A deep ache running the length of my spine prodded me back into consciousness. I was laying on my front, sprawled across the chilly floor and buried under layers of throbbing pain. As my eyelids parted uneasily, my half-numb hooves immediately grasped the sides of my head. Every heartbeat sent a biting pulse through the rear of my skull where a massive bruise had formed.

Remembering the final moments of the battle that had left me in such a condition, I raised my head and checked around for any sight of the armored unicorn. The explosion had damaged several ceiling lights, which made it harder for my dry eyes to focus. The room was empty, save for myself and the fallen form of Knight Ardent, his armor in a heap across the room from me.

I tried to rise, yet as my legs began to straighten they wobbled in pain. I could already feel that a rib or two had been fractured, my right ear wouldn't stop ringing, and there was what felt to be a piece of shrapnel embedded somewhere in my shoulder. There were numerous cuts and burns across my face, all of which were promptly sensed as I grimaced at my other wounds.

Turning my attention to my wings, I spread both and checked my left. Only a few feathers were bent out of shape; nothing that a quick preen couldn’t fix. Already feeling relief flood my brain, I turned to my right wing, pausing in confusion at the vacant space presented instead. Baffled, my eyes were drawn down to the base of my wing. A bloodied, splintered stump feebly wagged at me, trembling as it tried to outstretch.

Comprehension seemed to elude me. This was impossible. Where was my wing? I couldn’t have lost it; without it, I couldn’t... fly…

It’s gone.

Heat built up in my face, promptly liquefying into welling tears that partially blinded me. My breathing accelerated as I spun around like a dog chasing its tail, surely the victim of some sort of illusion. My wing was caught under my robe, or my tears were blending the colors… all of the red. Dark red... soaked… oh my Goddesses... Hyperventilating, only a strangled whimper could escape my throat as my mouth quivered.

I can’t fly.

My legs gave out and I collapsed to the floor, sobs racking my body. Now aware of the horrifying numbness that coated the stump and my right side, I could do little more than shiver in utter despair. The gory remnants of my pegasus heritage had been quite literally ripped away and dashed across the floor beside me, causing my already-churning stomach to heave.

One realization echoed in my thoughts like a claxon, each mental repetition growing louder and further filling me with terror. For all I tried to ignore it, to be thankful that I was alive at all, to instead redirect my grief to Ardent, I couldn’t drown out what I knew.

I will never fly again.

This couldn’t be happening. I shuddered as the surreal implications of my grounding began to rise. If all the others had returned to the Phoebe… if they’d left without me…

Oh Goddesses, oh Goddesses... Celestia and Luna above, please, please, please let this be a nightmare.

I must have laid there feeling sorry for myself for an hour before I finally came to terms with reality. Though I was flightless, I was alive.

Get it together, Quill. You can cry once you've exhumed yourself from here.

Looking once again to Ardent, I felt a rush of guilt; I should’ve been thankful that I’d survived the battle at all. I found balancing to be unexpectedly challenging without both wings as I moved to my fallen Ranger comrade. The fresh tears once again returned as I looked upon his body with sorrow. Ardent had been a friend of Orange Kyanite ever since the two were born into the order as Squires, equally competitive and ambitious. Kyanite might not have had the courage to initially ask me out had Ardent not constantly encouraged and nudged him forwards.

Ardent’s power armor was severely mangled, streaked with blackened burns across the front around a second stab wound. His flanks had been crushed by the unicorn’s magic, the medical systems contained therein rendered inoperable. The compartments were so badly twisted that my hooves couldn’t pry them open to access any healing potions that might have survived.

His helmet was, mercifully, easier to remove. I respectfully shut Ardent’s eyes and from around his neck retrieved his set of Steel Ranger holotags, engraved with his name, race, path, and an image of his cutie mark, a snowy-peaked mountain. Enchanted to near indestructibility, each holotag would be accepted by the Scribes back at the Citadel and recorded in our archives to forever honor our order’s sacrifices. To keep them safe, I slipped the chain over my neck, beside my own set.

The contents of my saddlebags that had been dumped onto the floor were scattered all about, most of it damaged or hopelessly disorganized. My bags had several shrapnel holes punched through them, but held together as I replaced my camera, some clipboards, a voice recorder, tin of Mint-als, an assortment of paper that wasn’t too crumpled or blast-streaked, and two intact pencils. My nine-millimeter pistol had been knocked into the corner of the room, still loaded with nine bullets. Slinging my supplies over my back, I was now faced with the question of what direction to head in.

In addition to the entrance, both side doors to the room were still open, but I didn’t want to risk encountering anypony from the Stable again.

The large terminal-locked door ahead was still shut. Curiously, I investigated the connected screen. Gently flickering emerald text requested login credentials from the Ministry of Wartime Technology, which immediately raised a red flag. What business did Equestria’s militaristic Ministry have doing here, in the depths of a medical manufacturing Stable hundreds of miles from Canterlot? Was the unicorn who had attacked us connected to the Ministry somehow? Was the organization still operating beyond this door in some capacity?

Though I felt tempted to try and hack the terminal, the way the Stable’s defenses had all focused on Vox when he’d attempted the same gave me pause. Remembering the Engineer, I knew that whatever lay behind this bulkhead would have to remain a mystery to me. Few things appealed more to me than knowledge of the pre-war world, but the cost of this secret was already far too high.

I retraced the path Ardent and I had taken from the generator room with a slow limp, muscles perpetually tensed. Every moment I expected the unicorn to step out from an alcove or doorway and shoot me, or for sentry turrets to suddenly rip me apart from behind, but neither occured. The Stable was deathly quiet, once again only disturbed by the low humming conducted through the floor.

Peeking into the chamber holding the generator and Vox’s body, I carefully studied the ceiling. The blue lights which I now knew to be turrets had returned to how they had been when I’d first entered, the weapon apparatuses retracted into their shells and laying flush with the metal surface. I had to summon all of my courage to set hoof through the threshold, bracing myself for the mechanical whir that would send me retreating down the hallway.

Nothing happened; had the turrets forgotten about their two escaped targets? Tentatively, I stepped fully inside. My nerves were singing like wires as I subconsciously muttered, “Okay… okay…” and made my way over to Vox at a hurried trot. I continuously checked over my shoulder at the lights, watching for even the slightest shade of bloodthirsty red to replace the passive blue.

Vox was where he’d fallen, crumpled against the wall underneath the door controls to the bulkhead. His PipBuck, still connected to the door, flashed with warnings of severe cranial damage.

My heart broke for Vox. The aged unicorn had been a grandfatherly figure to many of us Steel Rangers, providing sage advice between snarky quips. I'd known him for so many years that seeing him laying here before me seemed unreal. He was only asleep on the job, the victim of his tired old bones.

Yet the blood in my coat and mane spoke otherwise. Biting back another wave of tears, I removed Vox's holotags, inscribed with his gramophone cutie mark, and hung them alongside mine and Ardent's. I shut his eyes and laid his body into a more peaceful position, then turned my attention to the PipBuck.

To take it felt wrong, almost as if I was removing part of Vox himself, but I knew I stood no chance outside if I didn't have every tool I could find at my disposal. With reverence, I lifted the unicorn's foreleg and unclipped the PipBuck. The screen flickered out as it was separated from its host.

I attached the bracelet to my own leg, rebooting it with two quick taps of the power button. Lines of code flooded the display as the ancient processors whined, and after briefly flashing the Stable-Tec logo, finally completed their startup routines, leaving me looking at the DATA screen. Since the device was still connected to the door controls, there was a prompt in the corner to interface with the security.

I might be able to hack the door open… but doing so might turn the turrets on me.

“Horse apples…” I muttered.

To be honest, I was more afraid of venturing deeper into the uncharted Stable than taking this risk. I glanced back and forth between the PipBuck and the turrets for a minute before I braced myself and initiated the link.

The ceiling defenses were indifferent, I soon surmised through sheltering eyelashes.

A miniature terminal-style interface was now displayed on the PipBuck’s amber screen. I started the hack just like in the Overmare’s office, wishing Kyanite was once again beside me to give his patented words of encouragement. Just the thought of my partner had me worried. Kyanite had to have assumed I'd died… Celesta's mercy, how must he be feeling right now?

The small voice of my pessimistic subconscious was quick to interject. Assuming he made it out.

Of course he survived. He's a Paladin.

Oh? And who's to say that the unicorn who attacked you was working alone?

Kyan could handle them.

Didn’t you assume the same about Ardent?

I was growing angry with myself. There was no way Kyanite could die that way, he just couldn’t-

KA-THUNK!

I jumped in surprise as the bulkhead unlocked and retracted into the ceiling. Blinking at the PipBuck, I gave a single short laugh in disbelief; maybe I was better at this than I gave myself credit for! I disconnected the PipBuck and fed the connector cable back into its frame as I peeked past the doorway.

A wave of relief washed away many of my fears as I found the first chamber to be empty. The ceiling had been torn apart by an explosion, probably the aftermath of a missile from Orange Kyanite’s battle saddle. As my eyes trailed down from the wreckage, taking in the twisted hunks of turrets and ceiling plates, they found a small pool of blood on the floor. A few yards away lay Aurora Tide’s revolver.

Kyanite’s last orders replayed in my mind. He’d shouted Aurora’s name before commanding us to escape; the Apothecary must have been wounded by the turrets that descended from their side of the bulkhead. My heart went out to her and I sent a prayer to the Goddesses that she was still alive.

Picking up her pistol, I allowed the PipBuck a few moments to scan the weapon and generate an entry on the INVENTORY screen. My heart raced as I admired the weapon in my mouth. The long steel barrel, side covers, and cylinder had a beautiful black finish, and the mouthgrip was constructed from hardy walnut. Two small red lights shone in the body, just below the hammer. With a beep, the PipBuck had identified the .223 pistol, nicknamed “Riptide”, which was loaded with…

Hot damn!

Aurora had been prepared for the worst; her pistol had been fully loaded with five hollow-point bullets! If fired accurately, they were capable of killing or seriously maiming most flesh-and-blood ponies in a single shot. Five rounds weren’t much, but simply arming myself this soon with an equalizer this powerful meant I actually had a slim chance of survival out in the Wastes.

Aurora Tide might have been dozens or even hundreds of miles away by now, but she had unknowingly just saved my life.

I made it back to the Forward Operating Base without incident. Once again I thanked Celestia that I didn’t stumble across any corpses on my return. The F.O.B. was still the way it had been the last I’d seen it, though the terminal and one of the light fixtures had been knocked over. I righted the computer and checked it for any inventoried supplies. Nothing.

While I could theoretically escape the Stable right now, I couldn’t imagine getting far in my current condition. I was no longer bleeding, but the amount of steady, pressing pain that consumed my body was debilitating. A healing potion or two sounded simply divine right about now.

Lazily wishing for an elevator, I took the nondescript stairwell up to the third sub-level, groaning as I climbed each step. I came out next to one of a few doors on this level marked “Production Floor;” if there were any medical supplies to be found here in 56, this area was my best hope of finding them.

The room beyond was a prep area, consisting of a row of sinks, a box of mane-nets, and numbered cubby holes filled with polyester frocks. A sign overhead read, “Remember to wash your hooves!” alongside a diagram of the proper gowning procedure. Morbidly curious, I turned one of the faucets on, then recoiled in disgust as a thin brown sludge gurgled up and out.

Out of the gowning room I was faced with a junction. The halls lead left, straight ahead, and right, labelled as material production, assembly, and packaging respectively. Inquisitive to learn how the Stable’s supplies were put together, I decided to go forwards.

Along the wall were pictures of the most productive individuals and departments of each year. I began counting and found there to be ninety-eight total; as Cast Die had said, 56 had run for nearly a century. The last portrait was that of a young, cheery-eyed buck named Drop Forge. His bright face stared back at my own as my mind tried to imagine what his life must have been like.

Born underground, not seeing the sky until… by the picture, I figured he had to have been in his teens when the Stable’s population finally packed up.

What would it have been like for him, for the rest of his generation? To exit this sunless shelter, free of danger, into the hellish landscape that awaited beyond their door? Cast Die’s words about their desire to reconnect with the ponies they’d left behind seemed naive in retrospect, but I could hardly blame them. The lust to escape the confines of one’s foalhood was a feeling I was all too familiar with.

Opposite the portraits the room opened up into a massively wide, low-ceilinged room. It stretched much further than my PipBuck's lamp was able to illuminate, and I could only know that there was a far wall due to the auxiliary lights that lined the wall, stretching hundreds of yards ahead of me. All manner of machinery were arranged in rows, from presses to welders to conveyor belts to bottling machines to textile looms. Bundled wires snaked across the floor and under cushy mats while dusty old chalkboards stood with quotas, assignments, and notices scrawled upon them.

Carts and trolleys bearing crates of materials created roadblocks as I trotted forward. I stopped at a workstation containing packages of needles, plungers, and plastic casings. The neatly stacked paperwork nearby identified these components as an incomplete device referred to as a “stimpak,” a name which I'd certainly never heard of before.

In another row, one of the looms I had spied earlier had been in the process of mass-producing healing bandages, weaving them together far more efficiently than any pony's hooves or magic could ever hope to manage. I sought about beneath the contraption for any scraps I could acquire.

The Stable was remarkably tidy, more so than any pre-war ruin I'd ever experienced. I found nothing but castoff threads, though when I pried open one of the panels on the machine, I uncovered about four feet worth of bandage still left inside. As I wrapped it around my wing stump and the worst of my burns, I disappointedly discovered that these had not yet been infused with the weak magic that standard gauze was. Still, they would provide at least a modicum of defense from infection.

The scope and scale of how 56 could have affected Equestria had Canterlot survived its bombardment struck me. Would the Wasteland have formed as it did if the Ministry of Peace could have swept the nation providing medical aid? Would ghouls have appeared if adequate radiation treatments had been available immediately? Would ponies have turned to raiding if the struggle to survive hadn’t been a day-to-day battle? My mind was lost in hypotheticals as I wandered around the production floor, taking in the many machines whose applications I couldn't even fathom.

I found a potion bottling machine across the aisle, its metallic conveyor belt holding several upright empty glass bottles. Under normal circumstances, I deduced from attached safety diagrams, the potions would have been filled at a constant rate as they rolled past, then were stopped with corks and hauled to packaging. A shame they didn’t use caps instead…

I once again combed over the area for anything left behind. It wasn't until I uncovered a cardboard box labeled “rejects” that I found nine potions encased in bubble wrap. The reason for their withholding? A nearby manifest cited both “discrepancies in the glassblowing” and “failure to add natural flavors in chemistry department”.

“Waste not, want not,” I muttered as I swiftly appropriated the lot.

The shrapnel in my shoulder was difficult to reach; in fact, I had to make clumsy use of nearby impromptu tools such as a ruler to help lever out the small, twisted shard of metal. Once it fell to the floor with a tiny ring, the wound was resealed with one of the potions. The taste was quite bitter, even more so than normal, but it functioned just as well as any other I'd taken.

As interesting as the production floor had proven to be, I knew I couldn't wander it forever. With a final lingering glance at one of the greatest lost potentials of Equestria, I exited, heading back for the entrance.

The stairs were easier now that the worst of my aches and pains had been washed away by the potion. At the top of the final staircase, I paused as I faced a poster for the Ministry of Peace. The wrinkled paper depicted dawn breaking over the top of a hill as a backlit Stable door rolled aside in the center, the glow of both creating a sun-shaped corona. Beneath was the phrase “Tomorrow Begins With You.”

This slogan had been mirrored before in Equestria; neither the words nor the art had been what gave me pause. Rather, it was the realization that I hadn't seen a single reference to Wartime Technology anywhere in the Stable besides the terminal at the end of the fourth sub-level. Meanwhile I'd seen enough Morale posters to wallpaper the whole Overmare's Office with Pinkie Pie's unsettling face.

Did the Dwellers here ever even know exactly what laid below them? Had the Overmare been privy to the covert machinations of the Ministries? I decided to pay a final visit to the office of the shelter's leader to find out.

Connecting the PipBuck to the terminal, I was able to access the logs once again and was offered the choice to download any I wished. Unfortunately, I found that as advanced as the PipBuck was, its hard drive could only hold a fraction of the over five thousand audio logs stored within the large maneframes that lined the walls. I settled for downloading the first and last fifty entries, looking forward to working through them on the trip.

I may have also basked in the soft chair’s embrace one more time, regretful that it hadn’t been loaded onto the Phoebe when we’d had the chance.

Once back at the entrance, I paused while taking one last look back at the atrium. Part of me still wanted to explore the living quarters and the cafeteria, but I was still apprehensive about encountering more turrets or black-armored strangers. I resigned that whatever meager supplies might be waiting for me weren’t worth expending the precious little ammunition I had.

I flipped a switch on the wall, watching as the entry door raised…

... And heard the whir of a turret as it spun to meet me. In the split second before I ducked into cover, I saw that the ceiling had once again been shot apart by Kyanite’s missiles. Only one functioning turret remained, unloading lead at the space I’d just occupied a moment ago.

While this could have presented a... minor challenge to me normally, I now had a powerful tool at my side: the Stable-Tec Arcane Targeting Spell. Readying my pistol, I raised the PipBuck and whipped around the corner just as the turret’s volley ended, activating S.A.T.S.

... But nothing happened.

Now that the turret was already facing me, it could open fire faster than the first time. I cried out in pain and surprise as a bullet sliced clean through my leg, and barely managed to throw myself back into cover before I sustained any other injuries.

What the hell? Is the PipBuck broken? I spat out my gun and gritted my teeth in pain as I fished another healing potion from my saddlebag. Studying the PipBuck, the answer suddenly popped into my head, which I now felt like bashing into the wall behind me for being such a sorry excuse for a Scribe. The bulky casing, small screen, and visible vacuum tubes on the side would’ve been dead giveaways had I been in the right state of mind.

S.A.T.S. was a program developed relatively late in pre-war Equestria. Stable-Tec touted the magical spell by ensuring that all PipBuck 3000 models came pre-installed with S.A.T.S., providing every Stable Dweller a reliable means of defense against a zebra invasion.

But I didn’t have a PipBuck 3000; I had a 2000. It had been produced and shipped out to retailers before S.A.T.S. was even a prototype.

“GODDESSES DAMN IT!” I shouted, stomping the floor and cursing myself for my arrogance. While my bullet wound was now healed, my self-esteem had been severely maimed.

My mechanical adversary clicked and beeped, scanners keeping a vigilant watch for the slightest movement past the doorway. They must have activated once the attack had begun on the fourth floor, but I still didn’t understand why the turrets had ignored us when we first entered.

Retrieving my pistol, I took a few deep breaths to calm down. Alright, Quill, focus. One turret, one bullet. S.A.T.S. is for rookies; I can do this.

Popping out again, I squinted down the barrel and let off a quick shot, which missed by an inch. I followed up with another shot; that round hit the turret square in its housing, which coughed up a shower of sparks. The last bullet from my pistol ripped the turret clean off its base, throwing the hull down the hall where it bounced to a stop at the far door.

A little rusty, to be sure, but not entirely out of shape.

The entrance was still as it had been, but now filled with earthy scents drifting in from outside. As I stepped through the cogway, I turned to the control panel. Uneasy at the thought of wild animals finding their way inside and eating Vox or Ardent’s remains, or of raiders taking up refuge and defiling a monument to the past, I linked to the controls. After a few button presses, I shoved the panel’s lever upwards and watched as the door rolled back into place, sealing Stable 56 once again.

Trudging back up the tunnel, I ducked through the hanging moss that covered the entrance into an empty clearing, the sky above darkening into dusk. The trees encircling the area had been reduced to silhouettes as the wildlife began its nightly chorus.

The Phoebe had departed, the only remaining sign of the airship being a rope cast from the side.

Despite expecting this ever since I awoke, I still felt dizzy as I once again had to accept the straits I found myself mired in. I was alone, surrounded on all sides by hundreds of miles of bogs and bayous, missing a wing, and armed with a total of eleven bullets. I knew next to nothing about the region, where to go or who to trust, or what kind of unique threats were waiting for their chance to end me.

What I needed was a town and somepony to point me in the right direction. If I was lucky, maybe even somepony to lead me that direction.

I took a long, deep breath, feeling the humid evening air coat my lungs. “Okay.” As I placed my first hoof forward, I exhaled, “Find a town.”

It had been less than an hour, and I already despised swamps.

The going had been manageable for the first mile or so, as I had been able to follow the traces of an old dirt road that led out of the clearing, the soil relatively firm and dry. While the foliage was overgrown to the point of obstructing my path at times, overall it wasn’t too unlike traversing the lands of Central Equestria. Towering, twisted cypress trees were abundant, their massive roots criss-crossing in a treacherous latticework that tested my step but also helped me over puddles once they began replacing the road, which faded into nonexistence.

Occasionally the trees would back away and I’d find myself in a small clearing, tall grass gently swaying in the quiet wind. Many beautiful flowers sprouted out of the ground or from vines draping from the branches above, and I found myself preferring to keep the distracting E.F.S. off to instead appreciate the scenery. In different circumstances, I would have considered the swamps quite serene.

Unfortunately, the swamp’s beauty didn’t last for long. As I was just reflecting on how lush the South’s plant life was compared to my home, I promptly took a wrong step and found my forehooves soaked in slime from a knee-high puddle hidden by floating moss. Impressively, the PipBuck on my leg didn’t immediately short out; the waterproof seals still held their own.

As I lifted my hoof, however, a rapid clicking noise rattled out of the bracelet. Recognizing the sound of the built-in radiation counter, I quickly withdrew my other hoof and tried to shake it dry. Great. Rads.

Annoyed by my diminishing visibility, I switched on the PipBuck’s lamp. The glow seemed pitifully weak in the outdoors compared to its brilliance in the Stable. As the darkness around me continued to intensify, I felt the strangest sense of claustrophobia as the trees seemed to close in on me and the monotonous chirps of a thousand insects reached a fever-pitch.

Where could I possibly sleep? Or bathe? My stomach growled. Or find food?

I trekked through the marshy flora determinately, my hooves generating a sick squish with every step I took. Moss was beginning to hang low enough from the branches to brush my head, which further dirtied my mane. Mosquitoes and gnats flitted about my face, landing on any exposed flesh they could locate. I swatted at them, my mind worriedly conjuring fears of contracting horrid diseases.

I rechecked the Eyes-Forward-Sparkle to ensure I was heading north and then picked up my pace. Moving from a cautious trot into a half-gallop, I forged my way through the undergrowth. My hooves began sinking deeper into the mud, and it didn't take long for me to stumble and fall into a shallow pool of disgusting, scummy water. It splashed up to my shoulders and in my face, stinging my eyes and wetting my lips. More diseases! the little pony within my subconscious shrieked hysterically.

With a groan, I spat and clambered out of the water, shaking the excess off of me and blinking to clear my vision. I scooped a clump of mud from the PipBuck’s screen and checked STATS for my radiation levels. They were still negligible, but as I switched over to DATA and studied the map, I compared the tiny arrow representing my location to the equally-sized gear that marked Stable 56. An hour’s worth of struggling through the environment and I hadn’t made it more than three miles; I would be positively glowing with rads by the time I made it back home.

You’re never going to do this! shouted the little pony, fearfully trotting in place.

“Yes I will!” I shouted back at myself. “I just need steadier ground…”

... And now I’m talking to myself. Welcome back to the Wasteland!

I started forward again, head lowered in frustration. My robes were heavy with moisture, and even though the evening was relatively warm, I was soon shivering. I found myself wishing that there had been some spare Stable barding I could have brought along to change into.

The going didn’t get any easier, but I had learned my lesson and progressed with added caution. After ten minutes of very conscious hoof-placement, my light revealed that a stagnant, scum-covered river now blocked my path. Without any clear solution for how to cross the water, I opted to follow the bank as it gradually meandered slightly northeast. The flora around me grew ruined and appeared as though a massive storm had recently ravaged the area. An uprooted tree had fallen across the river, tempting me to use it as a bridge.

Clambering up onto the trunk, I carefully began across. The bark was slick and covered in mossy growths, and my hooves had poor traction. Beneath me, the PipBuck’s lamp reflected across the surface of the brown, murky water that rested almost motionless. Many smaller, splayed trees floated in the water, along with all manner of smaller plants and debris.

Once I’d reached the bridge’s halfway mark, the trunk at the other end began to gently sink into the muddy bank. The decayed branches on the tree’s underside dipped into the river, one prodding a particularly large, gnarled hunk of driftwood. In an unexpected and frightening turn, the wood descended even deeper into the water with a horrible gurgling sound.

Swallowing, I picked my way across slightly quicker.

From out of a great geyser of dark swamp water, the driftwood burst up and clamped onto the tree bridge. The dirty ivory teeth as long as my foreleg and huge yellowish-purple eye that rolled my direction sent an inner shudder of recognition through me.

A giant radigator!

I nearly pissed myself in fear as the gator’s momentum reversed, threatening to pull the entire tree into the water. Turning, I began to gallop for safety as the roots and branches at each end groaned and splintered. Just as the giant river monster was nearly resubmerged, it twisted its head and the trunk snapped with a crack as loud as a firing squad.

My footing suddenly stolen from me, I slipped and fell. For a long, yawning moment, I hung in the air, my body tensing as the river rushed to meet me. My single wing shot out in a vain attempt to catch my descent and glide me safely to shore.

Then I struck the freezing water, plunging beneath the surface and losing all sense of sight, sound, and direction. I could see nothing through the muddy haze, nor hear anything beyond the deafening rush of bubbles and the following silence.

I didn't know the first thing about swimming, but some beastial instinct took over and started kicking my legs and pumping my wing like a fin. If my saddlebags had still been as weighed down with crap like they had before the Stable, I don’t know that I’d have been able to reach the surface. Through a desperate effort to survive my head broke the surface, gasping for air as I paddled for all I was worth to reach the bank.

I was now literally pissing myself as abject panic flooded my mind. Every second in the river was spent expecting to feel a vicious tug on my hindlegs or tail which would drag me into the pitch-black fathoms, never to be seen again. When I finally found purchase on the floor, I pulled myself onto shore and checked behind to see the radigator’s glistening back slicing through the stirring water towards me. I screamed and fled into the woods as the monster emerged, snorting mist and growling like a beast out of Tartarus.

Branches whipped at my face and my legs were cut on roots and thorns as I galloped blindly forwards. The weak light of the PipBuck was hardly adequate to guide my headlong flight, but by the grace of the Goddesses I never fell into a quagmire or twisted a leg. Radigators weren’t renowned for their speed, and I was thankfully outpacing the monster, but I still needed somewhere to hide. I ran until my hooves felt solidly-packed earth beneath me; another dirt road!

I ran along the path northward until a flash of rusted red metal caught my eye: the leg of a derelict pre-war radio tower. It sat atop a concrete base with a small, accompanying operating station beside it. I turned and ran to the tower, bounding up its rickety steel stairs into the scaffolding. Panting, trying to whip my mane out of my eyes, I reached into my somewhat-organized saddlebags, considering which firearm to use. I could either spend the hollow-points to put some serious hurt on, or use my less effective, less valuable nine-mil bullets and risk simply infuriating the gator further.

As said moss-trailing creature barreled into view, I settled for the latter option, pulling out the dripping wet pistol and taking aim at the giant reptile. The monster was so huge, it could have swallowed me whole; the PipBuck’s lamp didn’t even reach far enough to illuminate its body beyond the front legs. I managed to get off two shots which glanced off the thick green scales before the gator slammed into the tower, eliciting a dangerous creak from the metal.

I stumbled and dropped the nine-mil, watching as it fell to the concrete below and out of reach. My hoof flew to replace it with Riptide just as the radigator opened its massive maw and lunged. I threw myself out of the way as the gargantuan flesh-and-bone trap snapped closed onto one of the tower’s crossbeams just a few feet away.

I could smell musty, decayed vapors escaping from between those teeth. The radigator’s eyeball was larger than my head, clouded irises divided down the center with wide dark slits. I could see my own horrified reflection in the huge glassy orb… as well as the muzzle flash from Riptide as I bit into the trigger, the giant cornea centered in my sights.

KI-THOW!

The hollow-point bullet struck the gator’s eye and blossomed on impact, shattering the lens like a mirror out of a nightmare. Gore exploded outwards and the monster let out a terrifying utterance of pain. It tried to pull its head back, but the many jagged teeth in its jaw caught on the broadcasting tower’s gantries. As the radigator continued to recoil, the supports shrieked as they were bent out and snapped apart.

With its base eviscerated, the whole top of the tower swayed forwards, the weight of the many dishes and antennas succumbing to gravity. I felt the entire structure shudder as it toppled, throwing me forwards into the puny railing which snapped against my weight. I fell to the wet concrete, landing atop my bags and on my wounded side with a wet crunch that I both heard and felt. Around me, the tower crashed down in an ear-splitting cacophony, an I-beam striking the foundation beside me hard enough to crack it.

Wailing in pain but without any time to lose, I picked myself up and limped to the broadcasting station, flinging myself at the door. It swung inwards as I dropped to the ground, kicking the door shut behind me.

While I heard the radigator rage away outside, I curled up into a fetal position and held my bleeding side. The waterlogged healing bandages slid uselessly off of my stump, and I shook uncontrollably as my sopping wet mane and robes clung to my body. I tried to draw in a breath, but could only whimper in pain and fear, which gave way to a sob and then burst open the floodgates I’d been holding shut so desperately.

I wept for the souls of Cast Die and Drop Forge, for all of the Stable Dwellers who had undoubtedly been consumed by the swamps and its monsters.

I wept for Vox and Ardent, their lives taken far too early and far from home.

I wept for my family, who I would never see again.

I wept for Orange Kyanite, who would never know my true fate.

I wept for myself: a filthy, shivering, flightless, pathetic little pony with no friends, no clue, and no chance.

When I finally came about, I felt even worse than I had when I’d awoken in the Stable. I had passed out in a ball on the floor, caked in dried blood, scum, and mud. My joints were throbbing, my ribs felt painfully constricted, and there was a splitting headache coursing through my skull.

My thoughts were an endless slideshow of last night’s horrors, the radigator’s terrifying presence still fresh enough to send my pulse racing. After sprawling on the dusty floor for what felt like hours, wishing the Phoebe would swoop down and rescue me, I finally sat up on protesting haunches. My muscles felt like they’d been run through a grinder.

Sickly yellow morning light filtered in through the stained windows facing the collapsed remains of the radio tower. My sore eyes stung but gradually adjusted to the faint sunrays as I studied the illuminated interior of the station. Just below the windows were a wide switchboard and a dead terminal. A chair was sat before both, the padding completely disintegrated from age. A lone filing cabinet, its drawers missing, stood by the door, and faded posters of pre-war musicians lined the walls. Cobwebs gathered in the corners, drooping heavily with captured flies.

There were signs that I wasn’t the first post-war pony to reside here; trash was scattered all over the floor, broken bottles of various beverages and healing potions were piled everywhere, and graffiti was scrawled across any blank surface, sometimes across the posters. I took a moment to read a few.

“I wish it would just kill me now.”

“FUCK CELESTIA AND FUCK LUNA!” followed by a smaller comment, “I’d rather fuck Luna.” A third responded to that one, “Seriously? What’s wrong with Sunbutt?”

“Mom, Dad, I just wanted to say that you were right about everything. I’m so, so sorry.”

“There’s a Stable just south of here, but the door was locked.”

“Moustachio rules!!!”

A line of dashes suggested somepony had lived here for thirteen days in a row.

“Brayton Rouge is all dead.”

“aLl Work and nO play makES jackHaMMEr a DulL Buck.” This was written multiple times, the already-poor quality fading into illegibility the farther down it went.

“Alloy, ‘77.”

“I left some smokes on top of the cabinet. Be courteous and only take one.” I checked, and sure enough, there was a half-empty pack of cigarettes resting atop the filing cabinet.

“THIS PLACE SUCKS.”

The next scribbling caught my eye. “If you’re lost, you’re close to Buckwater. Head northeast. From one pony to another, good luck.”

I reread those three sentences several times over. Buckwater. That must be a town. Whoever had written this, however many years ago, had given me a reason to keep going. Thank you.

With weak legs, I stood and stripped off my Scribe robes, which peeled off my coat in a way that made my skin crawl. The crimson fabric was now a splotchy rust color, sullied by multiple new holes and tears. I hung the robes on the edge of the filing cabinet alongside my undershirt. A stink hit me; I hadn’t yet realized how awful I smelled.

Examining myself revealed just how wrecked my body now was. My side was gruesome, the stump covered in discolored half-healed scabbing. It had gone through far too much strain last night and needed to be disinfected, but there wasn’t anything pure enough around that I would’ve trusted to wash myself with. Every leg was covered in fresh scars from running through the undergrowth, and I could feel dozens of itching bug bites. My graphite-colored mane and tail were both matted with grime, and my feathers were tarnished with muck. There was no way I would preen them before getting a bath of some kind.

I opened my saddlebags only to sigh in defeat. When I’d fallen from the tower last night, I had landed on my bags and shattered the healing potions. Only two bottles had survived, one of which I quickly downed with a grimace. Most of the other supplies were ruined by river water, including the camera, which was a crushing blow to my spirits. The voice recorder surprisingly still functioned, albeit with a little more static than it used to have.

Finally, the hardy old PipBuck was still kicking; even though the casing was coated with dried slime, it appeared otherwise undamaged. I wiped the screen off with a relatively clean corner of my undershirt and studied the STATS screen. I was still far from healthy, but I was certainly recovered enough to try and reach this nearby town.

I laid Riptide out to dry alongside anything else that had survived and sat back, rubbing my legs idly. This paltry collection was all I now possessed; finding something to eat would be the first order of business once I set out. After that...

I had to find Buckwater.

Footnote: Level Up.

New Perk: Lead a Horse to Water, Rank 1: Despite never taking the plunge before, you've learned how to swim… or at least, how to avoid sinking.

New Quest Item Added: PipBuck 2000 - View detailed information regarding your health and location, detect radiation, manage and sort your inventory, interface with Stable-Tec technology, record or playback audio, and tune into radio frequencies.