Once my clothes and supplies had dried out, I packed them up and cocked Riptide. Cracking open the broadcasting station’s door, I peeked out, hoping I wouldn’t be face-to-face with another monstrous swamp creature. The daylight better displayed the aftermath of the radigator's destructive rampage; everything above the radio tower’s base had collapsed, snapping in half across the station’s roof. The muddy ground was riven with canyons and prints, twisted metal shards protruding like rusted saplings, while a trail of wrecked foliage led off to the south. I thanked Celestia that I wasn’t headed that way.

Stepping out of the station, I drew in a breath of damp, vaguely sweet swamp air. I activated my E.F.S. and referred to my compass, facing northeast. I anxiously hoped that Buckwater was reasonably near and welcoming of strangers; the idea of having to camp outside the settlement while a furious, half-blind radigator was still in the region wasn’t a pleasant thought. I searched for my nine millimeter pistol for at least an hour before I conceded defeat. Wherever it was, I couldn't seem to locate it; all the metal wreckage, muddy gator tracks and a tree taken out by the tower had hidden the rather diminutive weapon. I took some consolation in the fact that I at least still had Riptide on me.

Hoping to locate some long-overdue civilization, I set out in the general direction the graffiti had suggested. The daylight was comforting, helping me place my hooves, and I managed to retrace my way back to the river without issue. The tree bridge from last night was split in half and stuck haphazardly in the center of the river, still surrounded by debris that could easily hide a gator. I kept a good twenty yards between myself and the shore, with Riptide easily accessible from my saddlebag; I didn’t know how far radigators could see while submerged, but I honestly didn’t want to test it. The hollow-points were still ready to be emptied into any other behemoths that dared cross the path of Scribe Quillwright.

The thick swamp canopy hung low, nearly brushing the river, and as I followed the shore I found myself walking into blankets of moss draping over the branches of the ancient cypress trees. As I fought to untangle my mane from a fluffy green clump of overgrowth, my struggling shook something from the tree, which splattered against a network of roots ahead of me. Looking up, I could spot odd fruit resembling grey, shriveled apples. I picked one from a low-hanging branch and examined it, puzzled.

The PipBuck provided a description: “Wilt Apple. Infamous regional weed-fruit.”

The wilt apple didn’t look appetizing, but it was the first food I’d seen since leaving the Phoebe and I was absolutely starving. Bracing myself, I took a bite. The apple’s skin was leathery, and the inside was mushy and bitter, but I forced myself to chew and swallow everything. Blanching, I could tell why they were infamous; the flavor was disgusting compared to a normal apple, but technically it was still a completely edible food. I'd tasted worse, but that wasn't saying much.

I forced myself to eat as much of the wilt apple as I could, knowing that I needed something to fill my stomach. I picked two more and stored them in my growing inventory, hoping I could afford to throw them away once I reached Buckwater.

It only took a few minutes for me to get bored. Turning my attention to the PipBuck, I remembered the device’s built-in radio, and managed a little three-legged hop-skip while using my intact wing to gradually tune through frequencies. Frustratingly, I only received static, save for one or two brief bursts of music or voices; if the destruction of the radio tower last night had hampered the signal, it would be an awfully dull trip ahead.

I was about to give up when a distorted laugh caught my attention. Dialling carefully, I tried to tune out as much interference as I could. A weirdly accented voice began pouring from the speakers; a drawl unlike any I’d ever heard, even from the earth-poniest earth ponies I’d met. It was fast and high-pitched, barely pausing for breath.

“... An’ Ah tol’ ‘er, y’ain’t e’er gon’ git tha’ smell outta ye’er coat!” This was followed with an utterly ridiculous laugh, and the sound of thigh-slapping.

Oh Goddesses, this is the radio host? I groaned. One sentence and I already can’t stand him… or UNDERstand him, for that matter.

“Heh… that is quite the story…” came another voice, vastly different from the first. It sounded… well, fancy, but in a unique way. “Je vous remercie, Gator Bait.”

“Mah pleasure!”

The second voice cleared his throat. “Well, there you have it: Vim-Vam Dark does not make for a very good dye!” He continued to laugh, a little uneasily. “Heh heh… yes… alright… goodbye!” I heard a door slam in the studio.

“Well now,” the voice sighed. “I must again apologize for the… ah… abundance of interviews recently, no? There simply has not been much news to report as of late.” He paused. “But! Could it be? A new development?” There was a pause, as if the host was waiting for his listeners to cry out something. “Yes!” he shouted in triumph. “You heard it here first: an airship was spotted outside my home, flying southward! Yes! A ballon dirigeable! A flying one!”

My heart jumped. The Phoebe had been spotted by at least one pony living here!

“Who was piloting it, you ask? Sadly, I do not know. But I am sure that whoever was aboard is a newcomer to our land, so let us give them a very warm Southern welcome, yes?”

Did it pass by the other way?

“Other than that, still no news, at least nothing happy. No. But! If you are passing by my home, do not be afraid to pop in and say bonjour! I am always eager to conduct an interview with anyone who has a story to tell.”

I bit my lip, concerned. The radio host had seen us on the way here, but so far hadn’t seen the Phoebe returning north. I desperately hoped that it was only due to Cider Vinegar steering the ship into a different route.

“And to get us back into the music, here is Big Dipper with his wonderful song, Life in Pink.”

A catchy piano and trumpet ballad began to play from the PipBuck. After a minute of a strong beat, a deep, guttural, yet elegant stallion’s voice poured out.

Hold me close and hold me fast

The magic spell you cast

This is life in pink

When you kiss me, heaven sighs

And though I close my eyes

I see life in pink…

The beautiful melody echoed hauntingly through the trees, the acoustics strange thanks to the sound-dampening veils of moss surrounding me. After the first chorus, the singer was accompanied by another, a mare with a very high voice. The two complemented each other surprisingly well, the mare’s sweet soprano weaving in and out with the stallion’s rumbling baritone.

When you press me to your heart

I'm in a world apart

A world where roses bloom

And when you speak, angels sing from above

Everyday, words seem to turn into love songs

Give your heart and soul to me

And life will always be in pink!

The songstress had begun to shout that last line a little too excitedly, but the two held the final note harmoniously. As the song came to an end, I found that my downtrodden, cautious trot had shifted into a half-prance, my head nodding to the beat.

The radio station continued to play all kinds of jazzy music, none of which I’d ever heard from any of Equestria’s stations. The DJ didn’t return, so I assumed he only broadcasted himself whenever there was news to be delivered or interviews to be held.

The river soon opened into a large, reedy bayou, and down the murky shore I could make out a wall surrounding an uneven collection of buildings. A few trails of smoke rose from the settlement, and a watchtower stood at one end.

“Yes yes yes!” I shouted, now fully prancing in delight. Finally, something had gone my way!

As I trotted briskly towards Buckwater, I came across the remnants of an old highway. The ancient asphalt was cracked and faded, weeds growing from every split. The road led past the entrance to Buckwater; turning off the road, a short dirt path lined with what looked like railroad ties brought me to the gate. The wall surrounding the town was a crude but functional fusion of planks, boards, corrugated metal, doors, and just about anything else that was tall, thin, and sturdy. As I neared, a guard lounging within the watchtower jerked into alertness as he saw me. Standing, the unicorn telekinetically lifted a beefy machine gun, aiming it at me.

“Who goes there?” he shouted.

I halted, switching off my radio and waving a hoof in a peaceful gesture. “Just a new visitor!” I yelled back. “Is this Buckwater?”

The guard nodded, his eyes still narrowed. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. You new ‘round these parts or somethin’?”

“I am, actually.”

The guard assessed me for a few moments, then lowered his gun. “Alright, head on in. Just mind yourself,” he grumbled. He turned to the gate, focusing his magic. I heard a few clicks behind the wall, and then a green aura surrounded the large, grimy Sparkle~Cola billboard that served as a gate. It slid to the side and was hooked onto something behind the wall.

I nodded to him. “Thank you!” He didn’t seemed concerned enough to reply, instead returning to his seat and harrumphing.

Stepping inside the worn ramparts, I took in the town of Buckwater for the first time. Four prominent structures were lined up on the center street, all of them constructed from what looked to be the same kind of wood, resting on two-foot-high stilts. Jutting from two of the buildings’ roofs were towering metal smokestacks that coughed an occasional cloud of soot. The bayou itself was being utilized by farmers, who moved about with buckets on their backs, picking small purple berries from clusters of floating vines. A low-hanging net separated the cleaner water cultivated by the farmers from the rest of the marsh, which was strewn with debris and varnished with undisturbed algae.

Inland, dozens of small shacks, lean-tos, and tents separated the main buildings from the shore; a few campfires smoldered, surrounded by ponies roasting various kinds of animals on spits. On the opposite side of the main street, rows of sallow corn stalks and pens of brahmin and chickens filled the rest of the walled-off perimeter, a lone farmer tending to the crops. The wall wrapped around the entirety of Buckwater, each end gradually dipping into the bayou.

The main street in front of me was a muddy rut covered in hoofprints, trash, and puddles. On each side of the street were makeshift sidewalks constructed from warped and weathered planks, along which many townsponies and traders meandered about. I followed one of the sidewalks down the row of buildings to what looked to be a saloon, judging from the sign hanging above the door reading “Rotgut’s Spirits”.

Pushing open the door with a hoof, my shadow was cast into a dim, candle-lit room. Ponies of all shapes, sizes, and colors sat at tables conversing, gambling, and drinking. Several paused and turned to watch as I entered, their conversations lulling for a moment. Though I could feel eyes on my wing, I drew myself up and strode confidently to the bar, most customers returning to their activities. Plaques lining the walls displayed objects of interest, from mounted mirelurk claws to an old ship’s wheel to an old banjo. Fishing nets were suspended from the ceiling, dangling lanterns and brightly colored floaters over the tables.

The bartender, a large, steel-grey earth pony wearing a stained apron and a straw boater hat, was in the middle of a presumably funny discussion with a patron sitting at the bar. I stepped up, planting my hoof on the counter, and waited. The bartender let out a final guffawing laugh, and then turned to me, his amused expression unchanged. He sneered as his eyes ran me up and down.

“What’s with the getup?”

He’d likely never seen a Steel Ranger before. “Uh…” I brushed my hoof against my starched, discolored robes, but couldn’t come up with a witty response. “It’s comfy?”

The bartender gave me a disbelieving look. “If’n you say so. I’m Rotgut, an’ I own this joint. You want somethin’ t’ drink?”

“Well… what’s the cheapest thing here?”

Rotgut reached under the counter, lifting a jug. “Rainwater. Stuff ain’t anythin’ special, but it’s better than nothin’.” He poured a small serving into an old coffee mug. “Since I've never seen you 'round here before, you get a free sample.” He pushed it to me. “Any more, I’ma need some caps.”

“Th-thanks!” I peered into the cup at the slightly green water. “Also, I uh... I was wondering if there was a map I could look at or some kind of guide here.”

“You lookin’ to venture through th’ swamps?” He pointed to a table in the corner. “Best bet’d be Willow Wisp. You've got good timin’, she just got back to town yesterday.”

I thanked him again and worked my way through the maze of tables towards the back, taking a quick swig of rainwater. The water contained minor radiation according to the PipBuck, but not enough to be of any consequence to my Wasteland-hardened immune system.

I slowed as I reached the table Rotgut had pointed to. The unicorn sitting behind it looked conspicuously out of place compared to everypony else I’d seen thus far; she was clad head-to-hoof in a dark overcoat, the hood pulled far over her face, a grey horn poking out of the top. A half-empty glass of ale was before her. I took a seat across the table from Willow Wisp, stowing my saddlebag under the table and trying to make eye contact with the unicorn.

“I heard you're the pony to see if I need a guide,” I ventured.

The mare turned her head towards me calmly. “You heard right. An’ who might you be?”

Straightening, I replied, “Head Scribe Quillwright of the Steel Rangers.”

Willow tilted her head slightly. “And a 'Steel Ranger' needs my assistance because…?”

“I… became separated from the rest of my unit. I need to get to the border of Equestria, but I can't make the trip on my own.”

Willow scoffed. “All de way to de border? Dat’s crossing five hundred miles of de deadliest expanse of land in all of Equestria.” Her accent was yet another I’d never heard before; like a combination of earth pony drawl and the fancy talk I’d heard from the radio DJ.

I set my jaw. “I know. That’s why I’m asking for your help.”

With a harsh and scornful laugh, Willow shook her head. “You sure look like hell. Where’d you come from, anyway? How’d you even get dis far sout’?”

I lowered my head. “We have an airship, and took it all the way from Fillydelphia to Stable 56, which is nearby. Some… complications arose, and the others left without me.”

Willow sat back, whistling. “Some friends.” Gazing around the room, she commented, “I dunno. Are you sure you're up for some'ting like dis?”

“Of course. Are you?”

Willow leaned her head forward, and I could see her eyes glint. “Nopony in dis town knows dese lands better den I do. If you want my help, den it's gonna run you five hundred caps upfront.”

I barely held back a scoff. Five hundred? I don’t even have one! Externally, however, I remained stoic. “Three hundred.”

Willow shook her head again, and I could hear a faint jingle from somewhere in her coat. “Not’ing less, no. You ain't got a clue about de type ’o merde dat's out dere.”

My bartering skills are weak; I need help. Thinking quickly, I reached for my drink only to accidentally tip it over. The mug fell over the edge of the table, cracking on the floor and drenching the passing waitress's hooves.

“Watch it!” she shouted in irritation.

“Sorry!” I apologized, dropping beneath the table. In a flash, I withdrew the Mint-al tin from my bag and consumed one. My ears felt like they’d popped from a change in altitude, picking up even the softest noises surrounding me. The termite-eaten wood beneath my hooves sharpened in detail, and my brain felt a rush of inspiration. When I rose, placing my cup back on the table, I felt like a whole different pony.

“Three hundred when we depart, seven hundred upon safe arrival at the border; my allies will be waiting for me there.” Hopefully.

My perceptive eyes could see the glint under Willow’s hood widen. Quite a bit, actually. “One t’ousand total?” Her voice had a hint of incredulity; I needed to reassure.

“I'm a Head Scribe for the Rangers. A thousand is nothing with a paygrade like mine.”

“You've got a salary?”

I waved her off with a hoof. “Not all of it is caps; the wealth of technology we uncover on a daily basis would surprise you.” Lowering my hoof but raising my leg, I let the candlelight gleam off of the attached bracelet. “Not every Ranger gets a PipBuck.” Please don't recognize how outdated it is.

Willow paused; I was getting through. Time to play my ace.

“Plus, I can tell you’re just aching to leave this dump.”

Underneath the table, I had noticed one of Willow's legs bouncing with anxious energy. She wasn't one for staying still; she liked being in the wilderness, being on an adventure. She might play it cool, of course, but it was a hunch I was willing to play off of.

The unicorn took a deep breath, leering at me beneath her hood. My heightened hearing could just barely make out a “dammit” under her breath before she sighed.

“Fine. A t’ousand, in hard caps.”

“I'll count them out myself,” I sussed, internally pumping my hoof in triumph.

“I expect my advance payment wit’in twenty-four hours. ‘Til den, I'll be in my home at de edge of town, fixin’ for de trip.” Willow stood, moving next to me. “I can mark it on your PipBuck.”

Once my map had been updated with her home’s location, Willow looked at me. Closer, I could see that she wore what looked like a thin scarf around her mouth; paired with her hood, it was impossible to see her face.

“An’ you’ll wanna make some supplies for de trip, ‘cause I won’t be packin’ for bod’ of us. I'm a guide, not a foalsitter.”

I nodded, just glad to have made progress. “Understood.”

“See you in a day,” she said, and then left the bar, nodding at a few patrons and Rotgut on her way out. Willow Wisp seemed to have a reputation around here.

I returned to the bar, placing my mug on the counter with the large split down the side facing away from Rotgut. If he noticed, he didn’t appear to care.

“What’s the best way to earn caps around here?” I asked the bartender.

He smirked. “Willow charged a bit much, eh?” Watching me nod in response, he continued, “Well, you can swing by the general store and sell most anythin’. Maybe help the farmers with odd jobs, an’ there’re a few ruins to the west, includin’ an ol’ Ministry hub. Somepony with a PipBuck like yours might be able to find somethin’ that ain’t been picked clean.”

Looking pleadingly at Rotgut, I prodded, “You... don’t have anything that needs doing? A delivery? Something that needs fetching? Radroaches in the basement or something?”

“What? No… we ain't even got basements here!”

Oh yeah. “Uh… nevermind. Thanks for everything.”

After crossing the street, trying to avoid as much of the litter, muck, and filth as possible, I trotted down the sidewalk to the general store. As I entered I spotted a purple unicorn propping his head up in boredom behind the front counter, fiddling with an abacus while he telekinetically sorted through a stack of papers. Around the room, various pre-war products, tools, and knick knacks were propped up on desks, end tables, and shelves. Several magazine racks displayed assorted reading material, and upon a few rickety clothes racks were all manner of barding, armor, and gear.

A grizzled, armored pony leaned against one of the walls, conversing with a similarly-clad griffon. The pair turned and appraised me, their suspicion slowly morphing into amusement. I was getting really tired of these judgmental glances I was attracting around Buckwater. Either no one’s seen a Steel Ranger before, or they have and I’m the sorriest-looking excuse for one they’ve met.

I took a few steps forward, and the store owner at the desk shouted at me in irritation.

“Hey! Wipe your hooves!”

Halting, I glanced down, realizing I’d tracked wet mud inside. Stepping back ashamedly, I dug my hooves into an old, frayed mat just inside the doorway. Once I was acceptably sanitary, I approached the storefront.

“Sorry,” I murmured.

The unicorn kept a stoic face, still flipping through his stack of receipts. “Yeah. I’m Tough Sell. You new here?”

“Is it that obvious?”

He only nodded. “Well, in case you couldn’t tell, this here’s the only proper store in town.” Gesturing over my shoulder, Tough Sell continued, “Rotgut’s got the food and drink. You want anything else, you come here.” I noticed with curiosity that there were several pristine sets of Stable 56 barding hanging from the wall behind the merchant, and the glass case that served as the front counter displayed neatly organized rows of “stimpaks” like I’d seen in the Stable’s manufacturing floor.

“How’d you get all these Stable items?”

Tough Sell sighed; I figured he had to explain this to most customers that came in. Straightening, he pushed the papers and abacus to one end of the counter. “Buckwater here was founded by the Dwellers of Stable 56. My grandparents were among them; almost two hundred ponies left the Stable, and a bunch of 'em decided this spot would make for a decent settlement. The rest all went off on their own separate ways.” Tapping the glass, “We’ve made it pretty good for being such a slimy mudhole. We’re the only settlement south of Mareami that publicly offers any medical supplies, and nopony but us has stimpaks.”

I raised a brow. “What’s so special about them?”

“Say you’re looting some ruins and take a bad step. You land wrong, breaking your leg; I know you pegasi have hollow bones, right? Healing potions can’t repair bones, you can’t use magic, and you don’t have a helpful unicorn doctor along. Suddenly, the woods around you begin chirruping.” He leaned in close, his voice dropping dramatically. “Goremoths. There’s a swarm coming, but you can’t move fast enough to hide. The bugs swoop down and bite your flesh with their pincers, stripping it clean from your bones and overpowering your pathetic attempts to fight them.”

‘Gore-moths’? This wildlife sounds delightful.

“But before their long suckers drain you of all your bodily fluids in seconds, let’s go back to the fall. You were cleverly prepared, and brought along a stimpak.” Tough Sell slid the back of the case open, floating out one of the syringes. “You inject it into your leg, and bam; your bones fuse themselves back together immediately. No braces, no magic, just good old-fashioned science.” He placed the stimpak before me, smiling. “Only fifty caps.”

“That’s… pretty impressive, actually,” I admitted. “But… I’m here to sell some things.”

Tough Sell seemed to deflate for a moment, but hid it well. Returning the stimpak to the display case, he exhaled. “If it has any value, I’ll buy it.”

Dropping my saddlebags, I sought about inside, retrieving an inkwell. “Let’s see… first, here’s plenty of extra ink!” I grinned, presenting it to him.

He lifted it with his magic, held it up to an attentive ear and shook it. Listening to the contents churn within, he considered for a moment. His eyes darted to a sheet of parchment on the counter, covered in sales figures. “Hm… four caps.”

I was still feeling charismatic thanks to the Mint-als. “Ten.”

Tough Sell nickered. “It’s ink. Ain’t worth the same as a half-loaded magazine.”

“And you brought over a hundred years worth of ink out of the Stable?”

He rolled his eyes. “Passing merchants always seem to have some on hoof. They’ve never charged over five.”

Crap. I was hoping I could pull off another skilled haggle like I had with Willow Wisp, but either my bartering skill was that terrible compared to Tough Sell or the Mint-als were wearing off. I relented. “Okay then, five.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” He sat the inkwell on the counter, stern eyes watching me. “I said four.”

He’s too good at this. “Fine.”

Tough Sell placed four bottlecaps on the glass next to the inkwell with a clink.

I pulled the voice recorder from my bag. “This still works,” I spoke loud and clear while holding down a button on the side. Releasing it, I hit the playback button. “This still works,” croaked the recorder, the static suddenly sounding a whole lot worse now that I was trying to sell it.

“Eight caps.”

“Ten. How many working recorders have you seen?”

“How many diaries do you think I keep?”

Uh… He didn’t really seem the type to just ramble out all of his thoughts for somepony else to find. “Nine?”

“Eiiight… caaaps,” he said slowly, enunciating as if I was hard of hearing.

“Right. Eight it is.”

The caps were added to the stack, and the recorder was set next to the inkwell.

Next came the camera. Tough Sell seemed impressed at its condition until I explained to him, “It’s water damaged, but I know there are some valuable components inside.” Before he could set down a price, I tried to take control. “Thirty caps.”

The store owner laughed. A real, genuine laugh. “Thirty for that? Oh, Luna, you’re a riot.” Seeing my expression shift to uncomfortable humorlessness, he quieted. “You're serious.”

I nodded my head.

Tough Sell narrowed his eyes. “Listen, filly. This is my store; I decide the value, and that camera isn’t worth any more than fifteen to me. I’m not building laser rifles here or anything.”

Take it! the little pony in my head eagerly recommended.

“Deal. Sorry about jumping the gun.”

Tough Sell seemed pleased. “It’s fine; just do well to remember it.” The camera was exchanged for caps, which had grown into a multicolored pile of twenty-seven. Not too shabby. Only two hundred and seventy-three left.

“Anything else?” my buyer asked.

I thought for a moment, but shook my head. “Nope.” As I reached over the counter to scoop the caps into my saddlebag, Tough Sell’s eyes lit up.

“Does that PipBuck work?”

The bottlecaps poured into my bag with a satisfying rattle. “Eeyup.”

“I’ll buy it for three hundred caps.”

I froze. Three hundred? With that, I could fund my trip right now, and with the extra, layover in town for a night and even buy dinner!

"Why would somepony from a town of Stable descendents need a PipBuck?" I asked, trying to buy myself some time to consider the offer.

Tough Sell's expression fell into a begrudged glower. "Guess those Stable-Tec folks ran outta their budgeted bits when they constructed such a huge Stable, 'cause they only gave the supervisors PipBucks." The store owner's frustration only seemed to double. "Most o' them led a group to Mareami when the Stable cleared out. Only PipBuck in town here was inherited by Guilty Pleasure..." he trailed off, his eyes focusing past me with a jealous glare as he presumably fantasized about having one of his own.

I studied the advanced bracelet's deteriorated but sturdy frame, still guarding a two-century-old spark processor. Staring into the gently flickering screen, I could only think of Vox. It wasn’t mine to sell.

“It’s not for sale,” I replied simply.

Tough Sell winced. “Four hundred.”

That’s almost half of what you promised Willow! my little pony reminded me. You’d be rich!

And I’d also be dishonoring Vox and the Scribes who had entrusted the device to our safekeeping. I wasn’t about to pawn it off to the first pony who offered to buy it from me.

I poured on my best Tough Sell impression. “Nooot… fooor… saaale.”

The store owner seemed taken aback. I swore he was about to offer five hundred caps, but decided better of it. He resignedly picked his newly procured items off of the counter. “Whatever. The offer still stands if you change your mind.”

Thanking him for his business, I left the general store. The day was at its brightest, which was to say it was still an overcast “afternoon”, with an added piss-colored tint. I could visit the farmers and see about helping them, and then perhaps find those ruins spoken of by Rotgut. I still had an entire day to gather the remainder of the caps I needed. I felt pretty optimistic, all things considered.

My Mint-al high had worn off by now, muting the vivid senses I’d been taking advantage of. I’d used Mint-als before and was used to the crash when they wore off, but still missed the ability to acutely eavesdrop on discussions across the street.

The farmers were knee-deep in the brown water, their legs covered in mud and their faces splattered with berry juice. I cantered up to one, peeking over his shoulder at the floating plant he was attending to.

“What are these?” I asked, curious.

“Tarberries,” he answered, tossing a small bunch into the bucket sitting on his back. “A local speciality.”

“What do you use them for?”

Finished with his current patch, the farmer moved to the next. “Well, they c’n be eaten as-is, an’ go well wid’ meat ‘er corn. We c’n also press ‘em inta juice, ‘er ferment ‘em inta wine. Far as Ah know, they only grow ‘round these parts.”

I studied the tarberry cluster. The vines spiralled outwards, with the small purple berries sprouting every few inches. Wide lilypad-like leaves grew from the bottom, giving the plant ample buoyancy, and thin roots extended into the water from the base of the leaves. The “harbor” of Buckwater was filled with several dozen patches, and therefore hundreds of berries. It was quite a prospering farm they had set up.

“Do you need any help?”

The farmer looked at me, a tarberry hanging from his mouth. Questioning in his eyes, he spit the fruit into his bucket and asked, “Help? Why’re yew feelin’ so generous?”

Hot shame crept into my face; he’d been expecting me to help out of the goodness of my heart. “Well, I… kinda need some caps.”

“That ‘splains it,” he grumbled. “Ah guess yew could help pick that row there.” He nodded to the line of tarberries next to his, about six patches long. “There’d be ‘bout ten caps in it fer ya, Ah guess.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you! I promise I’ll do a good job!”

Ten minutes later, I’d taken off my robes and rolled the sleeves of my undershirt up, leaving my saddlebags and PipBuck on dry ground. I was getting used to the feel of swamp water and mud covering my legs, which I supposed was a good thing. The tarberries took a bit of effort to pick from their vines without being crushed, and I’d already bitten three in half by accident as the generous farmer explained the work to me. They tasted amazing; I made a mental note to pick as many as I saw in the wild, despite the farmer’s certainty that Buckwater was their only home.

Farming was surprisingly therapeutic, helping to take my mind off of my relentless anxiety. Another worker, an earth pony mare, was filling her own bucket next to me, and we struck up a friendly conversation as we worked. She had lived in Buckwater her whole life, as had the rest of her family, who was descended from Stable 56’s Dwellers. Out of the Stable, the first few days for her grandparents had been very rough indeed. Under constant threat of creatures like radigators and goremoths, the large group had struggled across the soggy terrain, trying to find a suitable home. The radiation back then was much stronger, as well; thirty-seven ponies died the first day alone. Twelve died the next, and on the third, a tropical radstorm blew in, killing over forty.

Unwilling to make the long journey to either Neigh Orleans or Brayton Rouge, the group came across the bayou here, where an old steamboat had washed ashore. About a hundred voted to stay here and repurpose the craft, while the rest sought their own futures. The steamboat had enough wood and resources to construct most of the buildings on the town’s main street, and by scavenging the Ministry hub nearby and a small township to the east, the settlers gradually built up a place they could call home, farming the abundance of tarberries growing on the bayou. Along the highway, wanderers began to stop by, and trade started up with other postwar settlements around the South. The rest, she concluded, was history.

Once I’d finished my row, I presented my harvest to the old farmer, who thanked me and rewarded me with a small pouch filled with ten bottlecaps. Two hundred and sixty-three to go.

Reequipped, I referred to the regional map on the PipBuck’s DATA screen. A small marker had been placed a mile to the west, where the old Ministry of Image hub should be located. The day was far from over, and I figured I could make it there and back before dark. I didn’t know what I was going to do for dinner or a bed that didn’t involve caps, so maybe I could find something to take care of both in the ruins.

A bridge built by the ponies of Buckwater crossed the river just before the mouth opened into the bayou. While decently sturdy-looking, it took me several tries to work up enough courage to make it across, the entire time spent scanning the water below for any minutiae of movement. Thankfully, no radigators interrupted me this time, and I was back in the swamps again.

The trip was uneventful, the tunes from the newly-discovered radio station keeping me alert. Faint sunrays filtered through the trees and shimmering dazzlingly across the many fens covering the landscape. In an hour, I’d reached a small glade where a one-lane road led into a gated complex. The walls were crumbling with age and the gates themselves were rusted frames barely able to stand on their own, vines intertwining with the black bars. I stepped inside and observed the first remnants of pre-war society I’d seen in the South.

The drive led into a cul-de-sac that branched off into three buildings while wrapping around a tall, ancient-looking tree. Directly ahead was the tallest of the three, an elegant white structure with flowing architecture, to the left was a wider, less showy building and to the right was a pile of rubble and ruined wood. Only a few splintered supports stood as evidence that a structure had once been here; I guessed that it had been made almost entirely of wood, scavenged by Buckwater's founders. A blackened, dessicated mattress lay amidst the rubble, implying that the building was once some sort of home or quarters.

Rounding the tree, the husk of an old passenger wagon rested on the curb, its metal frame warped with rust. Next to the tree was a mound of dirt as long as me, with an old shovel nearby; the grave of somepony long gone. Leaves carpeted the asphalt, crunching underhoof satisfyingly.

I entered the wider stone building, which was revealed to be housing a number of old printing presses. The remains of parchment and posters were dissolved into the floor, eaten away by time, weather, and insects. The room’s white, purple, and blue wallpaper was peeling and stained by years of rainwater, creating a gross mixture of colors.

A nearby printer sat open, the type scattered across the floor like old teeth. Trying to read the backwards and incomplete phrases in the machine, I could only make out one legible line: “The Ministries Are Here To Help You.”

Desks with typewriters sat alongside the presses, and I excitedly grabbed a nearby folder containing several relatively clean sheets of paper. An old quill, dirtied by the elements but still in usable condition, joined the papers in my saddlebags, as did a half-empty ink ribbon under a desk. I studied the presses and typewriters, prying off anything that looked to be of use, and a short while later I had several pounds of metal components that I would try selling later.

The other building was an administrative office; the front desk held an old silver bell which, amusingly, still rung after I tried it. A back room seemed looted of anything valuable, including what must have been a large desk, judging by the empty space in the center and the imprint left on the old shag carpet. I flipped over a painting resting askance in the corner, taking in the smudged oil image. A white unicorn with a styled purple mane sat alluringly in a plush chair: Rarity, Mare of the Ministry of Image.

While the painting might have fetched a good price once, it was far too worn-out to be appealing, and there was no way I’d be able to haul it back through the swamp. Leaving it, I was about to exit the room when I noticed an old terminal dumped onto its side, likely tossed off the desk. It was long-dead, but using the connector cable from the PipBuck, I was able to access the computer’s hard drive. The stalwart casing had managed to protect the information it contained, and I downloaded a few messages, not expecting to find anything interesting.

“Gussy,

I heard you’ve had the team working overtime there, and I just wanted to check in and see if you were doing alright. It can’t be easy, isolated out there with only your coworkers for company. I know you knew what you were getting into signing up, and I was hoping to learn that it’s everything you expected it to be.

-M.”

“It’s a damn nightmare down here. The printing hasn’t been much of a problem, but the cultures down here are so diverse that trying to track down all zebra-related material is almost impossible. Neigh Orleans is the worst; when you’ve got a harbor city as trafficked as it is, you’re going to have way too many opinions to try and manage and too many books to rectify. Even two years after the zebra relocation, we still have ponies there who have no idea that Equestria’s in immediate danger of all-out war. I swear, I didn’t think much of the South before coming here, but I’ll be more than happy to leave this humid hellhole once we exterminate those striped bastards.”

“Gussy,

I’m sorry to hear that; I know Rarity’s been sending you her regards, but frankly she’s just as overworked as the rest of us. I’ve got your well-being in my prayers. BTW, I remember you mentioning a gift for her?

-M.”

“I feel for her. But yeah, I’ve got quite the present for her, once I get back to you all in Fillydelphia. I have to keep it under wraps since I had to slip into Brayton Rouge one night to buy it, but it’ll blow Rarity’s mind. I can see myself getting at least two promotions for this.”

Intrigued, I wondered what this gift spoken of could be, and where it had been hidden. Scouring the administrative building, I couldn’t find any containers that hadn’t already been cleared of their contents. I was about to concede, assuming the gift had been taken by a scavenger at some point in the two hundred years since the messages were sent, but paused while trotting past Gussy’s office. There was one location I hadn't checked yet… but I hadn't had a reason to until reading the terminal's entries. Gripping the edge of the rug in my teeth, I pulled it back to reveal a metal plate in the center of the room, and beneath that I uncovered a crate protected by a nearly burned-out water ward. Inside was a well-preserved ten millimeter pistol lying atop a gorgeous purple dress and feathered hat.

Jackpot! I cut a little celebratory dance, not caring that it was more akin to the throes of a mentally unhinged pony.

The dress was really something incredible; it was a white Southern belle design with flowing, frilly edges, elegant diamond motifs and purple details running the length. The hat was similarly fancy, matching the dress flawlessly. Very carefully, I folded the dress and managed to stuff it into my saddlebags, but I would have to carry the hat separately. Or wear it! my little pony reminded me. Eh… sorry, but it just doesn’t match my robes.

Exiting the administration building back out into the hub, I hummed a tune stuck in my head since this morning. I breathed in the earthy, cloying scents gently drifting through the air, which were gradually becoming familiar to my senses. Trotting down the front walk, I activated the PipBuck’s lamp and started towards the gates. In a few moments, my lust for music nagged too insistently to ignore, so I paused to switch the radio on. As the clip-clop of my hooves and the crunching of leaves halted, however, my ears perked to a new noise in the distance.

It was difficult to tell if I was imagining it or not; concentrating intently, I could sense a shrill dissonance echoing through the trees ahead. The best comparison I could draw was to the cicadas I’d heard last night, but this seemed higher pitched. I neared the crumbling gates, all tunes in my head muted, and peered out as far as the PipBuck’s light reached. A flapping of wings startled me, and I jumped back as a flight of bats shot past overhead. They squeaked urgently, and I watched as they scattered around the hub’s tree and seamlessly regrouped around it, fluttering back into the darkness.

I sighed in relief, but as I turned back to the entrance, I noticed that the noise was still there; louder, now, and certainly not from the same direction as before. I racked my brain to ascertain what the noise could possibly be, until the little pony in my head finally recalled a relevant quote for me.

‘Suddenly, you hear a chirruping in the woods around you: goremoths.’

I felt an electric shock of fear burst through my veins, causing me to start. I began backing towards the tree in the center of the hub. The sound was growing louder, approaching, and my rump was pressed back into the trunk, my eyes straining to discern the dusky environment. I spotted a group of silhouettes dart across the sky and redirect towards me; dropping the hat, I spun and started to gallop towards the admin building. I stumbled as I caught a hoof on the shovel next to the grave; thinking quickly, I picked the tool up in my mouth and sprinted for the door.

I felt large, silky soft wings brush my mane as a goremoth landed on my back, the insect chittering loudly. I screamed through my teeth, trying to shake the thing off of me, but its barbed feet had a firm grip on my robes. I rushed back inside the administration building and kicked the front doors shut just in time to hear my pursuers thunk against them at high speed.

The goremoth’s wide, flat pincers bit down against my spine, pulling up and getting a… mouthful… of robe and skin alike, and with a violent tug, it tore both from me. I shrieked in agony as I felt my flesh separate, the cold feeling of exposed tissue quickly covered by a warm gush of blood, running down my sides and onto the floor. I twisted and bucked, unable to detach the insect as it then inserted its proboscis into my back, not unlike the prick of a needle, and I felt it beginning to feed.

My mind went utterly blank with horror, all thoughts other than survival pushed aside. I threw myself into the wall, cushioned by the shiveringly soft goremoth. My weight was enough to stun it for a brief second, and its grip loosened. Thrashing, I threw the moth across the room, where it landed on the floor with a thump. It began furiously beating its blood-vessel-covered wings as it tried to right itself and escape.

I was faster, however, and charged towards it, leaping into the air and bringing my hooves down on the insect’s abdomen. It crunched disgustingly, its pale guts and crimson blood squirting over the grey floor, and I blindly trampled its carcass, still in panic mode. After turning the goremoth into a fine paste, I backed up, trembling with pain and shock as tears leaked from my eyes. Sliding off my saddlebags, I retrieved a healing potion, which began to reseal my flowing wound. I was still dizzy from the amount of blood the goremoth had managed to drain from me, and sat quivering as I looked at the front door.

One goremoth had nearly been able to kill me, and there’d been at least eight in its little flock. They were still outside somewhere, no doubt lying in wait for me to attempt an escape.

I racked my brain for options. Riptide still had four shots, and the newly-acquired ten-mil from the admin’s office had nine. The shovel I had carried in was still just inside the doorway, where I’d dropped it. Nopony had mentioned how to combat goremoths, and I’d been too shortsighted to ask. I’d only ever seen the tiny “normal” moths from Equestria, which I’d never minded. I am never gonna see them the same way after this.

Maybe, just maybe, these huge carnivorous bugs were just as stupid as their relatives back home. If they were, I might have a way to beat them. If not, well... I was screwed.

Moving to one of the tall windows next to the door, I peered out, trying to see past the accumulated lime and dust. It was too dark to discern much, but the goremoths certainly weren’t in my direct line of sight. I silently unlatched the window and slid it open, and then unclipped the PipBuck from my leg. With the lamp function still activated, I flung it out of the window. The brightly glowing device bounced twice on the dead lawn and rolled to a stop on the sidewalk, the screen facing towards me.

I flinched in surprise as the goremoth swarm, which had been clinging to the building’s front wall, launched itself forward and swarmed the PipBuck while emitting nightmare-inducing calls. My targets now highlighted and grouped together, I aimed the 10mm pistol over the sill and emptied the magazine. The sheer amount of bullets compensating for my lackluster aim, shredding the fragile insects’ wings and bodies. I managed to kill or maim all but one, which launched into the air and shot towards the open window, screeching.

Dropping the pistol, I turned and lifted the shovel. As the goremoth swooped over the sill, I swung hard. The metal spade connected with a meaty thud, launching it into the far wall like a baseball, dropping to the floor. The insect’s broken wings fluttered weakly as I shut the window; the subtle irony of the image not lost on me, I proceeded to lift my shovel and beat the everliving shit out of the goremoth.

Buckwater was still just as lively at night, and I made it back into Tough Sell’s shop just in time to witness the pony bartering with a frail old mare who was presenting a ceramic dinner plate to him. Rather than waiting in line behind her, I investigated the magazine rack while I listened.

“... ’An lastly, this plate was my mother’s, an’ her mother’s, an’ her…” the customer’s voice was quavering reverently.

“I understand.” Tough Sell wheedled. “It’s… quite elegant. Very floral.”

“This ‘ere plate survived both megaspell strikes on Neigh Orleans, an’ the floods, an’ the Great Storm, an’ attacks from slavers, an’...”

“Yes. Very resilient.”

I glanced up from a copy of Popular Moochanics to see Tough Sell turning the plate over with his magic, inspecting the condition. He looked bemused, likely ready to close up shop.

“I can’t help but notice, however, there are quite a few… hairline fractures down the center…”

The mare nodded solemnly. “Yessir, this 'ere plate was in my dear granny’s pack when she were attacked in St Mare’s by slavers; a mine exploded an' sent her flyin' into…”

Tough Sell frowned. “Yes, well, the patterns are quite pleasing to the eye from a distance, but in daily use…” He squinted, sighting down the edge. “I can’t imagine the plate being useful for anything beyond some kind of tacky wall decoration.” He gingerly placed it on the counter. “Four caps.”

“F-four?” The old mare looked offended. “Do ye’ even know who made this?”

“I frankly don’t care.” I wanted to buck that smug look off Tough Sell’s face so badly. “Take it or leave it.”

After shaking her head in dejection, the mare finally agreed. “...Alrigh’...” I felt sorry for her as she surrendered her heirloom to the indifferent merchant. She scooped her caps into a tattered old coin purse and ambled out, leaving Tough Sell to glance over in my direction.

“Hey! I’m closing up, it's time to leave,” he called.

I feigned surprise as I looked up from an article detailing Solaris Incorporated’s newest robotic achievements. “Huh? Oh, I… I have some things to sell.” My tail kept the hat out of view as I returned the magazine and trotted up to the counter. I placed the few random bits of printer parts on the counter, a paltry collection barely the size of a hoof.

Tough Sell smirked and opened his mouth to give a condescending appraisal before I interrupted him. “Oh, and one more thing.” I pulled the dress from my saddlebags, watching in satisfaction as the stallion’s jaw fell to the floor.

“Wh-wh-where…?” he coughed incredulously.

I laid it out on the counter, resting the hat on top. “Ministry of Image.” Not even trying to hide my smug grin, I looked to him. “I think we both know how much this is worth.”

“Th-three hundred caps…” Tough Sell sputtered.

I didn’t even need Mint-als as I replied dryly, “Three-fifty.”

The merchant paused, still shocked at my find. “...Three-forty.”

“Done.”

Learning even more about the Southern Wasteland’s economics, I received a bag of forty caps, a mixture of red Sparkle~Cola caps and green-and-white caps with an ornate letter V engraved into the steel. Three of the caps were black with an especially intricate green V printed into the top; these special designs, as Tough Sell explained, were worth a hundred standard ones, and kept large amounts of currency manageable. I also sold the pistol which earned me a blue-and-white cap worth fifty, and got three caps for the components pulled from the printing presses. I could fund the first payment to Willow Wisp and still have a hundred and thirty left over.

I left Tough Sell’s in high spirits, spying the inn that sat across the street. I planned on getting something better tasting than wilt apples at Rotgut’s and then finding myself a proper bed for the night.

"Hey, honey," I heard a sultry voice call out in my direction.

I instinctively turned, searching for the speaker. My gaze met that of an earth pony mare in a seductive dress standing outside the building next to Tough Sell’s, which I only now realized was a brothel. Her sky blue mane fell across her shoulders, pleasantly complementing her pale pink coat. She leaned against the porch's railing, her head tilted and shooting me a welcoming smile.

I swallowed. "Uh... hi..."

The… mare of the night… tilted her head to the other side. "What's your name?" she asked, clearly beckoning for a conversation.

"Q-Quillwright."

"That's a pretty name.” She left the porch, sauntering up to me. “I'm Guilty Pleasure, but you just call me Pleasure. You settling down for a while?" She stopped with only a yard between us, flicking her mane out of her eyes. This close, I caught a whiff her perfume; it was cheap, but the fact she had any on at all meant she smelled better than ninety-nine percent of Wastelanders.

My words barely escaped in the right order. "No, actually, uh, I'm leaving. Tomorrow."

Pleasure cocked her brow. "Where to?"

"North. To Equestria."

"That’s quite the journey; the swamps are dangerous, and you don't want to be directionless. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?"

"I've hired a guide, actually."

Her smile shifted slightly; still a smile, but now a knowing one instead of an alluring one. "Willow Wisp?"

"Um... yeah. How'd you…”

Pleasure laughed softly. "Well, it seemed a safe guess, what with her being the most reliable guide I know of in the South and a regular patron here.”

I blushed, partly for me and partly for Willow who wasn't here to do it herself. "O-oh."

"She's... different.” The mare’s smile faded. “Just a word to the wise: she's very hot-headed, but she knows the swamps better than anypony I’ve ever met, besides her parents.”

"So... I can trust her?"

"Yes. As long as you pay her and you don't piss her off." Pleasure locked me with her azure eyes. "Seriously. Do not piss Willow off."

I blinked. "I-I wasn't planning on it."

"Good.” Guilty Pleasure’s smile returned, and she tilted her head again, her eyes tempting. “Now, would you like something to help you... relax for your big trip?" Her flanks swayed subtly, making her long tail swish.

I was visibly trembling, flustered. "N-no, I'm not... into... mares."

Pleasure laughed, her face looking like she was listening to the naive words of a foal. "Honey, you do know we also have stallion whores..."

"No…! N-no, I'm taken!" Not to mention I probably look and smell like death under these robes.

Pleasure grinned knowingly, winking. "If you say so, honey.” She turned to go, but paused, glancing back at me. “By the way, the next time you see Willow, tell her Pleasure's getting lonely, and that I want to try and break the record this time."

I blushed even harder, my cheeks now the same color as my robes. Celestia's solar flares, I have no idea what record she’s talking about and I don't want to know.

I managed to find my voice, though it was weak. "I-I'll try."

Buckwater’s inn consisted of one large room filled with all manner of beds, ranging from mattresses to sleeping bags to thick piles of hay. There were several others already asleep; wanderers, traders, mercenaries and anything in-between shared the same roof, under the watchful eye of the guards behind the counter. The innkeeper offered to secure my belongings in a wall of safes behind him, but I passed on it. Boarding was ten caps, and I found myself a suitable bed in the corner of the common room.

My saddlebags slid off my back and I flopped down onto the bare mattress, sighing in exhaustion. It felt like it’d been a week since I last slept in a proper bed, not two nights. Sure, the fabric smelled like grease and was only further staining my Scribe robes, but it was still softer than concrete and my weak body only cared about that detail. The poor robes in question were in tatters; after a moment’s rest, I gingerly removed them, the gaping hole in the back large enough to fit my hoof through. My undershirt was in even worse condition; tomorrow morning I’d need to find nicer clothes at Tough Sell’s, in addition to some extra ammunition.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I unclipped the PipBuck and stood it on-end as an impromptu lamp, then unwrapped a skewer of radigator meat I’d purchased from Rotgut’s and chewed on it. The meat was a bit stringy but with a unique and zesty spice added. Admiring the taste, I amusingly reflected on how pre-war ponies were strict vegetarians; apocalypses did wonders to expand appetites. I followed my meal with a bottle of rainwater, the radioactive liquid tickling my stomach.

No longer aching from hunger, I rolled onto my back and toyed with the PipBuck for a little while, manually inventorying everything from my bags into the list on the device’s ITEMS screen. Connecting my earbloom and tuning into the radio station, I enjoyed more jazz while I pulled the other spoils from the Ministry from my bag: clean writing materials.

Now laying on my front, I withdrew the papers and set them atop their folder, then cracked open the ink ribbon and poked the quill inside. I began to recount the events of the last few days, beginning with the arrival at Stable 56. I managed to detail everything important leading up to tonight and still had several blank pages to use, so I wasn’t in immediate danger of running out of materials.

A headache was creeping into my skull, so as soon as I finished writing the folder was returned to my bags. I stretched out and soon drifted off into slumber.

Footnote: Progress recorded. Level Up.

New Perk: Big Leagues - Swing for the fences! You deal 10% more melee weapon damage.

New Objective Added: Find a way home.