Food is our common ground, a universal experience.
Rich or poor.
Mare or stallion.
Pegasus, Unicorn, or Earth Pony.
Everypony needs to eat.
The pursuit of sustenance is a core part of life: On a very basic level, much of the social constructs that ponies assemble are defined by the pursuit of this basic but overriding objective. Regardless of who somepony is or where they are born, everypony needs to eat.
The ways in which a pony chooses to do this can tell much about them: their values, tastes, and capabilities are all laid bare by the necessity of food.
This thought process can also be applied to the groups that ponies create. By viewing the way that they consume resources and account for their members, one can gauge the values of a given group with some degree of accuracy.
The culinary culture of the Grand Pegasus Enclave, as seemingly barren as it is, is an excellent example of this simple reality.
A key example of this is the Enclave Standard Ration Package. Coming in six varieties of flavor, each uniform bar is held within a minimalistic, grey, tri-laminate pouch. Each bar is composed of a carefully curated selection of nutrients, designed solely for the purpose of sustaining the individual consuming it. Given the emphasis the Enclave places on manufacturing, each meal sleeve is reusable, citizens being expected to return them to the relevant rationing authority upon the completion of their meal.
Despite the tight regime surrounding them and their relative uniformity of appearance, each variety of ESRP is composed of different ingredients, each with a unique texture and flavor.
The brown bar, for example, is generally considered the most savory of the options available. The flavor is a unique sort of smoky, nutty, umami, leaving it a favorite among the general population. This unique flavor is a result of its key ingredient: crickets. Chosen for their efficiency, crickets are a valued part of every citizen’s diet in the form of the brown bar.
When observed through the lens of culinary culture, one can clearly see an intense emphasis on efficiency and reusability, one birthed through the devastating famines and shortages that have wracked the Grand Pegasus Enclave throughout its existence. The ration packs and their components are intended to be emmintly renewable and reusable, both tailored for the pegasus nation’s unique place in the sky.
Supplementing the ration packages are a small variety of flavor supplements, salt being the most common, given its relative abundance as a result of the sea harvesting operations. There are few regular alternatives to salt, though one of the most valued acquisitions of the surface teams is always additional flavoring alternatives.
While by any metric, the pursuit of culinary flavoring alternatives is a petty endeavor for a military force, it is one of the most regular pursuits of the surface teams. The reason for this is quite simple: the Enclave’s organization as a democratic society, as flawed and backwards as it may be, has ensured that the military pursues endeavors that are valued by the common citizen. The presentation of additional flavoring options never ceases to raise morale in population centers where they are introduced: the continued acquisition of these materials is, as such, a high priority for the vaunted forces of the Enclave’s armed forces.
The importance of such missions to Councilor Headwind’s reelection campaign did little to assuage Sergeant Downdraft’s frustration as she examined her Pipbuck, glancing over the information that had been so generously provided to her by the simpering Lieutenant that had been transferred to Tempestus a few months back.
GR-SR-SECTOR 0314T IO0863 AAR
ALL INDIVIDUALS HANDLING THIS INFORMATION ARE REQUIRED TO PROTECT IT FROM UNAUTHORIZED DISCLOSURE IN THE INTEREST OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY OF THE GRAND PEGASUS ENCLAVE. HANDLING, STORAGE, REPRODUCTION, AND DISPOSITION OF THE ATTACHED DOCUMENT WILL BE IN ACCORDANCE WITH APPLICABLE COUNCIL ORDER(S), STATUTE(S), AND AGENCY IMPLEMENTING REGULATIONS.
EXERCISE DATE
5/23/183
COMMANDING OFFICERS
Sergeant Starry Gaze
PERSONNEL
Senior Wingpony Lightning Strike
Wingpony Snowblind
Wingpony Dewdrop
SCOPE
Residential Block, Formerly 183 Canter Heights, Trottingham
AREA
Sector 0314T
MISSION: Squad was dispatched to complete the purge of an identified wastelander insurgent group in 183 Canter Heights.
EXECUTION: Squad made ground fall before dawn. Significant amount of equine remains are observed within the building. Raid is completed within established timescale of five minutes and the complex is cleared with no casualties or complications: all insurgents liquidated. Three prisoners recovered from the complex, two in critical condition, terminated due to lack of medical priority. Surviving equine detained, pending review. Significant stockpile of substance identified as ‘Auntie Fragaria’s Strawberry Jam’ recovered. Initial scientific inquiry performed by Sergeant Gaze indicates that the substance is both edible and quite palatable.
FOLLOW UP: Initial investigation indicates that the recovered equine asset is potentially connected to further supply of flavoring material known as ‘Auntie Fragaria’s Strawberry Jam.’ Further investigation is strongly advised.
Downdraft still couldn’t believe that Gaze had just… eaten the red substance that he’d found in the wastelander den; while the small jars were quite innocent in appearance, nothing down on the surface could be trusted, particularly not something found within the hives that the insurgents hid themselves away in. The fact that command was now interested in acquiring more of the substance was just…
She sighed.
It was pointless but that didn’t really matter when it came down to it: orders were orders, regardless of how inane they were. It wasn’t her job to question why the acquisition of this ‘strawberry jam’ was necessary for national security.
She just had to get it.
Sergeant Gaze wasn’t exactly a sterling investigator, unfortunately. While the footage from the helmet cameras of the strike team was quite helpful, it did little more than add context to the events that she’d reviewed in the report. The only real lead they had was the filth-ridden groundpounder that Gaze’s troopers had dragged out of one of the makeshift cells in the depths of the building.
Given her orders… she’d probably have to talk to them.
She paused for a moment, then corrected herself internally: her.
She didn’t have much experience in interrogation, though she imagined it would be rather difficult to build a rapport if she remained as impersonal as she would have preferred.
Dimming the screen of her pipbuck, she took an opportunity to adjust her appearance, ensuring that the tan overcoat of her officer’s uniform was neatly secured over the black thermal bodysuit issued to all soldiers and straightening the patrol cap that sat proudly atop her head.
It was time to talk to the… pony from down below.
It can be hard to stay positive in the wasteland, even for the most optimistic souls. By nature, life in the broken expanse of the former nation of Equestria was generally brutal and short, lacking any real reprieve from the constant ravages of starvation, storms, and raiders. Sure, you might build a settlement, you might even manage to make it safe and prosperous, but that would only last as far as the walls.
Rosewater liked to think that she was an optimistic pony. She generally tried to see the best in other ponies, griffons as well, when they came around. After all, you could only really expect to be treated as well as you treated others, right? That’s the lesson she’d be taught in Glasshouse, the lesson that the settlement tried to live by.
It hadn’t done her much good when the raiders attacked. The caravan hadn’t stood much of a chance against them, nopony having really expected a proper attack. They’d already paid off Hardhat for the month and while he was a rather rough sort, he generally kept to his deals.
It was pretty obvious that it wasn’t Hardhat and his ponies though: they were perfectly content to collect tolls and protection money. The ponies that had attacked the caravan… it just seemed like they wanted to kill.
They’d heard stories about ponies coming over from the mainland for years: nopony really had a good idea of what was happening over there, though plenty had ideas. The speculation was rarely pleasant, though even the worst of their guesses didn’t match up with the reality of her captors. If she was honest with herself, she hadn’t expected to survive the fight: she hadn’t been armed, having trusted the caravan workers to do their duty and drive off the raiders before things got too serious. When they died and the slaughter didn’t stop, she had pretty much accepted her death.
Being bound in chains alongside the few others was almost a pleasant surprise given the expectation of death that she’d held earlier, though given the nature of her captors, it was something of a hollow comfort.
The raiders that had butchered the caravan only marginally resembled the course crew that Hardhat ran with. Their coats were mangy and unkempt, their manes stringy and unhealthy. As opposed to the simple clubs and bats that Hardhat used, they employed a variety of makeshift firearms and vicious bladed weapons, gleefully tearing into the defenders with bloodthirsty abandon. The few that wore anything at all were clad in uniform metal armor, stamped with a singular eye.
The most obvious indicator of their outsider status was their accent, the sound of it more nasally than the more familiar Trottinghamish accent that she’d grown up with. Even their language, while still recognizable, sounded alien to her ears. Their pronunciation was strange and slang unrecognizable. Their diction was particularly crude, though she understood that her upbringing in Glasshouse had likely left her somewhat spoiled in that regard.
While she’d initially hoped that their capture was a prelude to ransom, as was traditional among Trottinghamish settlements and brigands, the appearance of their camp quickly dispelled such hopeful illusions. The makeshift palisade at its exterior was normal, even expected given their more martial tendencies… The corpses decorating it were not.
She didn’t see anyone she recognized there, though she hadn’t looked particularly hard. The attack had been her first time seeing a proper corpse; she had little interest in examining the thoroughly decayed and defiled corpses that decorated the exterior of the raider compound.
Her captors hadn’t kept them outside for long, shunting them into the unlit depths of the building at the nearest possible opportunity. Her first night in their custody had consisted of her huddling in the darkness alongside the small number of other survivors, trying not to choke on the everpresent smell of blood and vomit. She did her best to use what little medical training she’d be given, operating only with the light of her horn as a guide, though the lack of sanitation or proper medical implements made her attempts little more than a false hope for the wounded ponies stranded in the basement with her.
It was hard to tell the passage of days down there. They lived in near constant darkness, surviving only on the scraps that their captors would toss down the stairs, laughing and jeering as they watched the pitiful ponies scramble for what little sustenance they could secure.
Rosewater didn’t scramble for the food. She liked to think that it was a matter of principle, a moral action to allow the others to get the food they so desperately needed. After a few days of hunger, she was forced to accept that she wasn’t strong enough to wrestle the scraps away from the other captives.
It was this weakness that left her unpicked when the lights in the basement finally came on.
That itself was a sign that something was different this time. The ponies still capable of moving, she counted about a dozen at that point, began to gather around the foot of the stairs, peering up into the sunlight above cautiously.
The three pony party that descended the stairs was clearly different from the barbarians that had initially tossed them into the dark pit of the basement. The first two down the stairs were both earth ponies, tough looking sorts clad in uniformly machined combat armor emblazoned with a single staring eye. Both were armed with dangerous looking guns, she didn’t recognize the type, which they swept across the assembled crowd cautiously.
Behind them was a mare, seemingly younger than Rosewater herself. Despite her age, she held herself with the pride of an Elder, striding down the stairs with an exaggerated swagger as she cast a derisive eye across the assembled prisoners. She lacked any armor, instead garbed in a dark grey cloak held in place by a clasp in the shape of an eye. She came to a stop between her two guards, the hard nosed stallions keeping their attention focused on the crowd as she began to speak.
Her words were as compelling as they were terrifying.
She spoke passionately of the state of the wasteland beyond Trottingham, a wretched ruin fought over for the last two centuries by the petty survivors of a long dead nation. She spoke of the poison that coated the land and air, the slavering raiders that slaughtered the innocent for sport, and the unflinching remnants of the old order that eagerly hoarded what little remained of the old world for themselves. Her words were dismal and grim, a horrifying tapestry of crimes and dangers that lay beyond the isle. The world had been like this for two hundred years, she claimed, and would likely resemble it for two hundred more.
Unless somepony did something to stop it.
Her tone turned, her words taking on a more inspiring lilt as she began to exhort the glory of the new order, a bastion of efficiency and progress in a dismal wasteland. She spoke of factories, cities, and armies, all marching to the same beat under the direction of a true visionary. She spoke of unending plenty, defended by inexhaustible armies. She spoke of an end to suffering and want, a new era for ponykind.
This future already existed, the mare claimed, it only needed to be secured through the sweat and blood of good ponies like themselves. Any pony who was willing to stand for this future, to give themselves to something greater, would be freed from this basement and brought to Fillydelphia where they would play their part in building a New Equestria.
Rosewater wanted to believe her words. She really did. She wanted to be optimistic, to believe that this mare would spirit them away to a better world.
But she couldn’t.
Rosewater could tell the mare’s words were practiced. She saw the fervor in the speaker’s eyes, pure in its devotion but lacking any kindness for the ponies that huddled before her. She saw the guards, still ready to fire at a moment’s notice.
So she stayed where she was and kept her head low.
Eight ponies chose to leave that basement.
She hoped that they could at least be happy with their choice.
She was still trying to be content with her own.
That got harder when their captors began to take ponies.
Sometimes they’d come back, sometimes they wouldn’t
If they did return, they were never in good condition.
Cuts, bruises, burns.
At first, she was thankful for her training. She’d been a junior apothecary for Glasshouse, she knew how to treat the wounds. She just didn’t have the supplies. That didn’t mean she stopped trying, of course, but her efforts were more tokenistic than anything, an objective for her to focus on instead of worrying about the day she’d be taken upstairs. It helped stave off the terror, though the hopelessness of her patient’s condition did little to soothe her mind.
Her time never came.
Things ended before then.
As most things do, it started and ended with gunfire. The actual gunshots were sporadic, though she didn’t hear any return fire from her position in the basement. She wanted to hope that somepony had come to save them: maybe Glasshouse had hired some of the ponies from the Guard to help them?
In less than a minute, the gunfire came to a close. She waited, straining her ears and listening carefully for any sound from above.
The door at the top of the stairs opened.
She couldn’t help but shrink back, nervousness and anticipation pooling within her as she hung back, watching the stairs carefully from the darkness.
The hoofsteps were uniform and cautious, the pony in question descending down the stairs carefully, finally coming into view after a few seconds.
She wasn’t sure what she expected… but it wasn’t this.
The darkness made it hard to make out details but what she could see scared her.
She didn’t think she was looking at a pony.
The being that stood before her was carapaced, its body covered in a smooth and dangerous looking black shell, a single vicious looking barbed tail rising up behind it. Its shape was equine, sure, but it lacked any recognizable body language, the only identifiable feature on the mask being the bulbous orange eyes that stared back at her.
A twin mounted battlesaddle held two long black rifles, each with a glowing red tip.
The fear within her felt distant, disconnected.
So she just stared.
The next few minutes were a blur, the carapaced figure guiding her and the others out of the basement. She didn’t mistake it for a rescue though: the weapons tracking her every move easily dissuaded her of that notion. There were other creatures up there, similarly carapaced and completely mute. They were clearly coordinating, though no words were spoken. She and the others were simply left in the street, watched over by the creature that found them while the others ransacked the building, occasionally bringing out random bits of garbage and food.
Being outside was strange after being locked in the basement so long. It was nice to feel the wind on her coat. That was an easier thought to focus on than the reality of the situation around her. Her stupor was broken by the appearance of an item she recognized, a single carefully packaged package of jam.
She helped assemble that package. Twelve jars in total, four three jar rows, all secured in the freshly carved pine box with a cloth cover. There were only seven jars now.
The jars seemed to confound the carapaced creatures, several of them having clustered around the box to examine it, one having grabbed a jar in the hooves, examining it carefully as they did. It would have been funny if she wasn’t at gunpoint. Instead, she spoke up, trying to keep her voice low and respectful as she did.
“It’s jam.”
The glowing eyes all focused on her.
The one with the jam kept it in hoof, slowly ambling towards her as it did. Finally, it came to stop a short distance before her, carefully setting the jar of jam on the ground before glancing up to her, the emotionless eyes seemingly staring into her very soul.
“What is it?”
The voice was layered and harsh, carrying the same kind of staticky disruption that plagued the town’s radio.
“Strawberry jam… you, uh… you use it to flavor things.”
The figure glanced down to the jar for a moment before returning its gaze to her.
“Open it. Don’t try to use your… magic for anything else unless you wanna get dusted.”
She paused for a moment before nodding, her horn alighting with a soft red light, the glow easily enveloping the top of the jar. It took only a few tugs before the top came off, the sweet smell of the jam drifting out as the carapaced equine simply stared at it.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, the being reached up to its head. She heard a soft click and a hiss, its hoof pulling away a section of the carapace… no, armor, that hid the mouth of the pony beneath it. That same hoof reached down, swiping a small amount of jam from the top of the jar and carefully inserting it into the now exposed mouth.
She watched with no small degree of confusion as the pony seemed to recoil for a moment before relaxing, letting out a small groan of appreciation before they swallowed.
“That was really tasty. Huh.”
She didn’t quite know how to respond to that.
The pony resealed his facemask soon after that but not before asking her a few questions, most focused on the jam. She answered as best she could: if these ponies were content with questions about sweets, she was entirely happy to oblige them. The pony she spoke to was seemingly quite happy with her answers, so happy in fact that he decided that she’d be accompanying him and his companions to their ‘base.’
She knew better than to argue.
They sedated her on the trip, loading her onto some kind of craft that they claimed could traverse the sky. Before the sedative kicked in, she saw the wings at their sides.
Pegasi.
She hadn’t ever seen one before, nopony knew where they went after the war.
She didn’t have time to consider that before the darkness took her.
