiar. You were in this position last night. What happened last night?
“Easy, easy!” The voice coos again. You feel yourself lifted to your hooves. Clop clop. “It ain't a race now, darlin’. Here, I'm gonna give you something for the pain, okay?”
Something stabs your arm. Tiny. Needle? Fluid enters your veins. This should set off warning bells in your head, but it doesn't. Everything seems fine. Your headache is slowly abating. You can see again. It still hurts like a motherfucker. God damn it, why can't you remember what happened last night?
Images slowly come into focus. You see a mare in front of you. Her coat is white, her mane a pale pink. She’s wearing a brown leather duster and black pants. There's a huge chunky black device attached to her wrist. There's a paper hat on her head with a red plus sign on it. Ah. She must be a medical professional. She sits you back down gently. Your headache is almost gone now. Wow, what was in that needle?
“There,” the mare whispers. “Probably brought you from a nine to a four, huh?” Your mouth is dry and you have nothing to say. “Well in any case I think you'd much rather be a four than dead I take it?”
Dead? What the fuck?
The mare’s eyebrows raise. “Huh,” she murmured. “That seems a surprise to you. Do you remember anything?”
Mouth still dry. Can't speak. You nod your head no.
She purses her lips. “What's the last thing you remember?”
You glance to the side, out the window. It's filthy. You can barely see anything through it. You can't even tell what time it is. Okay, was it day or night last you remember? It should be easy. When was your last memory? Flashes of empty nothings go by. It's a blank slate. Amnesia?
“I-” cough cough. You look down. Dirt. Huh, so that's why your mouth felt try. Cough cough. So dry. “Wa...er?”
She nods. “Yep, there's some right here,” she says as she reaches to the floor. You follow her arm down. Scarred heavily. She grabs a bottle of what looks to be water. She offers it to you and you gratefully grab it. You tear the cap off and guzzle it, as if you'd never drank water before. It tastes off. But good. Clean. Pure. Delicious.
You drain the bottle before breathing again. That feels better. You cough a few more times. Your tongue is wet. You feel better; revitalized, even. She takes the bottle from your hand and you examine your body.
Pale blue fur covers sweaty palms. Your arms are wiry. You clench your fists. No, not wiry. Definite muscle mass. Nothing huge but you comfortably feel you could bench press the doctor. She didn't look too skinny anyway. Further down you see your torso. More blue fur. You see you're bare chested but for some reason that doesn't bother you. This is a hospital of sorts after all, and the doctor is a lady just like you seem to be. You're wearing a charcoal grey pair of shorts.
“Doc?” You ask, your mouth finally able to deliver words. You ask the burning question. “What happened last night?”
She leaned back and sighed, lacing her fingers together. “It wasn't last night for you. But as for the last day you were conscious, I don't rightly know myself. The metal feller brought your body to me a few nights ago, saying’ you got shot. Lo n’ behold, there was a fresh bleedin’ bullet wound right in your noggin. Somehow you weren't straight dead from the shot. I reckon that makes you the luckiest son of a gun in Vegas. Or, eh, daughter of a gun, as the case may be.”
Shot in the head? Your hand reaches for your forehead. Yeah, there’s a giant scab there. What the hell? At least that explains why your head hurts. But, Faust alive, shot in the head? Seriously?
“Who...?”
She shrugs. “Sorry, but I ain't got an answer. With my leg bein’ what it is,” she says, motioning to it. “I don't do much walkin’ so I spend all my time here at home. The people around town might be able to help you figure stuff once you leave here, but right now I gotta make sure that everything’s in place up there. It’s my job to make sure you're healthy before you leave.”
You sigh. Well this is a pickle and a half. So someone unknown tried to kill you for an unknown reason, you don't know where you are, you're stuck in this “hospital”, there's a huge ugly head wound right smack in the middle of your forehead, and you don't remember anything. Well, it’s not like things can get any worse though.
“Now usually it's customary to ask all my patients what I should call them. You've been here three, no, make that four days and I've just been callin’ you The Patient. Surely you got a name?”
Oh yeah, absolutely. Everyone’s got a name.
...
Oh.
“Uuuhhh...”
Well this is awkward.
“I... don't remember.”
She looks at you with a deadpan expression on her face. “Well. That complicates things.”
You sigh and put your head in your hands. You jerk back and readjust so you don't press on your scab. This is probably the worst day of your entire life, even if it's the only day you remember. The silver lining, however, is that things can only get better from here on out.
“Maybe your memories will come back to you over time,” she says, standing up. “In any case, my name is Redheart.” She reaches a hand out, and you grab it, letting her pull you up. “Let's take care of the cosmetics, a physical, a psych profile, and then get you dressed n’ ready to take on the wasteland.”
Oh joy.
“Now, can you walk?”
Probably. You take a step. Yep, you can walk all right. You take another step. Nope, you cannot walk all right.
“Whoa nelly, take it slow now. Ya ain't used your legs in days, let ‘em take a second to settle. Lean on me if ya have to. Slow, now. Slow.”
Slow... bleugh. Slow is for losers.
...fast. Fast is good. You like fast.
But maybe not right now.
“Alright,” you begrudgingly mutter as you put an arm around her shoulders. She supports your other arm, and you get a feel for walking. Easy does it. Feeling comes back to your legs in a rush of pins and needles. You feel better already. Before you sits a strange machine with a mirror attached. Curiosity drives you to look inside.
Your eyes are first drawn to your hair. Red, orange, and yellow in the front, and the rest of the rainbow in the back. Bold. Hmm. You must have a bold personality. No way is that color natural, after all. You wonder what color your roots must be. Your eyes wander to the big red crunchy circle in the middle of your forehead. Crunchy? Whatever it looks like, it ain't pretty. But it gives you character, you feel.
You then lock eyes with yourself. Magenta irises. Sharp pupils. You look like you've seen some real shit in your life, however long it may or may not have been. At least twenty, not quite thirty. You have a strong jaw, but your cheekbones aren't that striking.
“Face look okay?” Redheart asks. “I had to root around n’ get all the lead out. I tried to get it back to what it looked like before, but all I had was guess work. Gettin’ shot in the head usually rearranges your skull slightly, so it ain't gonna be exact, but you look equine.”
You nod gently. “Looks fine,” you answer. For all you know, that's what you look like. And if that's what you look like, well, look out stallions of the waste. Hm? Hmmm.
You only know one face, that of Redheart. Now you know two faces.
“Well lookit that,” she murmurs, stepping back. “You're standing by yourself now.”
The words hardly register. You remember a third face. A face with narrowed eyebrows, cold topaz eyes, and a lit cigarette in her mouth. And the gun pointed right at you.
“Know anyone with topaz eyes?”
Redheart hesitates for a moment. “My husband.”
“He isn't a mare, is he?”
“Well, I'm pretty sure he wasn't. Why?”
You sigh. “I remember the mare who killed me. I remember her face. And her gun. Nine millimeter. Gold plating. She was smoking a cigarette.”
Redheart nods. “That's good, means memory is coming back.”
“Oh yeah, real good. Just means the someone who wants to kill me is a lady, fan freakin’ tastic.”
Redheart pats your back. “At least she thinks you're dead. You can pack up and leave Pegas, make a new life. Go on and test your strength on this here machine.”
Yeah... or get revenge.
“Yeah. Leaving... sounds like a plan.” You grab the handle on the machine before you: the Veritably Vigorous Vit-O Matic Vigor Tester 3000. Strength, Perception, Endurance, Charisma, Intelligence, Agility, Luck. After a moment, the values read all 6 except for Agility, which read 9. “I'll get right on that.”
Redheart nods. “Spry. Limber. Any faster, maybe you coulda just dodged that bullet. Well, in any case your vitals seem fine. But considering I just did brain surgery, let's make sure the hamster in your head is spinning the wheel like it should.”
“Sounds good...”
Wait.
“...what the fuck is a hamster?”
Redheart burst out laughing.
You simply blink and stare at her, wondering what was so funny.
Abruptly she stops. “Oh, you were serious. It's a rodent from before the war. I know about it from some biology textbooks that survived.”
Well you know what rodents are, at least. But... “What war?”
Redheart blinks. “The atomic war. Between Equestria, the Reds, and the Chineighse. The, uh. The reason why the world got blown to hell by nukes. Tell me you forgot that little detail.”
It's your turn to blink, and you feel a tidal wave of dread and nihilistic despair crash over you. “So you're telling me that the entire outside world is destroyed?”
Redheart seems indecisive for a moment. “Well, not the entire world. California survived the brunt of the explosions. Nevada got hit a few times but New Pegas proper is mostly intact. Luckily that's right up the road from us. But there's still dozens of radiation pockets out there, and mutated animals up the wazoo. It ain't a pretty world but it's what we got.”
“Hmm.”
Destroyed world, huh? Well, it doesn't sound that bad. Not good, but not bad either.
“Alright, take a seat on the couch. Oh, and now that you're out of the operating room, I bet you're feelin’ a bit immodest. Here,” Redheart says, handing you a piece of fabric. “Wear this undershirt. It belonged to my husband. He, uh, won't be needing it anymore.”
You shrug and accept the article, pulling it over your head. “Thanks Doc.” You pull it down and straighten it out. It's a little big on you, but you do feel a bit warmer. You sit down on the couch prepared for you “Where is your husband?”
She freezes in the middle of shifting around some papers. “Buried up by the water tower in the graveyard.”
...shit.
“Sorry-” you try to apologize but find yourself cut off.
“No need. You didn't know. He got leukemia. It's a sickness you can get from radiation exposure. He just loved eating those hundred year old Salisbury steaks, bless his heart. He lived a decently long life. Died peaceful.” Redheart brought the stack of paper into the big red chair across from you. “I ain't fixin’ to hold onto sentiment if I can help someone in need.”
You nod, somber. “Right.”
Redheart smiles. “In any case,” she says, right back to business. “I'm gonna do some word association; I’ll say a word and then you say the first word that comes to mind. Dog.”
As you perform the exercise, the back of your mind reflects on the events of the past few minutes. Here's what you know for sure.
One. The mare with the topaz eyes and the golden gun shot you in the head. Two. You didn't die, and the only people who know that you're still alive are this doctor and “the metal feller” who dug you up. Three. The world outside is almost completely destroyed. Four. You're a mare with a cyan coat and a rainbow mane. Five. You don't remember anything. Not even your own name. Six...
...wait.
Six.
Courier Six.
“COURIER!”
Redheart is taken aback by your outburst.
“I'm a courier for the Mojave express!” You find yourself standing up, pulse pounding, pure joy and elation coursing through your veins. “Whatever the hell that means, I remember!”
Redheart nods. “Very good. And, uh, one more ink blot test. Tell me what you see here.”
“Uh.” You study the Rorschach, and say exactly what it looks like to you. “Two bears high fiving.”
Redheart doesn't react; she simply takes down the canvas. “Alrighty then. Everything sure seems to be in order. You don't seem nutty, or like some kind of violent psychopath. I'd ask for your medical history but considering you don't even remember your name that seems fruitless.” She stands up. “Well, no sense keepin’ you cooped up in here. Let me get you an outfit, seeing as you're still in your underwear.”
You follow her out of the living room down a hall and into a bedroom. She opens a wardrobe and pulls out a pair of black slacks and a maroon button-up shirt. “Here,” she says, handing you the clothing. “These were my husband’s. I'd offer you some of my clothes but they’d be a bit big on you. You seem his size anyway.”
“Thanks Doc.” You slip them on over your undies. True to her word, they seem to fit pretty well. Just a tad bit tight around the chest but that's to be expected. As you button up you come to a bit of an unfortunate realization. “I don't have much in the way of payment.”
“No payment necessary. First, do no harm.” She cocks her head to the side. “I'd be a disgrace to my profession if I demanded exorbitant payment for life saving surgery. I'm a doctor because I want to help people, not because I wanna turn a profit. Although once you head out in the world and make some caps, if you wanna buy some extra medical supplies, maybe some chems, I’ll always be here.”
You nod. “I appreciate that. Thanks for saving my life.”
“Don't mention it. Besides, it's Kevin who saved you. He’s the metal feller who brought you to me. Thank him.”
You nod. “Kevin. Where can I find him?”
“Just down the path to the main road, then hang right. His shack’s all the way down at the end. He can be a bit... intimidating, what with all the laser guns and rocket launchers... but he's real friendly.”
“Got it. So uh. Where do you recommend I start off?”
“How so?”
You shrug. “All I know is in this house. You said earlier there were radiation pockets and mutated animals. That sounds pretty deadly, n’ dangerous. Not fun. It'd be a shame if I survived getting shot in the head just to get eaten by a bear or something.”
Redheart puts her fingers to her chin. “Well, you could talk to Applejack. You can find her down at the Prospector Saloon this time of day, down the street, straight, and on the left past the general store. She's our town’s resident gecko hunter, along with her hunting dog Wynona. She's got an impressive selection of guns. Help her hunt and she’ll be sure to let you have one.”
You nod. “Kevin the robot, shack to the right. Applejack, Saloon past the store. Got it.”
“Oh, one more thing.” Redheart removes the device from her wrist and hands it to you. “Take this Pipboy. I grew up in a vault and we all had one. I don't use this much anymore. Mostly just keeping it around as a souvenir of my past. Like I said earlier, I ain't given to sentiment if I can help someone. This thing monitors your vitals, enhances your senses. It's got a geiger counter, compass, radio, map, notepad, and if you ever get bored it's got a few games on it. It'll help you start a new life... after you get your revenge.”
You cock an eyebrow.
“That's right, Courier. I saw that glint in your eyes earlier. You wanna take the fight to the mare who done you wrong. That ain't my business. All the choices you make from here on out, those are yours and yours alone. My job here was to make sure you live long enough to get to make those decisions. Maybe I just formed an attachment to you these last few days I spent pullin metal outta your brain, maybe in just getting soft in my old age. Either way, I wish you all the best.”
You nod. “I appreciate that, Doc. Thanks.”
“No problem.” She opens the door, letting light pour in. “Oh, and uh... try not to get killed anymore.”
You smile, despite yourself, and she does too. “I'll try.”
You step out into the sun...
/x/x/x/
And so begins the journey of Courier Six.
She steps out of the doctor’s house, a dead mare alive again. She doesn't know it yet, but on the path to her revenge, she will alter the course of a war she doesn't even know exists yet.
Because war makes itself known to all who live in its vicinity. It doesn't discriminate between the sinners or the saints. It takes and it takes and it takes and it takes, and we keep fighting anyway.
The sun blinds you as you exit Redheart’s house. Briefly you have half a mind to jokingly ask her for a lollipop before heading out. Although, you can't remember the last time you had candy. Hmm. You know you like candy. Sarsaparilla is your favorite flavor. Bits and pieces of nothing. It should bring comfort but... it doesn't. In any case you got a free brain surgery and clothes, and feel it's better not to push your luck with the Doc’s generosity.
After briefly turning over the decision in your head on where to go first, you ultimately decide to head to the saloon and talk to this ‘Applejack’. You figure that there’s no sense in learning more about who tried to kill you if the desert eats you alive before even leaving this town. And besides, you want to talk to more people with normal names. Names like Redheart and Applejack seem much closer to home than whatever the hell kind of name is “Kevin”.
Your eyes finally adjust to the sudden brightness. You find yourself at the top of a hill heading down a dusty path to a broken concrete intersection. A pavement road passes your left and leads to a gas station. Another road moves forward into the distanxe, and a broken side street heads off to the right. Between the two roads to your front and right, there’s a good dozen or so houses spread around a pen of strange but familiar two-headed livestock. In the far distance to the left you see a water tower atop a hill, and to the right on the horizon is a really big... lowercase T. Or is that a plus sign?
Your hooves take you down the path to the road proper. Your wrist buzzes as you receive several generic messages on the Pipboy detailing your vitals and info on local radio stations. You ponder for a moment if it should be a Pipgirl considering your own gender. Unless “Pipboy” is an acronym. Everything seems fine except for a slight head wound, it tells you.
To your direct right at the end of the road, you see a big blue robot standing in front of a shack. Well, it had a single wheel rather than legs, but finding the proper verb is unimportant. That must be the “metal feller”, Kevin. A big red “Zzz” is on its face window. Huh. Even if you'd wanted to talk to it first you wouldn't have been able to anyway it seems. Unless of course you woke it up. But something in your gut tells you it may fare better to build connections with the rest of the small town first; it could come in handy down the road.
You continue forward. Two large buildings occupy the left side of the street. One is labeled “Ponyville General Store”, the other “Prospector Saloon”. You want to browse the general store. but that thought is quickly dashed once you immediately remember that, oh right, you don't have any money.
Hmm... dashed... that’s a pretty cool word. Dash.
You continue onward. There are a scant few ponies standing around who quickly stop what they're doing to stare at you. Nothing accusatory, simply curiosity. You can hardly blame them, what with your blatantly obvious head wound, and the fact that word of a mare getting shot in the head and not dying would spread quickly even in a large town. Although, this seems more like a village than a town. A decently sized tumbleweed rolls by.
You decide against waving. Not to be a social shut in on purpose, but if you waved at every random stranger you encountered on your journey then it would surely come off as creepy. If anypony said hello to you, you'd of course return the greeting, but just staring from a distance isn't exactly an invitation to start a conversation. Well good, at least you remember some basic social skills and etiquette.
The entrance door to the Prospector Saloon is visible to you now. From inside you can hear some muffled smooth jazz. On the porch, several ponies sit and drink beer and whiskey, one of them even drinking wine straight from the bottle. Among them all, a burly stallion sits in a rocking chair smoking a pipe. The duster he wears is affixed with a silver star on the chest. His coat is a brilliant crimson, and what hair he might have is concealed by a large stetson hat. He’s a big boy, you notice. Very muscular. A hefty revolver sits clipped to his belt.
“Howdy.” He says. His voice is deep and low, like sarsaparilla. You feel your mouth start to salivate, as if you were Pavlov’s dog and you heard a bell ring. Except you have no idea who Pavlov is, have only the vaguest idea of what a dog is, and what if anything that has to do with the immense craving that has now awakened within you.
Realizing you’ve said nothing in response for several moments, you quickly nod your head. “Hi.”
He looks up. He's blonde, you can now tell, and has eyes the deep color of emerald. He stares at your face, his gaze pensive. He definitely seems to be reading you. After a few moments of silent contemplation, he stands up and takes a step closer to you. In any other circumstances you'd find this an open act of aggression as his form absolutely towers over you, but this stallion doesn't seem to want to fight you.
“Y'all must be the mare what got shot.” He tapped the middle of his forehead. “Doc’s been workin’ you somethin’ fierce. Name’s Macintosh. Sheriff to out of towners. Big Mac to the locals. Welcome to Ponyville. It’s nothin’ special to most, but it's mah home. S’long’s you don't start no trouble y’all are welcome here.” He reaches a hand out to greet you. You take it, firmly grasping. His eyes light up at this.
“Y'all gotsa good handshake.” He takes a few steps back and returns to his chair. “Bartender’s out at the moment on account of... personal business.”
He seems nice.
“Well I'm not looking for the bartender,” you say, discreetly rubbing your now-sore hand. “I'm looking for a mare named Applejack. Redheart said I could find her here around this time of day.”
Macintosh, or Mac as you decide to refer to him for brevity’s sake from here on, cocks an eyebrow. “First name basis with the Doc, huh? Well, spend three or four days with anypony and you'll call ‘em anything. Applejack’s just inside, probably at the billiards table. You got here at an opportune time, she's about to head out for the evening. Any later, n’ you’d have to wait ‘til close to dusk.”
“Oh.” That was an easy quest. “Thanks.”
“Eeyup.” He says, before dropping his head and returning to his pipe.
You step through the saloon doors, and are assailed with tunnel vision. You wonder if there is a single clean window in this entire town. Village. Whatever. As you step in, you feel your hoof step on a loose floorboard, and the most horrifying squeak in the world assaults your ears, followed immediately by an angry barking dog. Instantly as your heart stops for a moment, you remember what dogs are.
“Heel, Wynona.”
A voice like autumn leaves sails through your head, instantly repairing the damage done by the floor, and ceasing the animal’s noises. Your vision slowly returns to you as a pretty little number steps toward you. Your surroundings fade away as she approaches.
Her coat is a warm orange, her mane straw blonde and tied in a neat tail, her eyes a similar shade to the stallion’s outside. She is heavily freckled along her strong cheekbones. A piece of chaffed wheat sits between her lips. She is adorned in a brown stetson hat, a golden leather duster over a red and white plaid button-up shirt, and a pair of black leather pants. Pieces of leather armor cover her arms and legs. She’s also decked out from shoulder to leg in a few different guns. She wears a Winchestnut lever-action rifle over her shoulders, a double-barreled shotgun on her back, a Colt revolver on her right thigh, and you can see what looks like a Marsh-Takarov pistol in a semi-hidden holster below her left armpit. A big bowie knife is strapped to her left fetlock, and a water canteen to her right. She sets down the pool cue she was holding, sets her fists at her hips, and adjusts the straw to the other side of her mouth.
You stand mesmerized. She looks so... awesome!
“Y'all can move now,” she says, with a slight smile. “The dog ain't gonna bite ya unless I tell her to. She’s a good girl... yes she is,” she says, bending down slightly to rub the dog’s ears. “I'm Applejack. I take it by that big ugly red dot on your head that you're the mare what got shot. Doc’s been workin’ you somethin’ fierce.”
“That's, uh...” you feel like you're tripping over your own tongue. The air in here must be quite dusty. “That's what the guy outside said.”
“Hmm?” She spits out the side of her mouth onto the floor, then draws back to her full height. She has a few inches on you. “I wouldn't doubt it. My brother n’ I talk real similar when he’s given to talkin’. If he said anything more n’ eeyup or nope it means he likes ya.”
“Your brother?”
She chuckles and steps over to one of the booths along the right side wall. Your eyes travel down the length of her back. Her hair reaches almost all the way down to the small of her back, where your eyes linger for a moment. Wow, she’s certainly fit. And those pants are… very tight. She pours two glasses of what seems to be scotch, and hands one to you.
“Yup. Mac n’ I are siblings. So’s our little sister, Bloom. N’ our granny’s the bartender.” You gladly accept the glass. “We all been here longer n’ most in town. Anyhow, let's have a little toast to your recovery. Ain't like everypony can just get up after gettin’ shot in the head and buried alive.”
With that she takes out the wheat and knocks back the whole glass. Must be watered down or something. You do the same, briefly wondering if you’re even old enough to drink yet, when the cocktail slams into you like a sledgehammer to the throat. Nope, it's not watery at all; more like lighter fluid. Feels strong enough to wash the paint off the building. Your lower eyelids and cheeks grow wet.
“Heh,” Applejack steps forward and places her hands on your shoulders, steadying you. “Easy there, Sugarcube. I guess I overestimated your tolerance a mite bit. Good thing that bullet warn’t a shot o’ tequila, else it woulda really done you in.”
Her hands are rough and callused, you can feel through your shirt. They feel like they can crush a tin can. And yet they also feel like they can replant a flower without damaging it. They're very warm too.
“Tequila?” You cough. “That tastes like turpentine.”
“Yeah, well, pretty much most booze made outta radioactive agave tastes like that. So what's your poison if it ain't tequila? We got whiskey, scotch, vodka, wine, beer if it's your fancy. Maybe some brandy or gin here or there. I think some... rum? And I brew up a mean moonshine, if’n ya got any spare fission batteries on hand. I'd offer an atomic cocktail but those are all Mac’s, and if I even touch the absinthe Granny would kill me.”
You sigh, overwhelmed by the choices, and even more overwhelmed by your own indecision. “I wish I had an answer but I don't remember anything before waking up today at Doc’s. Not even my name, least of all my favorite drink. It might be sarsaparilla. Might even be water.”
She frowns slightly at this. “Sorry to hear that, sug. What all do ya remember?”
“I remember the face of the mare who shot me, what she shot me with, and that I'm a courier. Number Six with the Mojave Express. That's about all that's important.”
Applejack pats your back, leaving her hand there for a moment. “Well I ain't gonna call you Courier Six. Y'all deserve a real name. How about I call you after your hair color or somethin’ like that?”
You shrug. Better than nothing. “Sure.”
“Alright. How about... blue?”
“Blue?”
She gestures towards your cyan fur.
“You mean cyan?”
Applejack raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t cyan just a fancy word for blue?”
You don't feel like a blue. You tell her so.
“Alright, I won't call ya blue. How about your head hair, like... rainbow?”
Rainbow, hm? Something about that name really resonates with you. “Yeah,” you say. “That works.”
“Okay. Rainbow it is. Now, Rainbow, seeing as you're new in town, need any help with anything in particular?”
“Well, I’m looking for you actually. Redheart said you're a hunter and could help me learn a few things about surviving the desert. Plus I figure I owe a debt to this town for saving my life, and wanna meet the locals. Maybe even do some work for you, get some money for the road.”
She smiles, and flicks away the piece of hay. “I hunt, yeah. Geckos, coyotes, bugbears, scorpions, cockatrices, bugs n’ other varmints. ‘Xept for the cazadors of course; those critters just get mad if ya shoot ‘em. Just for now. I also run the Mojave branch of my parents’ caravan company, Brightbutter. That's my main income, but I guess I also count as a hunter. In any case I suppose I could use a partner; gotta clear out the wells today. It’s worth some caps to me, a rifle too since I got that bolt action at home. Tell you what, let’s get you fitted for armor- cuz let's face it, ya ain't wearin’ that, the sun’ll kill ya before any geckos do- and getcha familiar with the gun. Sound good?”
“Hell yeah!” You exclaim. Your heart is now pounding in your chest. Not at all like before when you were waking up, this is excitement, pure and simple. Heat rises to your cheeks for some reason; it must be the alcohol finally hitting your head.
Applejack nods, and takes a step past you, headed for the door. Winona follows her close behind. Or was it Wynona? Either way, you take a moment to actually look at the building around you. Straight ahead is a traditional diner, edges lined with booths and tables, billiards table as a centerpiece, jukebox in the corner. A few ponies sit around drinking, one starts to rack up the pool balls. To your left is a regular bar, where a few stallions are playing cards. Okay, you know what a bar is, that's something. Doesn't help much but it probably means you do know your way around booze. Just gotta figure out what it is you drink.
You turn and follow the hunter slash apparent caravaneer and overhear a conversation between siblings.
“I'm trainin’ the new blood, keep an eye on the bar for me.”
“I reckon someone’s gotta. Be careful out there. And if ya happen to pass by Bloom tell her to get on feedin’ the Bighorners, they're gettin’ antsy. It ain't like her to be so tardy.”
“I'll keep an eye out. C’mon Rainbow.”
Mac cocks his hat back. “‘Membered your name, didja?”
You shrug. “Not really,” you say. “She's just calling me that on account of my hair.”
Mac seems satisfied with this answer, seeing as he just kicks back in his chair. The conversation seems over.
Applejack crosses the street and follows a light dusty path. A boulder and a windmill sit on the right, and on the left sits a big metal silo encircled by what’s left of a white picket fence. You follow into the main central part of town, passing by a large house and the pen full of large mutated rams and two-headed cows. Some small vegetable gardens sit interspersed, full of corn, cacti, chili peppers, agave, and tobacco plants, tended to by the townsfolk. They give you strange suspicious looks as you walk by. Your legs move faster.
You try to keep their gazes out of mind. It's surely just because of the big gaping hole in your head, you muse. That’s all. Just focus on the path, and on Applejack ahead of you. You're gonna get some armor, and a rifle. A gun! That's awesome, right? A gleam lights in your eye as you consider how much gaining a firearm would benefit your plans to find the mare with the topaz eyes. Yes, you'll get your revenge, and reclaim your... huh. Reclaim?
Did... did she steal something from you? You try to think but nothing comes to mind. It's all still blank. But you still feel like you need to take something back from her. What could it have been, though? Money? Must be. You don't have any money. In fact you don't remember ever having had money. Which is a given considering your current amnesic predicament. But that doesn't make any sense! If it was just a simple highway robbery, then someone in that fancy checkered suit wouldn't have made such a grand spectacle of tying you up, shooting you in the head, and attempting to bury you. She'd have just killed you, taken the caps, left your body and ran. Right?
No, that look in her eyes... it was personal.
“Do you find me sadistic?”
Her voice echoes in your mind, and suddenly you're back in the moment. The ropes bite your wrists as the three figures look down at you, your knees on the ground. She has a big poker chip in one hand, and a 9mm pistol in the other. The gun is ivory, plated with gold, and it's pointed right between your eyes.
“Trust me when I say I don't enjoy this situation. Much as you may deserve it, only by providence and luck are you in this situation. Or, more likely, a lack thereof, on your part.” She cocks the hammer. “I wanted this moment to be so much more worthy. Grandiose. But alas, it ends here, with the chip in my hands and you in the ground. Goodbye, Courier Six. You've made your last delivery.”
You spit a glob of blood. “I didn't know what would happen to the Divide.”
She cocks her head to the side and sneers. “I don't care.”
BANG!
Wynona licks your face, bringing you back to the present.
“You okay, Rainbow?” Applejack asks from above you. You look up to see that you're kneeling. “You collapsed and your eyes went all glazed. Are you sure you ain't still loopy from surgery?”
You pet the dog as you pull yourself up to your hooves. “I'm fine,” you mumble. “Just remembering more stuff that doesn't make sense. The mare who shot me knew me. This was personal.”
“Hm.” Applejack leans her shoulder against the exterior wall of the closest house before pulling a pack of cigarettes from her shirt. She pulls one out with her teeth, before reaching back into her shirt and pulling out a lighter. She lights up then puts everything back, taking a long drag. “You're by far the most interesting pony who's come to this town in a long while. N’ that's really sayin’ something considering... ah. I promised Granny I wouldn't talk about him.” She pulls the cig from her mouth and puts it forward. “You smoke?”
You honestly don't know. Might as well try. “Sure.” You take a puff. Huh. It isn't bad. Seems familiar. Maybe you do smoke. The tobacco is rich and earthy; mellow. “Thanks.”
Applejack takes it back. “Judgin’ by the fact that you ain't hackin’ an’ coughin’ up a storm, that's a lot more your speed than my tequila, eh?”
You nod. “Yeah. I think I smoke. It tastes good. So far I know I like cigarettes, sarsaparilla, guns, the word dash, your outfit, and have a tragic backstory. I've got the makings of a skeletal personality.”
She smiles and takes another drag. “Ya like my outfit, huh?”
“Well yeah. The hat and duster look cool. Plus you've got like thirty guns.”
“Well thanks. The hat was my daddy’s, he gave it to me when I turned eighteen, an’ I made the duster myself. Gold gecko hide, some turpentine, a little bit o’ nettle, an’ some good ol’ sunlight, and boom, armor. Won't block bullets but it'll block teeth and claws. And I of course found these guns while prospecting.”
“Prospecting?” You ask, perplexed. “You mean, like for gold?”
Applejack chuckles. “No, I don't mean for ore. It's more like... it's a nice way to say scavenging. In my younger days I was a regular wasteland vagabond, out to see the world. I was born here in Pegas, but in my teen rebellion phase I went back west where my daddy grew up. The Boneyard, Redding, and New Rheno... rolled with some gangs. Grew up, wised up, got a sense for business, and set up my branch of the caravan co before comin’ back home. On the way I found these during my travels. Except this beauty,” she says, pulling out the Takarov. “I bought this one offa Davenport here in town.”
She points behind you, at the General Store. “He's the clerk. He can be a bit stingy and uptight, trust me, but he's got a good heart n’ soul. It's just his brain that's built for business. Also I saved his sorry hide from radscorpions more than once so he owes me a few favors.”
You nod, absorbing the information. You wonder briefly why someone would take an adventure across the entirety of the wasteland then just go back to a quiet domestic local hunter post. Sure, her siblings and grandmother lived here- you at least remember how important family ties can be even if you can't quite recall your parents’ faces- but you get the feeling that's not the whole story.
“Can you walk?” She asks.
You nod. “I’m fine...” You say it as if the words hold the power to keep your mental state in place. “In Redheart’s house I couldn't walk. It's getting better. I can do this.”
She nods. “You better. If’n ya collapse on me out in the desert, makin’ camp n’ watchin’ over your body’s gonna come outta your pocket as far as your payment goes.”
You nod. “That's fair.”
The two of you continue on the way, Applejack taking a sharp cut towards a long white house at the other end of the clearing. Broken shutters decorate the walls, and the paint blisters in the sun. A rusty mailbox sits in front of the door. As Applejack struggles with the door knob, you glance around. Everybody seems to have lost interest in you, their faces no longer lingering in curiosity.
“There we go,” Applejack murmurs as she finally yanks the door open. “Darn thing’s been getting stuck recently.”
From inside you can hear more music, this one a bouncy swing tune. As you step in, you once again can't see for a moment, as everything is much darker in here than outside. It passes quickly, probably because your eyes did this song and dance a minute ago, and take a gander around the interior. Nothing special. Everything looks frayed, burned, or decayed, but still useable. Bookshelf, couch, coffee table, chair, radio. A doorway leads to a sparsely decorated kitchen, another to a hall that Applejack walks down. You follow into a bedroom with a bathroom attached. There's two beds and an armoire, one bed being bunked. Applejack opens the armoire.
“Alright, sugar, am I right in guessin’ I can't count on your memory to know your measurements?”
“My what?”
She sighs. “All right. I'll be blunt. How big are your milkers?”
Oh.
“Uh...” you put your palms to your chest. “Not big.”
“That's helpful...” she pulls out a whip. “Alright, take ‘em off.”
“You're...” a rush of what you assume to be embarrassment courses through you. Being naked in front of the doctor was one thing since she was a doctor, but this girl is a hunter and caravaneer by trade. It's just different. “...gonna have to buy me dinner first.”
“I ain't tryin’ ya jump yer bones, I wanna know whether to give ya granny’s or mama’s clothes.”
Oh yeah. That makes sense. Wait a minute, you're both girls, what does it matter if she sees your chest? You chalk this up to being woozy in the head and not quite up to par with the whole emotions and social interaction thing just yet, as you take your clothes off. After a moment you stand before her in just your underwear.
“Didn't figure Redheart gave ya a bra, everything she has might be too big on ya.” Applejack wraps the whip around your chest. “Well dang, everything I have might be too big on ya too. Might have to loan ya something o’ Bloom’s.”
“What's the big deal?” You ask. “Couldn't I just go braless? I'm flat enough probably.”
“Trust me, you do NOT want your nips to chafe out there in the desert, unless you like holding fresh agave to them all day. Ain't like aloe vera despite how much they look alike.” She then checks your hips. “Huh, we’re just about the same here at least. Makes things a little easier in that department. Hold on, lemme get ya some things to choose between.”
As she rifles through the wardrobe you cross your arms in front of you. Despite knowing this was totally fine and normal, a sense of unease still pervades your senses, and you shoot a nervous glance behind you as if somepony was watching from the wood grain. Dammit brain, stop being weird!
Your pipboy buzzes, and the effigy emblazoned upon it blushes. Weird.
“Alright, here is one outfit that'll fit ya fine for what we’re gonna do today. Now uh. I hope you ain't got a problem with hot pink undergarments cuz that's all that's small enough to fit ya.”
You narrow your eyes at the bra. “I. Am not. Wearing that.”
“Oh calm down ya big baby, ain't nopony gonna see it. Now put it on. Oh, and this shirt’s a little ragged but it'll get the job done. Once you get that on I got some leather bitties you'll wanna put on over ‘em. And a pair of reinforced leather pants. I figure it's a good start, and good protection if’n ya end up in a scrape. Shouldn't be a problem though cuz it's just gonna be a couple geckos at most.”
You sigh and comply. After all, nipple chafing sounds horrendous, and you are asking this girl how to survive in the desert after all. Clearly she knows best. Actually it's pretty comfortable, all things considered. Actually, wait, no, scratch that, you remember bras now: the strap is an infernal monster from hell and must die.
“I hate bras.”
“Welcome to womanhood.”
You put the shirt on and button it up, then accept a brief tutorial on how to put on the armor. It's just a few splotches tied to your more fleshy bits but you do feel a bit more badass when they're all on. And then you remember that you're not wearing pants and feel less badass than bareass. Oh god what a terrible pun. Is this your sense of humor? Puns? Ew. You pull the pants on with little time lost.
“Well now,” Applejack says, eyeing your new threads. “You look like a regular wasteland adventurer already.” She reaches towards a rifle sitting on a nearby shelf, and hands it to you. “I'd say somethin’ like, this here's Ol Bessie, treat her well, but Ol Bessie is my rifle. I didn't name this one, so uh, I guess you can name it if you want.”
You take the weapon in your hands. The wood finish is rough; it could use some sanding, but your fingers wrap around it as if finding their way home for the first time. The metal of the barrel is cool on your fingertips. The gun is old and well-used, but you can tell that great care has gone into maintaining it. You've definitely held one of these before.
“This is really awesome, Applejack.” You say as you sling it over your shoulders with the affixed leather strap. “Thanks!”
“Don't thank me, sugar. This is a down payment for YOUR help later today. You're earning this with your own blood sweat and tears. Although let's hope it's just gonna be sweat; blood ain't good for cloth and there ain't time to cry out in the desert.”
“Right...” the prospect of hard work isn't exactly on the top of your priority list, though you do feel an itch for adventure, and actually shooting this bad boy. “Still, I do appreciate it.”
“Gonna name it?”
“I... think I'll test it out a little before settling on a name.”
“That's fair. Gotta break it in first, like a brahmin.” Applejack pulls open a hidden compartment in the armoire, and removes a box. “That gun there is chambered for twenty two long rifle rounds. Mine does five fifty six, so I got plenty of the twenty twos to spare. Might as well teach ya how to load it now.”
The box is about the length of the palm of your hand by double that width. It's yellow with some charcoal gray accents and diagonal stripes. An image of a scope sight fills the dead space. A small, simple label reading “Ranch Defender” is emblazoned on the side. As you take it in your hand you can feel a decent heft to it, and briefly wonder where you're going to put it when Applejack freezes in place.
Except not completely frozen. She's moving but very very slowly. You try to open your mouth to speak but find you cannot move. Actually, again, you can move, but very slowly. The beat of your heart slows to an agonizing pace, and you find that breathing is painfully slow. A moment of panic grips your veins but leaves as soon as it arrives.
“Hello,” says a robotic voice from seemingly right in front of you. “This is your Vault Tec Pip-Boy model 3000 version 21 speaking. This unit has detected ownership of a new item. Would you like to store... Twenty. Two. Long. Rifle. Ammo. In the Vault Tec Pip-Boy model 3000 version 21’s inventory management database? Please think the phrase Store Item to comply. If you would not like to utilize the inventory management database for this item, do not think anything for what you will perceive to be five seconds.”
Uh. Store item?
“Item successfully stored.”
After the mechanical voice leaves your mind, Applejack furrows her brow and takes a step back.
“...what in tarnation?” She asks. “This a magic trick or something?”
You look down to see that the box is no longer in your hands.
“What the hell?” You murmur, turning to look at your Pipboy. The screen no longer has a little equine silhouette, but instead shows a list of items. It seems to show each individual piece of clothing you're wearing, the gun- a varmint rifle, apparently- and 50 rounds of .22LR ammunition. You tap the screen, and when you pull your hand away you're holding the ammo box in your hand.
“That’s some fancy gadget you got there, girl,” Applejack mutters, seemingly awestruck. “If that thing on your wrist can hold gecko meat and leather we might get a really good haul.”
You set the box on the bed, and after a moment it blinks out of existence, followed by your Pipboy buzzing. You analyze the screen and find a weight limit of 260. Interesting. After mentally tallying the weight of everything you're wearing and have equipped, you surmise you can carry that many pounds of various stuff through this Pipboy. You make a mental note to thank Doc Redheart again.
You glance up to see Applejack put on a harness, a belt, and a satchel. The harness has several shotgun shells in loops attached to each strap, and the belt has quite a few rifle rounds. She also slings a canteen over her shoulder, and hands you one as well.
“In all my days prospecting I never thought that a Pipboy would be too useful to me. I always thought it was too heavy, too clunky, an’ would muss up my aim.” Applejack shuts the armoire and unslings her own rifle. “Alright girl, follow me out to the back. I got a shootin’ gallery set up for Bloom.”
“Bloom?”
“Apple Bloom, my sister. I’d acquaint y’all as she’s supposed to be feedin’ the bighorners. Ain't like her to shirk her duties like this- oh, come on,” she groans, disappointed. “Really?”
You stifle your snickering. “Duties…”
“Hilarious. Anyway, if I were to hazard a guess she’s probably snoopin’ up at the old gas station.”
“Gas station?”
Applejack sighs as she pulls the front door open. “Don't see no harm in tellin’ ya. While you were under, a travelin’ merchant came into town. Said he was attacked by bandits. He asked if he could lay low. As a town we was gonna vote on it, and it was gonna be a no. Doc would patch him up and we’d give him some food n’ water but we weren’t gonna hide him away. For all we knew he coulda been a fugitive of the NLR, and we don't wanna tangle with them. But lucky for him he works with Bright Mac, my daddy. He name-dropped him so my brother used his power as actin’ sheriff to say we gotta shelter him. So he's in the gas station. It's a secret though so if it comes up, pretend you don't know.
“Got it... but... What's NLR?”
“Dang girl, you really don't remember nothing, do ya? It stands for the New Lunar Republic, or uh. How do they say it? Neue Lunahr Republique? It's the government, or at least it claims to be, run by President Luna. They're mostly back west, but they got a few outposts here n’ there in the Mojave, and they got an embassy on the Strip. They keep the roads clear for the most part, but they don't have any of us regular folk as a priority. They're just lookin’ out for their own. Lucky us, though, they got their own water supply, so they leave us be. We sometimes get traders but not often. Anyway, enough yappin’, I'm sure you wanna get to shootin’.”
You agree, and listen with rapt attention as she runs you through the basics of cleaning the gun, loading it, fixing any jams, aiming and firing. It comes easily. Naturally. Your brain may not remember, but your fingers do, and soon enough several shattered bottles lay on the ground.
“You got the hang of that right quick. Maybe one day I'll show you how to rechamber that to five fifty six, or maybe even three oh eight. But for now I think the twenty two will serve ya just fine. Well, no time like the present. Let's head out.”
She turns and heads off into the desert, but you hesitate a moment before following along. A sense of unease briefly passes you, but you brush it off. Between you, Applejack, and Wynona, there really shouldn't be anything to worry about. A community in the middle of the desert like this wouldn't survive if the world was dangerous enough to warrant this tension gripping your throat. You set off.
Your journey brings the three of you over a hill and into a field of various small boulders and rocky outcroppings. Small grasses grow here and there amongst the sand. It's warm on your hooves, not quite comfortable but not painful either. It just calls attention to the temperature. Gentle winds set swirls of sand around your legs. The vague scent of smoke passes you by, like something caught fire a long time ago and just barely died out before you woke up today. The browns and oranges of the ground contrast heavily with the deep blue of the sky. As you see black birds circle overhead you contemplate joining them, and covet their wings. But they don't have hands and can't hold a rifle, so you feel it's a fair compromise to make.
“We got three main wells,” Applejack begins to say as a metal silo makes itself visible past the rocks. “Ain't too far away from each other, but they're a decent walk from town. You, uh... you know what a gecko is?”
You shrug. “It's a... lizard, I think?”
“Well, if you call a mountain a mole rat hill then I suppose you could be right. They're big, ‘bout as big as two Wynonas. The babies are a bit smaller. I've heard rumblins ‘round the Mojave that they can be as big as a stallion or even bigger. Some stories say they breathe fire, or spit acid. I dunno ‘bout all that but I know their teeth an’ claws ain't nothin’ to sneeze at. You wanna shoot ‘em in the head. If ya get the drop on em you can drop em in one shot. If they see ya and start runnin’ after ya, shoot em in the leg to slow em down. If they surround ya... you're dead.”
“So don't get surrounded.”
“Easy as apple pie.”
“Woof!”
Applejack bends down to rub the dog’s head. “Aw, you ain't had real apples in a while yet, have ya, girl?” She turns to face you. “One good thing that I can say about the Legion, they've got some mighty fine apple orchards out east. A few traders I know are brave enough to head that way, and they bring back apples a lot. Me an’ my siblings were named after apples, you know. One of daddy’s first trade rackets was apples. That's how Brightbutter was started, is fruit commerce. He did apples, and my momma did pears. That's how they met. They put their caravans together, pooled resources, and... fell in love.”
“That's cool.” You don't mean to sound cavalier. It's not like you hate romance. You just... don't care about it too much. And anyway your mind is on something else. “Why do you need to be brave to go east? What's the Legion?”
The gentle smile on Applejack’s face fades as you ask. “The Breaker Legion. They, uh. They're a society of slaving raping pillaging murderers under their leader, Princess Daybreaker.”
“Slavers?” You ask, incredulous. “Isn't that, like... illegal?”
“Ain't no law in the wasteland. Except the NLR.”
“Why don't they do something about it?”
She laughs, humorlessly. “You really don't remember nothin’, do ya? ...they are. The Republic and the Legion have been at war in the Mojave for years. They fight for control over the Dam. It's got water, electricity, tactical advantage, huge stone walls that lived through pure nuclear holocaust. Only problem is us small folk get caught up in the crossfire a ton. If either side would just back down and let the others win it’d stop so much needless bloodshed. But they don't. The politicians’ greed and the warlords’ conquest won't back down. It's a stalemate that could last forever. That's why I ain't caravanning as much as I used to. Fightin’ critters and bugs, I get that. But ponies... they get crazy.”
You shake your head, melancholy plaguing your mood. “If war blew up the world, why are people still waging it?”
“I wish I knew.” She stops as a warbling cry fills the air.
“Gecko?”
“Geckos,” she corrects. “That’s a mating sound. There's two or three. Good odds. I'll take the one most on the left, you take the one most on the right. If we nail our shots, let Wynona take the third. If you miss yours, I'll cover for it.”
“What if you miss yours?”
Applejack laughs. “I won't. On three?”
“On one two three go or on one two three?”
“I said on three, not on go. But yeah. Ready?”
“Ready.”
She counts down, or, well, up, and after she says three, she steps out from behind the rock as you join her. You have barely a moment to register what you see. Two lizardpeople stand facing each other, one doing some strange form of dance. They aren't like any lizards you recall, which is to say none, but you definitely expected something more animal in nature. They both snap their heads towards you as Applejack fires her shot.
The dancer’s head snaps back from the force before the body crumples to the ground, lifeless, a small cloud of sand puffing up. A faint red mist fills the air behind where it used to be. Your target hunches into a defensive position and screams at you as you remember to take aim. Just like the bottles, you think to yourself as you like up your sights. The gecko is bigger, and you feel somewhat confident in lining up your shot. You exhale and squeeze the trigger as the creature begins to charge.
The bullet strikes its target, but it continues to charge. It's coming so fast. It's already bridged the distance between you by half.
You hit the body.
You take a step back as if it changes anything. It doesn't. Closer now, you brace yourself for a bite.
Wynona smashes into the gecko, biting at the fleshy bit of its neck. She jerks her head to the side, rendering the growling lizard completely still and lifeless. She tears a chunk out, dropping the gecko’s corpse to the ground, and swallows the meat. She turns to Applejack, blood dripping from her snout, and death in her eyes. Her mouth fur is stained crimson.
“Good girl!”
In a moment the dog’s face changes completely, and light returns to her eyes. She hops up, head to the ground, wagging her tail ferociously. Her blood drenched tongue lolls out of her mouth as she pants, excited, and she barks twice. Applejack kneels down and rubs her head affectionately.
“You didn't freeze up,” she says. “You got good reflexes. And you hit your target. If you’d loaded the next shot and fired again, I'm sure you'd have gotten it. But you coulda been slow, or the gun coulda jammed, so you made the decision to go defensive. We’re here so that's the right move. But that wasn't a decision you made. It was instinct.”
She stands up and turns to you. “You cannot get by on instinct. You cannot get by on one shot to the abdomen then covering your face. You have to shoot them in the head, one shot one kill, or when you leave here they will swarm you. This desert will eat you alive. I've lost friends from doing the same thing you did.”
“Alright, I get it,” you grumble, loading a bullet into your rifle to replace the one lost. “I fucked up, ok?”
“Rain,” she steps forward and puts a hand on your shoulder. “I ain't mad at you. If you'd let me finish, I've lost friends doing what you did. Friends who'd been prospecting with me for years. They knew what they were doing and got complacent. You? You've been shot in the head, in a coma for days, don't know nothin’ about the desert, and still shot your first gecko your first time. You did good, but I'm just telling you that this is only a start. Good ain't good enough, which is why I'm telling you now. Okay?”
You slowly exhale out your nose. “Okay,” you say, quietly. “They just... look so weird. They look like us. But weird... and with scales.”
She looks down at the bleeding corpse at your hooves. She looks at its legs, its arms, its tail. Its lifeless eyes.
“I... guess so.” She nudges it with the butt of her gun. “Radiation made ‘em walk on two legs. Back before the war they crawled around like roaches. But they ain't like us. Their brains are beasts. They will kill and eat you without a second’s thought. So I can't say that I feel the same. Especially cuz of all the other monsters out there that walk on two legs too. Like deathclaws.”
“Pffft!” You laugh, and the residual traces of shame fade away. “Deathclaws? Okay come on, you're making that up. That's the dumbest name I've ever heard!”
A small wry smile touches her face. “You know, if I didn't know what they were I'd probably say the same. But...” a stern grimace replaces it. “They ain't a joke. They're nine feet tall on average, got more muscles than ten ponies put together, got claws sharp as steel that'll cut your limbs clean off. And if that don't kill ya they can snap your spine like a twig in one swipe. I’d say they're demons but even hell couldn't hold those nightmares. If you ever hear someone cry ‘deathclaw’... run. Fast as you can until you collapse. Then run some more.”
A somber silence fills the air as the dog whines. Applejack bends down to rub her head some more.
“There's shit that scary out there?” You ask.
“My dad’s fought them before. He...” she shakes her head. “He never talked much more than that about it. Talked plenty about Fightin’ the Enclave, and gettin’ the Geck, all of his adventures with that ‘Chosen One’ before I came along, but… none about Deathclaws.” She turns away. “Let's get moving, the second well’s a bit of a hike.”
“What about the bodies?”
“I’ll get ‘em on the way back.”
She walks quickly, so you follow suit. Something tells you that isn't the whole story, but you can understand why this person you've barely known for an hour wouldn't tell you more deeply personal things about her father. That doesn't stop the curiosity. But the prospect of more walking overshadows it.
Your journey takes you through a more rocky landscape. Ten foot cliffs line either side of your path, broken up by steep mounds of dirt. Faint traces of grass poke out through cracks in the ground, providing small spots of bright green in an ocean of reds and browns.
Climbing one mound takes you to the top of a little plateau. Far in the distance to the south you can see a small town. If you squint you can see a big wooden monument behind it, sprawling in many different directions. You can't make out many details through the distance and the burning desert sun, but you mentally make a note of the location. Civilization of any sort is surely better than fucking deathclaws.
Applejack leads you further along, until eventually she stops and crouches. The familiar warbling echoes in the air, and Wynona begins growling.
“Alright, here’s the deal,” Applejack whispers as she pulls out her shotgun. “This second well don’t got a good vantage for two rifles. So you’re gonna hang back and cover us while we go in close-range. I don’t think I gotta tell ya not to shoot us.”
You turn off the safety and nod. “I’ve been shot myself. Wasn’t fun.”
“Right. Okay, Wynona? Stay with Rainbow. Mama’s gonna be just fine, okay?”
The dog doesn't react to her words, and continues to growl.
“Is she gonna listen?” You ask.
“She’s a lot smarter than she looks. This ain’t her first rodeo. Everything will be just fine. Now, this only got two shells at a time. But I got magnum buckshot in it. Should easily take out two of ‘em. If there’s a third one, you shoot it. Even if you miss the head, that’ll distract it enough I can smash it’s head with the…” she sighs. “With the butt.”
You bite your cheeks to keep from chuckling. “Got it.”
“If there’s four, Wynona’s trained to go after the closest one. If there’s five… run.”
“What? Run? What about you?”
“I’ll be fine. You won’t be. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Applejack steps around the rock and steadies the shotgun. After a few moments of sweeping back and forth, she stands up and takes a few steps forward. As she slips out of view, you peek your head around. So far the coast seems clear. You don’t see any geckos anywhere. Applejack doesn’t let her guard down, but she makes broader movements.
Wynona’s ears perk up, and she stops growling. Instead, she lets out a high pitched whine. You glance behind you in case they’re sneaking up on you, or something. Beneath the dog, you hear nothing but the wind, and Applejack’s deliberate footfalls. You readjust your grip on the rifle which now grows wet.
Applejack whistles twice, and Wynona bolts from you to her side.
“Where are they, girl?” She asks, pointing her gun to the tops of the boulders.
Wynona just continues to whine.
“What’s going on?” You ask, having caught up. You cover AJ’s six, aiming wherever she isn’t. “Did we hallucinate the noises?”
“We ain’t goin’ crazy. They was here. Just a second ago. You see the dirt? All kicked up and loose? Somethin’ made ‘em bolt.”
“Did they hear Wynona and run away?”
“Nah. They don’t fear. They’re hunters, not prey. They woulda found us if they heard us. Somethin’ tells me they musta heard somethin’ else.”
Your wrist buzzes, and you glance down at the pipboy. A few red dots show up on the compass… and one yellow.
“Hey, AJ, what’s directly southwest of us?”
“California.”
“No, I mean… fifty meters?”
She cranes her neck to the sun, and then past a rock formation. “I reckon that’s the third well. Why?”
“I see five red little pips and a yellow… hey, uh. Vault tec pipboy three thousand thingy… help?”
Hello, this is the Vault Tec-
“Skip.”
How may I help you?
“How’s the compass work?”
The Vault Tec-
“Skip. What are the dots?”
The red pips displayed upon the compass are hostile targets in the Vault Tec Assisted Targeting System database. The yellow pips are all life forms that are not registered in the Vault Tec Assisted Targeting System database.
“AJ did you hear any of that?”
“Any of what?” She asks. “You talkin’ to yourself?”
“Pipboy says that reds are hostile and yellows are… alive.”
“Guess we got a party waitin’ for us at the third well.”
“What would’ve made them run from this well to that one?”
“I dunno.” Applejack reaches down to pet Wynona, who merely shirks away from the touch and whines harder. “What’s goin’ on, girl?”
“Timmy stuck in a well?” You murmur, not entirely sure of who Timmy is.
Wynona motions towards the third well. Your pipboy buzzes again.
“The dots are gone.”
A high pitched-screaming suddenly fills the air, and both Applejack and the dog bolt in the direction of the third well. Not entirely sure of how good a plan that is, you follow suit.
The fifty meters was a bit of an undershoot seeing as you are not a crow, and thus have to follow the winding tunnel of the stone maze. The echoes of hectic screaming, barking. and gecko warbling bounce off the walls of rock, assailing you with a chaotic cacophony of random noise. Gunshots soon join in. Time seems to slow as your pulse thunders in your head.
Finally you break free from the claustrophobia-inducing tunnel and take a look at the situation awaiting you. Applejack stands atop the hill, rifle and shotgun on the floor, aiming her Takarov. Wynona is nowhere to be found. You rush to the edge of the hill only to find that it is functionally a cliff- the dropoff is perfectly vertical. At the bottom is a mass of geckos, four of them dead on the ground, but another four clambering around an abandoned mobile home. A little girl is on top, doing her best to kick at them. Applejack is shooting the beasts, but her shots seem to be doing very little damage.
Time stops as you aim.
Hello. This is the Vault Tec-
“Skip!”
Engaging Vault Tec Assisted Targeting System. Please select your targets.
It seems that time has literally stopped. Not in the literary sense in which adrenaline fuels your senses and makes it seem like time has stopped, no. Nothing is moving at all. Not your sweat. Not your breath. Not even your heartbeat. The world is absolute silence, your gun, and the geckos.
Head. Head. Head. Head.
Your hands move of their own volition. You can feel something controlling your arms. And yet the power is your own. Your first shot hits its mark perfectly, splattering gecko brain all over the metal. You reload, and can see the spent bullet casing flipping gracefully over itself on its way out the chamber. Before you can even breathe, your second shot also lands its mark, and passes right through another’s eye. It crumples as it lands on the ground.
Your third and fourth shots make short work of the remaining beasts, and you allow yourself to breathe after what felt like an entire minute but in reality was only a few seconds. Applejack continues shooting until her magazine is spent. Before she can finish reloading she stops suddenly, blinks twice, then shoots you an incredulous glance.
You glance down at your pipboy compass. No more red dots. Suddenly you feel winded, and take a knee. Applejack rushes out of sight, and you can see Wynona on the ground below you. She growls and runs to the first gecko you popped, and rips into its throat. However after a moment she stops and looks around, wearing the most confused mask you’ve ever seen a dog wear. A few moments later Applejack joins her, and runs to the little girl. She jumps down and the two hug.
You finally catch your breath, and walk over to Applejack’s guns. You shoulder your own, and pick up both; one in each hand. You make your way down the path’s natural gradient, and out the corner of your eye you can see a simple bench comprised of a wooden plank on two upside-down buckets. A magazine- the kind you read, rather than the kind you put in a gun- sits on the ground, dropped flat on its face.
You eventually reach the lowest part of the ground, and as you do, you find yourself in the tightest hug you can remember. Admittedly there aren’t very many of those, but you find it difficult to breathe, and feel that maybe this is a stronger one than most.
“You saved her life,” Applejack whispers.
“Eh,” you manage to eke out with what little oxygen you have access to. “Least I could do.”
She finally lets you go, and takes a step back. She glances down at the guns, which you gladly hand over. She puts them back in place before turning to the girl.
“Y’all must be the mare what got shot,” she says, tapping her forehead. “Doc’s been workin’ you somethin’ fierce!”
“And you must be Applebloom,” you say, dropping to one knee.
“Yeah. You’re one hell of a shot!”
“Bloom!”
“One… heck of a shot.”
You let out a chuckle. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
“How did you even do that?” Applejack asks. “I don’t mean to insult you but I thought there warn’t any hope. But you nailed all four of them. You some kinda magical bullet wizard?”
“I… think the pipboy helped. It froze time and let me pick my shots.” You present your wrist. “Some kinda… vault automatic target stuff. Vats, I guess.”
“Oh, I hearda that,” she says, putting her fist to her chin. “My daddy traveled with a guy who had a pipboy. But that thing ain’t anything special, it only works if the user knows what they’re doin’, knows their way around a gun. You musta been a phenomenal gunslinger before the whole amnesia thing.”
“Huh…” you glance down at the screen. “I guess I must have.”
It makes sense, you figure. Holding the rifle in your hands just feels right. Like you were born for it. Guess that means that you’ve shot a few things in your time. Well at least you know you probably won’t be outgunned in a firefight. At least against beasts. You wonder how well this ability may help you against enemies with guns, or some modicum of higher intelligence. Anyway, you decided not to give it too much thought. The past is important, yes, but the present is a bit more so.
“Oh. Thanks for saving me,” Applebloom says. “Who knows what woulda happened if you hadn’t shown up.”
“Youda been gecko chow,” Applejack curtly interjects. “What the hay were you thinkin’ bein’ so far away from town without so much as a word to your brother n’ I? You could been killed, or worse!”
“Ah’m sorry, sis…” she dejectedly mutters. “I just wanted some peace n’ quiet.”
“Well didja find either o’ those?”
Sigh. “No…”
“That was reckless and irresponsible and dangerous, and I can’t believe you’d be so stupid as to do somethin’ like this. You, miss, are grounded. For a month!”
Sigh. “Okay…”
Applejack holds her authoritative stature for a few moments more before hunching her shoulders and leaning down.
“I can’t lose you,” Applejack murmurs, setting a hand on her sister’s head. “Grampear was old already. And mama… well, we all was gonna have to grieve her anyway. But you’re my baby sister. If anything happened to you, I’m not sure what I would do.”
“I know… I’m sorry.”
Applejack pulls her into a hug.
“Just don’t do somethin’ this foolish again, okay?”
“I won’t.”
They stay for a minute before pulling away. Wynona strides over to Applebloom while Applejack pulls you aside.
“You hungry?”
“I guess so,” you say, as you glance at your pipboy. Suddenly it buzzes, and a message on the screen says ‘FOD 400: Advanced Starvation’. You are afflicted with a hunger most ravenous. “Actually,” you continue. “I am very hungry.”
“Great,” she says, pulling out her bowie knife. “Because we have way more geckos than I thought we would.”
Applebloom and Wynona stroll over to a nearby firepit that you hadn’t noticed before. She pulls a metal pot from her rucksack, and begins putting together a cooking station.
“Why don’t you keep a lookout,” Applejack says as she crouched over one of the gecko corpses. “I’ll skin, gut, n’ clean these. She’ll get a stew goin’. And you use that fancy Vats thingy if we get any more friends showin’ up.”
You shrug. “Yeah, sure, sounds like a plan.”
She smiles, and your heart skips a beat. You feel like you deserve a rest after all the excitement of the day. After all you didn’t expect to unlock a hidden ability, or get in such a big shootout. Luckily geckos can’t shoot back. You stride back up the hill, to the clifftop. You plop down, hanging your legs over the edge, and survey the area. Your eyes are brought to the fire that sprouts up, and you examine Applebloom a bit more closely now that you have the opportunity to.
She looks to be about twelve or so years old. Her hair is a brilliant crimson, and is tied together in a frilly little pink bow. Her coat is a pale yellow. She’s wearing a tattered pink dress with a white apron, and a pair of leather gloves. Despite having just been through a life or death ordeal, she seems relatively unshaken. You attribute that to either being born and raised in a traumatic irradiated deathclaw-populated hellhole and therefore used to it, or to the sweet pleasant haze of post traumatic shock that results in nightmares for weeks on end.
She pulls out what looks to be a bottle of whiskey. You can feel wild confusion bubbling inside of you only to be quashed when you see that she’s pouring it into the pot. She pulls out a giant knife followed by a potato, a carrot, a yucca fruit, and some jalapeño peppers, chops them into little pieces, and drops them all into the concoction. You can also see her put some tomatoes, corn, and a couple types of beans in.
On the other side of the compound, Applejack has sliced one of the geckos open from throat to groin. She’s taking all of the organs and tossing them into a nearby bucket, or at Wynona who catches the offal out of the air and happily tears into it. After she removes all of the not-meat, she begins slicing the muscle into several long strips. The process is time consuming and your attention wanders to the horizon.
In the distance you can see the desiccated remains of a road. A single little shack sits at a T-intersection. The path to the right winds out of view past the mountain that wraps its way behind you. The path to the left leads to a bridge, and then out of the way of yet another mountain. Behind the shack is a wide plain splotched with disgusting green goop, and beyond that is yet another mountain. But behind it you can make out a tower.
The landscape is barren and desolate, but small pockets of plants make their presence known. Nearly all traces of equine civilization are utterly destroyed and abandoned, but nature seems to have survived against all odds. You find this to be somewhat of a good thing before remembering that nature also made the geckos.
Eventually Applejack takes a bunch of the meat over to Applebloom, who begins adding it to the stew. You can feel your mouth salivating, awaiting the fruits- or, the meat and veggies- of your labor.
Deciding to take your mind off of the food, you look down at the rifle in your hands. You can’t help but smile as you rub your thumbs across its smooth surface. You have a feeling that this thing is going to be your best friend for a while.
