Chapter 1: Washing Dishes For All Eternity

Everything is perspective. Could one count their friends and not find an enemy among them? I’d say 'no', but that’s just one earth pony’s take on things. The same could be said of ones enemies. Maybe that was just the “magic" of one's enemies. Locked away in precious safety, one could live long enough to see your beard grow long and white, but would you have any hair on top? A body well preserved, but not exactly lived in... and still, some insist on keeping strictly mint as they starve the soul in fear of being born. One can also die living more than anypony ever did. I have no intentions on dying, but if I had to choose, I’d rather be one of the latter. When some pony talks about “what is good”, you can’t understand them with out asking “to whom” or “for what”. Everything is always changing, transforming, mutating. There was one exception.

But how could that be? The truth is often hard to find beneath the waves of perspective and what concepts we create. Where we fight? Who we fight? How we fight? All those fun things are abound with chaos and belligerent creativity, but those are just symptoms, really. Keep perspective. There is always struggle. It is something so inherent that it commands the universe by its decree. Without fail, without escape, the universe abides.

War. War never changes.

And what a stubborn bastard war is. War wasn’t always so prominent in the pony-lands, but there were always struggles. Great magics were acquired and learned to face off against the forces of evil, and it kept the order. Eventually, tensions became strained for one reason or another with the Zebralands, and we turned our righteous magics against somepony we should have called kin, but rather called ‘brother’.

The time awoke in us evils that we were neither familiar with, nor could control. They found themselves amid games that placed bets on blood and bullet. They learned quickly, one terrifying mistake after another. One didn’t have to be a prophet to see what would happen. The end came pretty much as we had predicted. War visited when the megaspells fell, and the earth burned. They sacrificed their cities, their loves, their lives, even their world to the god of the struggle, and he greedily accepted.

They got good at war... a little too good, some might say.

…But it was not the ‘end of the world’ as some had predicted. As good as old Equestria got, it wasn't good enough.

For the eternal law rang again. The scourge of balefire scoured the lands, but we struggled in accordance with the eternal law. We fought back. We waged a war against extinction, and the cycle continued. War. War never changes. And so we warred…

When the balefire blew away, we rose out of the holes in the ground we dug for ourselves. Vast underground labyrinths built with tons of magic infused steel, called Stables, littered the Equestrian landscape. We were left with the scraps of a world of war. Since then, we've done a lot of remodeling. Violently, sure, but I always liked what we've done with the place. For all the suffering and pain we dug our stupid little pony hooves in, the world struggled back for life and joy and laughter. Not even war could change that. The darkest times in equestrian history would bring forth the greatest of lights. Good and Evil, what ever those were, would battle it out. All the same, there were wasteland roads to dreams or destruction, and ponies willing to find their place in a scarred world with a story to tell.

Sometimes, I could hear the old ghosts wail in their requiem for that fairytale utopia, and my heart goes out to them, for sure, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't find the rhythm catchy. Their tragedy is our comedy, and I can't apologize for that. It wasn't our fault they destroyed everything. This wild wasteland was all I knew, and it was everything I needed, so to all those idiots from beyond the grave: "Thanks for blowing up the world. I mean that." I'd pour them a drink, but let's face it, they've already had enough. Besides, they creeped me out, and if I poured one drink, they might come back to get another. So let me addendum it with this.

"Now, Get the hell out! ~ Love, Tumbleweed"

FALLOUT EQUESTRIA: Joker’s Wild

By SiriusShenanigans
*** *** ***

Caught between scorching earth below and the unfeeling cloud layer above, the wasteland was scalding hot. If the end of the world wasn’t something to be mad about, the heat certainly was. I heard things weren’t always this way, and that weather was once something both obedient and pleasant, but it sure wasn’t that way now. The feather gave up on their role in the natural order a long time ago, and it left the rest of us in the remains of an allegedly beautiful country in a perpetual sauna. I wish I could use the word ‘toasty’, but the weather was as it always had been, humid... and damn how humid it was. It wasn’t always this way either. You could feel the rads sweat out of your body as you walked along. Something about that ambient magical residue trying to tear you apart ever so slowly, made surviving that much more interesting. For some reason, those damn horseflies took an interest in things this side of the capital. Probably not to get a spot in the sun, that’s for sure.

Blood curdling heat aside, it was a damn beautiful day. Sometimes the things that could be the most hellish things in the wastes could be some of the greatest blessings. Sure, half the wastes was trying to kill the other half most of the time, but nopony wanted to go out and kill each other in this kind of heat. It was the kind of heat that made thoroughbred raiders pass on the usual homicidal jaunts and play a nice bone breaking, grenade chucking, gunslinging game of indoor raider ball. The steel rangers were canned away in where ever the hell those bastards hid out in (probably something metal cupboard), because they didn't exactly believe in shorts and the standard attire was already a functional toaster on a mild day. Most of everypony was on their best behavior when the weather sucked... except for the slavers... but fuck the slavers.

I trotted along the broken remnants of the great roads of old. "I-95" they called it. It was going to be my friend and companion for quite a while, although it wasn’t much of a talker. The pavement had been all but obliterated, due to the shifts in the land, the spell impacts, and general lack of maintenance for 150 years. For a little while, I had bunkered down in a ditch to get out of the heat, even the radscorpion there with me seemed to be cool with the idea. It lasted only for a good half hour, but even that was a miracle in its own right. There may have been bribery involved in the form of food, but after a certain amount of time, it didn't matter how many radigator steaks I pushed. The radscorpion decided that, by his authority of being a giant, mutated arachnid, it was time for me to leave.

I trudged along with reinforced horseshoes, and hell of a pack in tow. I had a saddle bag for basic supplies, but the giant wall of metal I hauled over my shoulder on a web of small, but reinforced straps of nylon and steel, was my greatest treasure. It was almost 3 feet tall, and over a foot deep. It was square with reinforced edges and pneumatic pistons running inside and on the hinge side, with solid lock opened by input sequence. It was big enough to fit a pony, albeit not comfortably. It was emblazoned with several insignia. The first was a golden sun with wavy rays. The second symbol was a star with six spiky points, with 5 smaller asterisks surrounding it. The last symbol was a cloud with a red yellow and blue lightning bolt bursting out beneath it. The words, Pandora, were etched on it. It was an old device from the before-times, made to hold the most precious of things, in the most protective of conditions. To me it was an amazing stronghold for everything that was important in the wastes, as safety was a luxury in the wastes, and often wispy like a mirage in these stormy times. I had a visor cap for the shade, but without direct sunlight, it only intensified the screaming heat in the air, so I jettisoned the hat along the road, keeping the goggles just in case. I pressed my bandanna to my neck to soak up the strains of sweat accumulating there. It was a lonely road on a day like today, but lonely roads are roads that seldom shoot you dead, and that was good enough for me. I almost didn’t travel, but I felt the weirdest sensation of challenge by the day. A hoof full of ponies calling me crazy for breaking camp in the deadliest of heat was the kind of reverse psychology that gave me the gung ho spirit to tear through my own personal inhibitions and make a voyage. Fuck the weather! I had places to be.

Just on the side of the highway, I found the remains of an old park and ride. It was a real boneyard of wagons. Technology abandoned by its owners and left out to rot and rust as the world ended, but just beyond it were the rickety walls of what looked like an old diner, or even a bar. I checked my instructions, lovingly written out by my gracious boss, just to be sure, but I figured this little detour would be fine.

Tumbleweed,

The objective is to secure new trade routes along I-95. There are countless more ponies out there, and if we can find them, we can bring the world closer together. Living in Post-Apocalyptia is rough, but we can make it better, and it all starts with the roads. The trailblazer before you hasn’t responded back, and we think something happened to him, so be on your guard. We've heard of some rather powerful groups coming out of that region. There is an empire of "protectors" who have been forming their own rule of law, although the word on the trail is that they have their eyes on the wastes. It seems New Reino has interests in the towns on the road, but try not to get their attention. Supposedly there is a rather prosperous stable around those parts. Apparently there are claims of, and I quote, "Giant, screaming goat monsters with gigantic horns" that have organized into some kind of kingdom. I know you are a tough pony, you have a way of doing things that surprises me often, it is probably one of the reason’s I trust you with this job, but you are no use to anypony dead. Be careful. Raider activity has been on the rise, and they seem to be gathering for something. Please, Tumbleweed, I know what you went through, but please don't get involved if it is what they say. Stick to the roads unless it’s of the utmost importance. Check in over the usual frequency every two days. You are your own back-up, so try not to mess this up. Remember, if its bigger than you, don't throw rocks at it, if they out number you, don't insult them to their faces, if you have something explosive, don't. I know that list doesn't cover the extent of your creative antics, but try to use your head. You are the representative of ‘Glory Road’. Don’t do anything that would make us look bad. We can’t send another one after you, so be careful, and for the love of Celestia, don’t get into trouble.

DD

The ghostly skeleton of the old diner was hardily off the side of the road, and it stared at me beckoning. Shelter was in order and ‘trouble’ was something the wasteland never gave me, ever. It was positively foreign. I hardly counted it as deviating from the course. All the same, a strange whurrr-ing noise was drawing me in.

For a place 150 years old, the inside was surprisingly clean. The place had been tended to with love. I was right on the call, saying that it was a bar. Most signs of debris had been swept away and there was no build up of cobwebs or anything of the sort. The windows had been washed, but only on the insides, giving a perfect view of a century’s worth of grim and mold. That being said, a rather large arachnid like creation hovered over the bar, with an assortment of tools at the end of each of its long metallic legs. The most prominent of these being the power buffer it was using to polish the bar. It was buffering along and humming a tune when I stepped through the threshold and into the bar. The power buffer got too close to one of the beer bottles on display, launching the bottle right past my head, shattering against the wall behind me.

“Oh shoot!” The mechanical Mr.Hoovsy said. Unlike other robotic familiars, the Mr.Hoovsy lacked the usual tinny voice and had a fully operational voice function. It was almost like talking to a ghost of the before-times. “Sorry about that. Can’t tell you how embarrassing that is. I’ll have Fernando get that.” His mechanical spideryness hovered around the corner and hollered into the back rooms. “Fernando, pull up your boot-straps, my boy! One of the patrons broke a glass out front, get on it. Chip chop!” Out of curiosity I poked my head around the corner, only to see another Mr.Hoovsy lying nonoperational in the sink, with a tremendous pile of plates and glasses littering the counter.

“It’s so hard to get good help around here." The machine stared off with an iron melancholy. It turned back to me, snatching a glass between a pair of clamps and started cleaning it with a rag. "Anyway, have seat, you look like you’ve been on quite the journey. It is PROBE ERROR degrees outside. ” The Mr.Hoovsy said.

“I’m just a pony with a love for the road.” I replied, taking ‘Probe error’ to be his way of saying ‘hot as hell’. I walked in, albeit hesitantly, carefully observing the area, scanning for potential threats. I slinked across the relatively well-shined floors, taking a seat at the counter the Hoovsy was polishing at. I had to admit, the robot had charisma for being an ancient pile of scrap. I didn’t notice the pony skeleton in the seat next to me until my butt was firmly planted on the barstool and I was eyeing up the bar selection. I jumped when it popped into my peripheral vision, and I almost punched its lights out.

“Oh don’t mind Mr. Hayseed. He is one of our regulars. He really loves the place.” The robot pontificated off. “I can’t seem to get him to leave.”

The robot leaned in and raised a saw to his audio speaker, pretending to whisper, despite having no change in volume to speak of, and in response I leaned back, not being familiar with robots trying to say things on the down low. “He still has yet to pay his tab. I keep suggesting that he can always wash the dishes, but quite frankly… I think he is giving me the cold shoulder.”

It was pretty rude for a guy, considering, but still, something about the dead being unable to pay their debts felt wrong to me. “So, what’s this guy's tab look like anyway?” I asked, poking at the guy’s skull.

“For the whiskey and cola…” Alright, that should be nothing, I got this. “… compounded over 7816.2832 weeks,” Wait, what? “The total comes to about 48134 bits. Though, I might be .014 percent off with my calculations, forgive me. It’s been a long time since I have crunched numbers so exhilaratingly.”

I snorted. “huh... well that's interesting.”

The number made me almost throw up, but I caught myself. Sorry, Hayseed. That was a level of money way beyond my capacity. Sadly, I’d have to leave Hayseed hanging, but sometimes that was just the way things were. The wasteland was nothing if not ironic.

I shot a glance around the place and, taking a leap of faith in the undying spirit of earth pony built, technological contraptions, I decided to put a little trust in that living metal.

“Y’know what? Forget it. Can I get a drink?” I said as I tapped on the bar.

“Sure. What can I get you?” it asked.

“Can I get a ‘Holy Toledo’?” I asked.

He beeped and buzzed at me.

“I guess that means you don’t do wasteland drinks…”

“Afraid not, but I can get you something else.”

“I’ll have rum and sparkle.”

“Right away!” it said enthusiastically. It then pulled out a rum bottle, clamped two tongs on the top of the bottle and then rotated the mechanical hand around until it came loose… or at least until it skipped on the grooves of the cap a few times. It took out a chilled bottle of Sparkle Cola, which was more than I was expecting to be honest (these places could be a real gamble when they don’t realize their product has passed the point of no return), but then started revving its power saw… I tried to stop it, but it hacked off almost half the bottle, sending glass and fizz everywhere. It was certainly a reminder as to how terrifying prewar technology could be given a century and a half of haywire. All the same, he poured my drink.

“So, what bring you out here on the lovely 95 this day? Have you heard the news? I hear there is a war going on!” The robot bartender said to me.

“Really? A war? Couldn’t tell!” I laughed as I slammed a hoof on the bar, sipping my drink. “I’ve been trailblazing new caravan paths through the wastes. I am sort of batting clean up, looking for a guy who came before me. Have you seen any guys pass through here, wearing a similar outfit to my own… went by the name of ‘Victory’?” I asked.

The Mr.Hoovsy raised a tong to a groove in its carapace just above where the sensor ‘eye’ protruded from, as if to scratch its temple. “I can not say that I have seen him. Dreadfully Sorry! Oh, but I do get lots of stories from vagrants from time to time.”

I raised a cocky eyebrow. “Like actually useful information, or do mean like ghost stories?”

“Both, if you’re interested.”

I chuckled at the notion of a robot’s concept of ghost stories. “Ghost stories? You mean like the headless horse?”

“Oh, yes. Terrifyingly dreadful they are. I hear the land is positively popping with spirits left unfulfilled!” The robot spun his digits around as he spoke. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to set atmosphere or if the crazy Robronco Corporation had programmed them to have fear. I took swig of my drink leaned inward.

“Are you scared of ghosts?” I baited.

“Well, aren’t we all? They send shivers up my circuits!”

I smiled. “What would you do if ‘The Headless Horse’ came in here, right now?” I couldn’t help leaning in like predatory as I asked. .

“I’d serve him a drink of course!” He responded triumphantly.

At the end of the day, I guess you can’t change the programming you were given. To be honest, I envied the robots quickness answer. It was a difficult challenge facing your fears, and I wish it went smoothly like that every time I did. I guess I couldn't blame him for wanting to serve spirits to spirits. The backwards robot made me laugh. “If you ask me to pick my poison, I’ll pick the monsters that I know are real. What information have you heard about the area?”

“Well, I’ve heard the local police force has been incorporating some rather unorthodox maxims in recent years. I have to wonder what the royal princesses are thinking allowing them to do such things. If I were princess--”

“I get it. The war has made some big changes. What else you heard?” I cut him off. The stories of the ‘before times’ have interesting bits; however, I was hoping to find out more about the region.

“Well what do you want to hear about then? Poniesburg apparently has a new restaurant that has been selling a wonderful new cuisine that is ‘to die for’. The locals have been struggling with an influx of immigrant goat populations in a big way. I hear the Saddleton Thunder-hooves have been having an amazing season. There seem to be a lot more hoof-ball teams running about, and they sometimes seem like a bunch of reckless mobs of ruffians. There is something about a triple crown I've hear musings about, and it seems like ponies are ready to bite each other's heads off just to win it. If you'd like to hear the horoscopes, I hear they are just dreadful these days.”

I sighed. Nothing but old stories it seemed. I was about to humor myself, but then the doors swung open, accompanied by the jingle of the bell by the door, and the jangle of spurs. I turned a gnarly face and shot a look of befuddlement out at the traveler. I was hoping to get a look at what my own brand of crazy looked like, but his face was shaded by a wide brimmed hat.

The fellow with a wide brimmed hat and an eccentric poncho carried himself in. The poncho was mostly dark blues and purples, but had spots of whites, reds, greens, and yellows. It didn’t look like anything I was used to seeing. It was vibrant with various crests and symbols, most prominently with studs at various points where the lines met. His hat had several bottle caps affixed to the bond of the hat and the entire thing was made of metal. He had two revolvers strapped to the collar of the poncho facing outward. They were a weird sight to see… they didn’t have a speck of rust to them. He had bones and feathers hanging from his ears, and a necklace of rusted bolts and mechanical trinkets. Every step this fella took clanged with the metal sound of those spurs attached. The powerful aura he exuded demanded my attention. I could feel a force to his presence, one that tried to stomp out the energy of those around him. It was the kind of force I was familiar with, but certainly not willing to take lightly. He had a wandering lightning to the way he carried himself. The wasteland had a way of meddling with a pony’s soul, either breaking them into something submissive and empty, or tempering them into something brilliant. This stranger had the air of the latter.

“Well look at that! And I was just beginning to think the entire wasteland up and left without me.” The pony grinned... or should I say, the zebra grinned, as I got a better look at him. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell he was sweating seas in that poncho. “The weather is too... damn... hot!” He said emphasizing each word.

“Hell yeah it is!” I added back.

I turned motioned him over, and he gladly took a seat. I wanted a better look at the guy, and if he was going to start something fun, I wanted him in my range.

“Well met, traveler! Can I get you something to drink?!” The robot chimed in. With the zebra’s attention diverted, my naïve-side took to the helm and I ducked my head down to get a better look at the zebra’s face, just to make sure he had one. There were questions that needed to be answered, mysteries that needed to be solved! Did he have a face? Was it a face in need of a hoof? They were pressing questions.

He was exceptionally talented in keeping the brim of his hat over his eyes. I was a little disappointed to be honest. I was hoping he could have been the headless horse. He had really strong eyebrows and a couple of scars across his stripes. He caught me gawking at him. I was forced to dodge because I could tell he was getting ready to spit in my face. I got the feeling this was something he had experience dealing with.

“You know anything about respect?" He said clapping a hoof onto the counter. "Here is a good rule I happen to like." He said leaning in with a smile. "Be rude to me, and I’ll be rude to you... but don’t let that stop you, every moment of rudeness that is fair and square is worth more than gold to me.” He tilted his hat up, opening a channel for him to impose a powerful stare. I swished my drink around as I fished for the words.

“That is by far, the most conceited, arrogant, and sensible pile of Brahmin shit I have heard come out of anypony’s mouth other than my own in a long, long, time.”

The stranger gave me an appraising glance. “Well played. You’re one of those tricky ponies aren’t you.”

Before I could respond, the bartending robot chimed in with an insistent beep at the zebra stranger, asking for his drink. I sighed and braced my head up with my hoof against the bar.

“Yeah, I think I’ll have a Holy Toledo.” He said, stretching a hoof forward and then riding his spur back. The shock and surprise welling in me was crawled all over my face as I gawked at him. After a moment, he turned to me, hat brim down. “Something wrong with you’re face, strawpony?” Only when his hat was staring me dead in my face, did I notice that he had slits cut in the brim lined with mesh. He was a treacherous soul, I could feel, but to me, it didn’t matter because he spoke magic words.

“There once was a clever dog…” I sputtered like I was in a trance, and he smiled.

“His name was ‘Holy Toledo’ and everypony thought he was best…” he responded.

“One day, a bunch of mole ponies attacked the village…” I continued.

“So, he came up with the cleverest of clever plans to defeat the mole ponies.” He said, and then sweeping his hooves out and nodding, he added, “The end.”

“Mr.Hoovsy, I’d like to… neigh, I am going to buy this magnificent bastard a drink!” I yelled slamming my hooves against the bar.

“You know, when I think about it, it really is a juvenile story.” The zebra said.

"It's so bad it makes my ears bleed."

"Ha! Doesn't it?"

“Absolutely! It’s a terrible story, but it’s an amazing drink!” I nodded in agreement. “I’m just excited to know there are other ponies who know about the same crazy drinks that I do!” I added.

“Sorry to be the nagging nanny in this celebration, but I already told you, I am not programmed to make ‘Holy Toledos’.” The robot reminded us. I was so excited I had completely forgotten about that.

“Command Prompt Colon operations slash Delta 0139” the zebra spouted out. I thought he was crazy until I saw the Mr. Hoovsy relax, its mechanical arms retiring to its sides.

“Coffee Percolator settings: Adjust brewing time? Adjust temperature?”

Well, that was interesting. “For a second there, I thought that was going to be useful.” I jested.

“Shut up, I just made a small error.” The zebra rested his head on his hooves, in a moment of deep zebra meditation, or something like that. “ Default, Reset. Command Prompt Colon Operations Slash delta 0834…”

“Air Conditioning Failsafe control: Adjust Temperature?” It spoke back to the Zebra in a computerized voice.

“It really wants you to adjust the temperature.” I bugged the zebra.

“Shut the hell up. One of these things allows for you to change the stored recipes.” The zebra took a long sigh. “Default. Reset. Command Prompt Colon Operations Slash…”

“Omega Alpha Zero Zero Zero!” I butted in, bursting with reckless enthusiasm.

Before the Zebra could slap a hoof at my face, the robot’s eye started flashing a bright red light and a gem which was probably the brain of the thing pushed out of the top of the robot. “ Reconfirm Self Destruct Sequence?”

“Negative. Abort Action! Abort Action!” The zebra stammered out trying to quell the flashing lights and sounds, coming out the tin can. I could hardly contain laughter at the situation.

“Maybe, just maybe, we should stop playing with the coffee machine, before we break it again?” I joked.

The zebra grumbled at this. “I was close... I was this close…”

“To what? …To getting us blown up, in the middle of Wasteland No-Where? How about we order something we can actually get?”

“Funny you should blame me for something you did.”

“Sorry about all the fuss, my programs are rather rambunctious if you ask me.” The robot pontificated. “What will you have?”

The Zebra rolled a stirrup across the table. “I’ll just have rum, then.”

“Well, anyway, do you have a name?”

“Yeah, I got one. Tell me yours, and I might just tell you what it is.” The zebra said. He was being protective, but I was a haggling pony.

“Hey, come on I asked first. Pony up.”

“Think of it as a trust thing. There is a lot of purpose in a name… at least for you ponies anyway. You always have names like ‘Sunny Faceplant’, like it is your destiny to spend your entire life happily slamming your face in the ground. It’s rather helpful sometimes… For when you want to know who you are getting involved with.” He spoke smoothly from behind his hat. Pony naming conventions were a weird tradition to be sure, but I think that trust might have been the exact reason it existed in the first place.

“Why yes, my name is ‘Sunny Faceplant’!” I cut in.

He growled at me.

“Fine, my name is ‘Tumbleweed’.”

“They should really call you ‘Wiseass’.”

“Hey, I told you my name, so time to make good on your end.”

“The name is ‘Calypto’.”

It was an ominous name to be sure, and the confidence he had while saying it gave me shivers. “Wait a second, your not one of those crazy baby eating legion guys are you?”

At the question, Calypto stood a hoof up on the table and pushed up his hat, revealing a sinister grin and violet eyes. “What if I was?” He challenged.

A smile crept its way across my face. I cracked my neck, and put a hoof on the table and looked him in the eyes. “Then I’d be three for three in insulting a legion bastard to his face.” We stood there for a moment, staring daggers into each others souls. I was getting ready to knock the gun out of his mouth if he tried pulling it. The ball was in my court, I was sure, but this zebra had a menacing aura to be sure.

Calypto burst into laughter. He stepped down and spun a spur across the table. “Ha, you are really something, Tumbleweed. You thought I was serious! Rest assured, though the tension got rather hot, of the many things I am, a legionnaire, I am not.”

I collapsed in on the bar. I knew I had to be ready to defend myself at the tip of hat, but it was certainly exhausting. I really wanted to lay a solid punch in his white and black face. I wasn’t sure he had a good face for punching, but his personality was made for it. “Don’t do that, I’ve had more than enough close encounters. So, if you aren’t a legionnaire, what do you do?”

“What do I do? Hmm, What do you do?”

“Hey, we already played this game! I told you my name first, let’s keep this fair. Wasn’t that your rule? I want to know you’re not playing with me again. How do I know you’re not a legionnaire? It’s a trust thing.”

Calypto grumbled at this. “I am a hunter of justice.”

Really? A hunter of justice? Sounded like some sort of Legionnaire job, but then again, I didn’t know all too much about the legions business. I knew that I liked making fun of their stupid looking hats and calling them a bunch of no good, shit-eating, flank sucking, slaver bastards.

“So, do they issue licenses for that? Is that like some kind of bounty hunter job?” He scoffed when I mentioned ‘bounty hunter’.

“You could say that I am similar to them, but the difference is I don’t think you put a price on what is right.” Calypto spoke.

I hadn’t met a lot of hero types who didn’t refer to themselves as heroes or saviors. It was a nice touch. I was also used to them being ten types derogatory to bounty hunters. It was an interesting scenario to be sure.

“So what are you, then? Professional tumbling weed? dead beat? faceplanter? Ball of dirt?” Calypto leaned in, brandishing a crocodile grin.

“No, I’m a caravaner.” I said sipping my drink.

“Oh, that makes sense. My people have a word for your type. I believe it was… Scoundrel!” Calypto happily harped. He jingled his spurs against the bar like a drum.

“Watch it, or I’ll make you pick up your own teeth.” I barked out, furrowing my brow.

“Sorry, it’s an old joke, and I can’t help my humor. Kekeke.” Calypto apologized.

I looked away at the Mr.Hoovsy. “Hey, barkeep, can I get another refill.”

“Certainly!” The spider robot spoke, then realizing the sparkle coke was out, and the rum was gone, he hovered off to the freezer behind him. It was heavily frosted over. So much so, that I couldn’t see a single bottle in there. The Mr.Hoovsy didn’t seem to mind as he sprayed the freezer down with a flame thrower. Something was definitely wrong with those prewar engineers.

“You say you are a caravanner, but I am used to seeing them with more of a…y’know, caravan. A Brahmin or two, maybe a guard. What’s your deal?”

I pulled up to the bar the 3x1.5 foot metal case I had layed down beside the stool. I tapped in the 8 digit combination. Some interior gears shifted as pistons on the sides pushed open the door. A curtain of cool air pushed out from inside the container.

“Barkeep, two plates please.” I was excited to show off my fanciest toy, but it appeared Calypto was sharing the feeling.

“You carry a giant metal fridge?”

“Food and water is precious. And while most of what I carry is food, I sometimes carry gems, other things in here as well. It’s an excellent container. It’s neigh indestructible. And while it’s not the lightest thing in the world, there are some talismans built into it to make it lighter. So tell me, are you a traditionalist, or are you a zebra with a wider pallet?”

“If you’re asking me if I eat meat. I am a vegetarian. Like any self-respecting normal equine.”

“Fine by me.” I pulled out a breaded delight and put it on Calypto’s plate. He looked at it with absolute bewilderment.

“It’s a hayburger. Its a recipe that calls for ingredients that are a little bit more fresh than some of the things that have been lying around for the last century.”

“This is food?” Calypto poked the burger.

“I promise you that it is food.” He began eating, but I stopped him. “It needs to be heated first.” I looked around at the Mr.Hoovsy. “Hey, do they have one of those… uhhh, the … what do you call them… um… electrowaves! Wait, no, microwaves! Yeah, that’s what they are called. Do you have a microwave?”

“Sorry, I can not say that we do. The boss’s son kept trying to stuff the family cat inside of it.”

Foiled! Foiled by the children of a previous generation. “It seems your high tech food is defective.” Calypto squawked.

“It’s not defective.” I jabbed in. I caught him about to eat the burger again. “Don’t eat it cold. It won’t do it justice. You’re a justice kind of guy, right?” Calypto grumbled at this, but I handed him some fried alfalfa with seasoned bell peppers and onions, which he seemed to like. I closed my fridge and put it back under the bar.

“Anyway, I deal in food on the side. My primary job is as a trailblazer.” I spoke proudly. Calypto, stuffing his face with alfalfa, raised an eyebrow at me. “I travel to towns to establish trade routes, find out where dangerous things are, scope out detours to get around said threats, and help keep the roads clear.”

“Sounds like a lot of work, just to make a buck, buck.” He quipped.

“Really, it’s not the most profit oriented venture, but it is an investment. We’re putting our stakes on the growth of civilization. Living ponies are good for business.”

“Sounds like an interesting gig.”

That was when I noticed the old radio on the far side of the bar. “Hey, Arachnoid!” The Mr.Hoovsy didn’t respond. “Barkeep!” That got his attention. “Mind if we turn on the radio.”

“Not at all, that is what it is there for… after all.” The robot said.

The two of us slid over to the end of the row, huddling around the ancient little box. After a little tinkering, the circuits and lights came to life with the buzz buzz buzzing of static.

“What’s that, wasteland? You say it’s not over yet? It’s not the end of the world? Even after all these bombs? Damn straight it’s not the end, and we bringing it all across the airwaves, singin’ it out. This is DJ-Pon3, bringing it…”

Calypto winced at the voice. “Not my taste in music.” He said before turning the knobs. I thought it was strange, seeing as the two didn’t seem far cut from the same tree, at least in my eyes.

“What gives? Not hip enough to that zebra music?” He gave me a shrug,

“I don’t like listening to liars.” Zebra’s and their poetic devices aside, I got the idea that he had some kind of bone to pick with radio host.

“bzzzt…crrrrrr…gaaah….ell, Rodeo, I just think the ponies are just incredibly JEALOUS of the PERFECT SOCIETY we have built here with our own GIGANTIC hooves in the soaring heights of Broquestria!...” A masculine voice yelled various degrees of loud. We only hovered on the station for a moment, but I found myself totally entranced with what ever the hell the yelling voice was talking about. I tried to make a note as to what frequency it was on, but Calypto egged me on to keep going
.

“... --- ... .-.-.- / ... . -. -.. /” It was frustrating that the rest of the wasteland seemed to be better at morse code than I ever was. I could never deal with anything without a cheat sheet in front of me.

“Come on everypony, smile , smile, smile!...”

I was about to settle on the old ministry of morale radio station, when Calypto, switched it back to the morse code.

“... --- ... .-.-.- / ... . -. -.. / .... . .-.. .--. / - --- / --... -.... .-.-.- ....- ..--- .-.-.- ..--- .---- / .--. --- -. -.-- ...- .. .-.. .-.. . .-.-.- / .. .----. -- / - .-. .- .--. .--. . -.. / .- -. -.. / - .... . .-. . / .- .-. . / .-. .- .. -.. . .-. ... / .--. .-.. .- -. -. .. -. --. / ... --- -- . - .... .. -. --. .-.-.- / .. / -.. --- -. .----. - / -.- -. --- .-- / .... --- .-- / .-.. --- -. --. / .. / -.-. .- -. / .--. .-.. .- -.-- / -.. . .- -.. .-.-.-/”

“What gives, Calypto?” I prodded, but he was lost in concentration. I couldn’t believe my eyes. This guy was translating morse code on the fly. He probably had a cheat sheet under his hat or something! That bastard…

“It’s close. Also, they misuse S.O.S...”

“What is?” I asked, my ears sinking. I caught one of those rare glimpses of Calypto’s face, and it was lit ablaze with ambitions.

“It’s a distress signal.”

“Brahminshit!” I called out. “Seriously, it needs to be about 20% cooler out there if anypony is going to be killing anypony else.” I had a good sense about these things, or at least I felt I did. When you can think like ‘crazy’ they don’t seem crazy, and this was ‘crazy’ for crazy.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“How can I tell what?”

“That it’s close?”

“I’ve been mapping area out. The location is one of the old locations pre built into the database I’m using.”

As far as maps were concerned, I had a scrape on the inside of my right hind leg that kind of looked like the general area. I have a rash where Canterlot was, a big ol’ scab for junk town, a little scar for I-95, and a bunch of nicks here and there that were other established settlements. It was a little bit weird, but it worked.

“I’m headed out. I’ll pay for my own drink.” My striped drinking buddy said. I almost felt insulted that he wouldn’t accept my offer to pay, but there were some souls out there with so much pride they couldn’t accept those types of things. It was something I understood, but couldn’t reciprocate.

“Your tab comes to 12 bits total.”

The zebra emptied 11 bottle caps onto the table before leaning in and spitting the last one onto the table. He turned to me and said “Morse is the language of the wastes. It might behoove you to learn how to read it.” Then, the stormed out. He was gone so fast I couldn’t tell him how stupid he was.

It was an old pre-war machine, and it wanted pre-war money.

“Well, never in all of my years…” The bartending robot complained. “I just finished waxing the counters, and he even goes so far as to run on the tab.”

“You’ll have to forgive the guy. I’ll pick up the slack. No worries, Barkeep.”

“Thank you, you are a generous soul.”

“Hardly.” I told the robot.
********************************************************************

Some time passed, and I continued to enjoy a few drinks. Who did he think he was? Strutting off, thinking he was sprite, just because he knows morse code like the back of his hoof. ‘I’m not illiterate,’ I thought to myself. There is more to wastelanding than knowing the language of the blips and bloops. He had to have a cheat sheet. I just knew it. Damn him! I knew he had a good punching face, and I should have made use of it. I sighed. Still, he was being the better pony than me. He was gonna play hero, and I was stuck with my leash and a mini-fridge…

I knew without even looking down road, from horror stories and the wasteland tendencies, that I could have used a hired gun like him.

Having been left without a drinking buddy, I turned to the radio for company. I was on my way to trying to find the silly radio station with all yelling when I stopped back on the DJ-Pon3 wasteland radio.

“… I want to talk to you about something breaks my little pony heart. There are some crude individuals who have been taking over the airwaves, just like yours truly. They have been broadcasting distress signals, as a means of luring in ponies. And those that wander in to the devious trap have not been heard from since. So, remember, you can hear all those screams, but they just in your head. Don’t go trying save no pony if you can’t save yourself.”

What I heard made perfect sense. Attacking ponies? In this weather? Raiders have some interesting logic, but nine tenths of what you have to be a raider is knowing when and when not to raid. When the weather is nasty out, but you still have that craving, what do you do? You order out. It was a crazy idea, but it made sense to me. It would be the type of thing that I would do. It looked like my drinking buddy was heading straight into a trap. I thought on it for a spell while nursing my drink. Odds were always against in this type of thing, and I wasn’t a pony for feeding the house. I wondered what would happen to that zebra. Death was something that came by suddenly and often in the wastes, but it was certainly weird knowing that the fellow who sat across from me was doomed to die today. It was a frustrating feeling if you let it get to you, but investment, in feelings or in caps, was a choice. I sat on the line of indecision for moment. If he died, it would be a stretch to say that I chose for his death. Even so, death was not a stranger, and guilt could be forgotten. It was something that helped. The wasteland was not something I saw as cruel, it was merely unfeeling. Sometimes, it paid to be like the wasteland.

I was going to sit around while a good pony died, and the thought that all that remained in the world were indecisive business ponies like me and the raiders left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. I gritted my teeth and took a hoof to the radio dials, sailing the air waves to try and help.

Unwittingly, I stumbled upon the bleeping of the morse message from before, but the biggest problem still remained, morse code meant nothing to me but annoying blips and bleeps. Unwittingly, I had let my head make the slightest of ambitions that would lead me toward unwanted despair. That stranger had quite an aura about him, and it resonated well with my own. When you see somepony being strong, you can’t help but want to be strong as well. Even with the will to offer a hoof, I had no clue where to travel. Even if I did go, It had been some time since he set out. The logic of my head told me that by the time I got there, he might already be dead, but that pony didn’t feel like the usual wastelander. Something was telling me that he just might be the kind to survive and surpass that kind of obstacle. It was a naïve thought, but since ancient times, there have always been heroic figures that have done amazing things. Those feelings struck a chord that had been long passed down through generation in the collective soul of Equestria. In so many words, I had a nerdy little hunch that wanted to spit in the face of 28 years of survival.

“That broad cast is rather incessant. It just keeps going on about …---… this and save me that.”

I turned to the Mr.hoovsy, mouth agape. “Do you understand what it is saying?”

“Well of course. It’s one of seventy four scripting languages I am programmed to understand.”

“Do you know where the location it is talking about is?”

“Oh, ponyville? It is just east of here.”

I wanted to give that giant metal relic the biggest hug, but he would probably percolate me or something. The pieces were coming together.

Just as I was beginning to enjoy the idea of getting out, that bothersome little edict from my so called ‘boss’ came to mind.

And for the love of Celestia, don’t get into trouble…

I sat and pondered my values, because I owed her, and this job was probably the best thing I had going for me in a long time.

“Hey, Barkeep. I want to know what you think on something.”

“As a bartender, I am programmed for advice and counseling!”

“Marvelous!” I grinned as I swayed over my third drink. “If a guy wanted to single hoofedly take out an entire raider encampment, in stupid hot weather, with nothing but a riot shield shaped like a refrigerator, that wouldn’t be troublesome, right?”

The robot blipped and beeped for a second. Just as I was getting comfortable with the silence, he blurted out, “You have certainly had a few. That sounds dreadfully troublesome. I think I am cutting you off, buddy boy.”

“Damn it, it would be troublesome wouldn’t it, and I was told to steer clear of that.” I said, slouching as I waved my whipped tail. The alcohol was probably getting to me. Still, I didn’t want to drink to the passing of a good pony just because of a stupid maxim. I was a pony of integrity these days. I couldn’t go against the rules, or else they wouldn’t mean anything. Rules, rules, rules… I truly hated ‘em, but I hated me without them probably more. “Does this count as being something important?”

“My algorithms inform me that it is hasty to risk ones life for some pony you only just met.”

I cracked my tail like a whip in frustration. “But I want to do it anyway!” Still, robot logic was a lot less biased than my own, and part of me wanted to respect that. Unfortunately, that would leave me in a bar with my own sorrows. Emotions were a trap, and I already walked this far into them. It was then that something hit me…

“Hey, he said he would pay for his own drink, right?”

“That is correct, approximately 37 minutes and 23 seconds ago the zebra patron asserted he would in fact pay for his own drink.” The robot told me.

“Well, he didn’t pay it. Did he?”

“No, he didn’t,” the robot said. Then, his one eye turned from the soft yellowish white glow to a violent red. “the bastard.” His eye promptly returned to its usual color. “And you agreed to pick up the tab.” The Mr.Hoovsy said.

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I!” I exclaimed triumphantly.

The spider contraption’s eye turned red again. “And you aren’t thinking about stepping out on the tab are you?”

“Of course not, old pal. I wouldn’t dream of it.” I smiled and shook my tail back and forth. “I am going to pay both our debts in full.” I stomped a hoof to open my side bag’s pouch, and bucked one of many old mintal tins up out of the bag and into my hooves. I popped the tin open and counted out 39 bits worth of the old currency.

“That bastard now owes me money!” I said slamming the bits on the counter and cracking my whipped tail again. Hwachi-iin! The Mr.Hoovsy looked at me with a mechanical confusion.

“If my memory is to recall, did you not say you would pay for Mr.Calypto’s drink even before he said he would pay for his own? My circuitry has a maxim override for cases like this where misunderstanding are quite common.”

Of course the robot would have overrides for those kinds of misunderstandings, but not for any of the other crazy oversights those brain dead earth ponies I am descended from failed to account for. “Yeah, well, he shouldn’t have said that he was going to pay for his own drink then!” I yelled back in a drunken fit. My golden coat must have been taking on a rather reddish hue in face by now.

“My advice matrix is still reading indecisive on this matter.”

“It still stands that I am down 12 bits due to this guy. Keeping an eye on your debtors is important, am I right?”

“Times are tough! After all, it is a war time! You should let ponies pay at there own pace.” Mr.Hoovsy said.

Damn it, I forgot all about this guy’s debt collecting policy. A bunch of bones sitting next to me and I still can’t remember the relevant details. He could be here for all of eternity and it wouldn’t matter. He doesn’t care because he has him right in his sensors all the time. Sometimes guilt felt like debt, and I had enough times where it had driven me mad in the past. Nopony lives forever, so with the undeniable value of the now, a business pony could feel an infinite guilt when faced with an unpayable debt…

Then, something hit me like a some kind of wicked revelation. In that moment, I found the language that would lead me to my victory. I licked my lips and gritted my teeth in a bastardly grin as I whisked my tail at a leisurely pace.

I reached over and took the skull of lazy old Hayseed and tucked it under my forehoof.

“You know what? I think you are onto something! I should definitely let him pay his debt at his own pace. In the mean time, I am going to go on a little stroll with our friend Mr. Hayseed.” I said to the Mr.Hoovsy as it was washing a glass I had finished using just a while ago. In a flash, his eye turned to that dark blood red again as its clamps shattered the glass, flinging shards everywhere.

“Mr.Hayseed is not going anywhere!!” The robot boomed at me, his sawblade whirring violently.

“Why is that? Didn’t you say he should pay at his own rate?”

The click and clack of clamps chomping down rang out of the countertops. Mr.Hoovsy beeped a few times. “He cannot leave until he has paid. I do not know that he will ever pay this restaurant back unless he is firmly in my sensors. This is a fine establishment and I will not have its record soiled.”

“Oh that would be terrible wouldn’t it? Hey, thinking back to my conundrum, how the hell am I supposed to collect the debt that tacky poncho wearing stripe-skin owes from me if I never see him again?”

“That is a conundrum indeed, but it is only over 12 bits.” The robot reminded me, with its eyes going yellow for a moment…a moment that was surely not going to last long.

“Ah, yes, but interest is a searing hot horse shoe up the rear. I might never see him again, and in forever’s time, that pony will owe me infinite bits. If he owed a million bits, it would be extremely important for me to chase this pony down wouldn’t it?”

“Damn straight it would be, Mr.Tumbleweed!” The angry spider said as its saw blade began cutting directly into the bar with one arm, and wiping down the accumulating sawdust with another.

“I knew you would understand, you are an incredibly smart business pony. So what do we do with bandits that owe us millions of bits?”

“WE MAKE THEM WASH THE DISHES!” The robot thundered with an authoritative voice as flames began to spew from the flamethrower arm.

I had my victory, but I wanted to be sure. I smiled and put down the skull of the unfortunate Mr.Hayseed. “So, what is that advice matrix telling you now? What should I do?” My tail sliced the air with a satisfying crack.

“Chase that fucker down! Tar feathers to his stripes and make him wash the dishes!” The mechanical spider roared.

Zing! I felt like a champion. It felt heroic. It was a feeling I had long missed. I could let go with no reservations. A terrifying excitement rushed over me. Not only was I not breaking the rules, I had the backing of an ancient robot, and by proxy the ancient legacy of my ancestral people.

Really, it was no trouble at all.

Still, things were getting toasty in the bar. The roof caught fire first, and bit by bit the temperature was rising. Bottles in the wine racks started bursting due to the heat, and the dripping alcohol had caught fire, quickly turning the bar into a roaring inferno. It was really too hot to deal with. I pocketed my tin and picked up my trusty aegis and lugged it over my shoulder.

“You can’t leave. I am authorized to halt any intoxicated individuals who may be a danger to society. Mr.Tumbleweed, I am going to have to ask for the keys to your wagon.” The robot said to me, its voice flickering as got caught in the growing flames.

“I ain’t got no keys! But it’s no worries, Barkeep. I’m walking!”

And with that I made my way from one blazing hot kitchen to another, as I stepped outside. I was playing debt collector to a bandit playing hero, because one million bits isn’t anything to scoff at. If I saved his life, he would have to agree to help me out on this journey. I took a moment to change the icepacks under my barding. Yeah, you had to be stupid to walk around in this kind of weather. Thankfully, I was smart enough to figure out how.

So I headed off the trail to Ponyville. Ain’t no trouble at all…

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Level up:

New Perk: Scoundrel- Ha, that bastard called you a ‘Scoundrel’! You get a nice little bonus to speech and bartering. Not that it will help you any. Go ahead, try to talk down a bullet. It won’t make it kill ya any less!
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Author's Notes:

So, this is the exciting beginning. It has taken a long time to get to this point, and it is only the start of journey. I look back on it, and I want to change a lot of things about it, but for now, I think it is going to stay, relatively, as is. It has been a long time since I wrote this bit, and I think Tumbleweed has changed in my head a bit as I have written. Chapter 2 is almost ready for editing and Chapter 3 is already on my mind. I apologize beforehand, the next chapter is over twice as long. You can find out Tumbleweed's three tagged skills in this chapter if you are clever.