Phosphorescent mist was rising over the pool and rivers of the Wasteland. In all directions stood endless piles of scraps and furnaces that were drenched in the light of eternal fire as metal and trans was smelted down into its constant components, its smoke belching into the nearly opaque atmosphere.

Through this land, guarded by several heavily armored ponies, walked Overseer Love Canal, the lord of the waste. From his perspective, this was a good day. The air had nearly twenty feet visibility and the hunters had cleared most of the wasteworms that surrounded the capitol. The air outside him was lethally toxic- -the ponies unfortunate enough to be born too poor to afford even respirator masks rarely lived past twenty- -but inside his hazard suit, the air was perfectly clean. Only the thinnest of smell was allowed through his filtration canisters, and to him, it smelled like profit.

He rapidly made his way into one of the many concrete megaliths that dotted the land. Its surface was corroded and stained inside and out from the periotic sulfuric rain and from the corrosiveness of the air itself. Nopony was entirely sure why the megaliths had been built, but they were tremendously old. Some had even been buried under trash and scrap and the bodies of those too poor to afford proper funerals, and new units were found during construction every so often.

This particular structure, however, belonged to Canal. He did not physically own it, but he might as well have. With his recent election to the position of Overseer, anything he wanted could belong to him.

As he made his way through the oversized industrial hallways, Canal was joined by his assistant, an AI named manager. There were precious few equidroids in the Wasteland due to its corrosive atmosphere and native metal-eating bacteria, but with the funds that he was syphoning out of the government, Canal could more than pay for the upkeep on Manager’s fashionable, female bodies.

“Good morning, Overseer!” she said with a voice that was programmed to be as cheerful as possible. “The Waste Management Council is already assembled and waiting for your arrival!”

She fell into step with Canal, walking ahead of his guards.

“They didn’t have to have the meeting so early…” groaned Canal, his naturally high voice modulated through the audio system in his suit to sound adequately authoritative.

“I’m afraid the delegates are getting quite nervous with the current situation in Equestria. The South Iron Coalition and the Fluidics Clan are both calling for a state of emergency.”

“Filthy mutants,” mumbled Canal.

“From a PR perspective, try to avoid using the term ‘filthy’ in association with our mutant population.”

“That’s what they are, and they know it. They aren’t even ponies anymore.”

“Sir,” said one of the guards. “With all due respect, I am in the early stages of mutation.”

“I’m sorry,” said Canal. “I hope the process kills you. And I don’t pay you to speak.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, sounding somewhat defeated.

The Council chamber consisted of a large, concrete room lit by harsh but inadequate industrial lights. The room was roughly circular in shape, and the air within it was at least marginally filtered. The equipment that kept the air clean was largely inadequate and ancient, though, and by tradition no pony removed their masks.

The edge of the room was divided into bays, and each one held a small podium where the ponies of the various clans, armies, departments, and ruling fiefdoms of the Wasteland had assembled. Several of the areas had been converted into large tanks with clear glass fronts containing translucent green-brown fluid, and in others, tall and misshapen ponies that wore no mask instead draped themselves in thick, lead-lined cloaks.

Love Canal approached the highest podium and looked out over the pointless assembly of ponies before him. He knew that it was only a matter of time before these useless meetings came to an end. Even though he had only just been elected- -and only narrowly- -he already had plans to dissolve the Council.

He stood activated the hologram in the center of the room, projecting a map of the Wasteland, signifying that the meeting had begun.

One of the ponies stepped forward. His suit was a hideous and heterogeneous mixture of Wasteland-built pieces and decorated with chains of bones and shell fragments. Canal recalled that his name was Ghoul, the delegate from the Hunter clan.

“Why have you called us here, Canal?” he demanded.

Canal blinked. “Me? I didn’t call this meeting.”

“Yes, you did,” added another pony. She wore no mask, but her sallow skin and hard shell indicated that as a cyborg, she had no need for one. “This meeting was called by your authority as Overseer.”

“I called no meeting,” said Canal, flatly. “Is this some kind of a ploy?” He laughed, “is this your idea of an assassination attempt? Because if it- -”

The lights in the room dimmed and flickered suddenly, and the hologram in the center to the room fizzled and distorted.

“Manager!” cried Canal. “What is this?”

“Something is trying to access my mainframe from an outside source!” For once, she sounded afraid instead of happy- -and Canal rather liked it. He wished all ponies would talk to him like that.

“Override it,” he said. “Do whatever computer thing it is you do.”

“I can’t! Internal traffic is overloading THERE ARE TOO MANY- -”

She slumped over suddenly. As she did, the hologram shifted, assembling itself into a translucent image of a tall unicorn cyborg. Even with the poorly rendered hologram, Canal instantly recognized the pony.

“YOU!” he cried. “How dare you enter this sacred chamber?! Guards, remove him!”

“I am just a mutant,” said one of his guards sarcastically. “I don’t know how.”

“I believe I have the right to speak,” said Toxic Shock, his hologram solidifying further. “I am a Wastelander, after all.”

“You have no rights!” spat Canal. He turned toward the other delegates. “If you recall, Toxic Shock is a madpony. He attempted to use the Third Containment Militia to conquer a frontier hub city in a bid to form his own territory! He has since been stripped of all rights and position as a Wastelander!” Canal then focused his attention on the hologram, sneering. “And you are too late. The Third Militia has already been divided and assimilated into the remaining armies. You have nothing left, Toxic Shock.”

“And surely the bulk of my soldiers were taken by you. Come to think of it…wasn’t my removal rather timely? Considering that I was nominated for the Overseer position.”

“You- -you will never have it! I won the election fairly!”

“No doubt you did,” said Toxic Shock, almost jokingly. “Nor did I ever want the position. Nor do I want it now.” He turned toward the other ponies that stood around him. The liquid in the green tanks distorted, and the things that lurked within pressed their eyes and disrupted bodies against the glass. Toxic Shock smiled, looking each of them in the eye. “I came here to ask for help.”

“With what?” gurgled one of the cloak-clad mutants.

“Silence!” cried Canal. “Do not speak to this- - this heratic!” He stepped down from the podium and approached the center of the room, drawing the attention of the Council onto himself. “I know what this is about. We’ve heard word of what you have been doing, Toxic,” he giggled. “Oh, for shame…colluding with splicers and bat ponies and halfbreed demons, trying to form a new army from the refuse of Equestria. Just what I would expect from a cyborg.”

There were murmurs from the crowd, and Canal smiled. He knew, of course, that what he was stating as fact was nothing more than hearsay- -but it would be more than enough to destroy his rival’s reputation.

Toxic Shock looked down at him, and then smiled. “Yes,” he said.

The hologram shifted as several more figures stepped into focus. One was a hulking and heavily armored half-demon, his asymmetrical fangs drawn into a stupid but menacing grin. Another was a female pony who had clearly been spliced with some kind of insect, giving her a silvery sheen, antennae, and a three-pronged tail. The third was a half-cybernetic bat pony stallion.

“What- -what are you doing?” cried Canal, not understanding.

“These are just some of so, so many,” said Toxic Shock, speaking to the delegates of the Council. “Indeed, I am forming a new army. One where no pony is rejected, and all can do their part to help- -where no pony believes himself superior to the others because he is unmodified in a fancy hazard suit.”

“To what end?” said a pony dressed, his voice distorted through a thick filter mask.

“Surely you have heard,” said the female insect-pony. Her voice was thick with a Trotingham accent “of the destruction wrought by the goddess Thebe on our land.”

“Nothing more than propaganda!” shouted Canal.

“No,” said Toxic Shock. “It is real…more than real. And it is my fault. I failed to contain a deadly infection in that hub city. The infection is gone now, but Thebe is trying to clean up what I should have been able to. She is tearing apart Equestria.”

The hologram shifted, now showing scenes of flaming destruction where golems waded through the wreckage of an unrecognizable city, shattering buildings and vaporizing ponies by the thousands.

The hologram returned to normal, and Toxic Shock stepped out again. “It is only a matter of time before she reaches the Wasteland.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Canal, regaining his composure. “The Wasteland is tied to the fabric of civilization itself- -no country can turn against us, not without being overrun with their own toxic waste.”

“Do you think Thebe cares about such things?” snapped Toxic Shock. “She is fighting a war of extermination! She has no need for diplomatic ties and cares nothing for loss or gain. She is a god. And she will not stop until every pony in Equestria is dead.”

“This is pure foolishness,” chuckled Canal. “Toxic Shock…do you realize what you are saying? You are advocating for a revolution- -against Thebe! Clearly, my citizens, he is most certainly deranged!”

“Only a fool would attempt to fight Thebe,” said Toxic Shock, smiling at some joke that only he seemed to understand.

“We not need to fight Thebe,” said the halfbreed demon, stepping forward. “Thebe hurt so many pony. We help pony.”

“If we stand together,” rasped the cyborg chiropteran, “even Thebe shall not stop us.”

“This is madness!”

“Perhaps,” said Toxic Shock. He turned to the delegates. “I have been away from the Wasteland so long…longer than you can imagine. I have seen things, and I understand now. At first I started with an army, but now we are bound by an ideal.”

“And what would that be?”

“A New Equestria,” said Toxic Shock, “one where it doesn’t matter who you are. Demon, cyborg, splicer, bat, mutant- -we’re all the same. Thebe may destroy our cities, but we will rebuild, and not just a copy of our failed world. One like Equestria used to be so long ago: united in tolerance, understanding, and friendship.”

“What you seek is impossible.”

“Is it? We are already so many millions strong, ready to fight for Equestria.” He turned to the ponies around him. “I ask you. Brothers, sister, mutants, cyborgs, unmods- -ponies: my fellow Wastelanders, won’t you please join me?”

There was a long pause, and Canal held his breath. Nopony moved, though, and he released it. Then, just as he was about to claim his victory, one of the tall cloaked ponies stepped forward. She removed her hood and faceplate, revealing an asymmetrical and misshapen set of fused faces, their cracked skin glowing brightly green from within.

“We will stand with you, Toxic Shock.”

“Indeed we will,” said the cyborg mare across the room.

“Hey, if I get to shoot something, why not,” said Ghoul.

Several of the tanks gurgled, and the creatures within them pounded on their glass in agreement.

Canal could not stop them as the rest of the they all stepped forward. Some were hesitant, and went slowly- -but in time, they all did.

“But…I’m your Overseer!” cried Canal. “Obey me!”

His guards stepped out from behind him, both removing their helmets. Both were mutants. The one that had spoken had a beard of waving, fleshy tentacles, while the other had a pale green coat and a single antler-like horn emerging from his forehead.

“Sorry,” said the tentacle mutant, even though it was clear he was not sorry at all.

“Hey,” said the green pony, nudging his bearded friend. “I'm in a scene! Is that silverfish splicer hot or what?”

Toxic Shock, still in his command center- -now accompanied not just by AIs, but by ponies and a small parliament of owls- -some of whom were significantly spliced- -looked deep into the hologram receiver. A cable connected to his auxiliary neural processor piped the images of his people into his mind, cheering, and he felt a tear run down one of his eyes.

He had finally contacted his home. His radio transmission had initially been jammed, and it was only thanks to the AI’s that he was able to enter their computer system. He thanked the AIs through his connection, and wiped the tear away from his eye.

There was still more work to be done. Even if he had allied himself with the Wasteland, he knew that it was still well beyond their ability to fight Thebe, or even slow her down- -let alone the monsters that she was at war with, which Toxic Shock believed might actually exceed her in their capacity for destruction. He knew that Shining Armor had failed, but he had expected as much. No pony could stand against Thebe.

As his demon comrade- -himself over five thousand miles away- -had suggested, the best that they could do was evacuate the cities and save as many ponies as possible, or even to hold Thebe’s smaller armies at bay. That would slow down the loss of life, but it would not stop it. Eventually, Thebe would succeed. It might take months, or even years- -but if something was not done, the army of New Equestria could only do so much, and Thebe would keep killing until Equestria consisted of nothing more than her standing atop the mountains of the dead.

Despite this, Toxic Shock recalled what he had learned in the distant past. He remembered hope, and held onto it- -the hope that somepony would rise who could stop a god, and that his dream for a better Equestria might eventually come to pass. At that point, though, hope was all he seemed to have.