CD was slumped against a wall, panting. The thick muck practically pulled at their legs, and Scootaloo had taken CD’s offer to ride on his back after they’d found one of the massive creature’s gouges. It had acted as a deep portion of the miring filth, and Scootaloo had literally fallen in and almost disappeared under it. If CD hadn’t been able to see her anyways, he probably wouldn’t have been able to find her at all.

Which brought up the second thing forcing him to take a rest on an island of debris in the river of sludge: there was a significant undertow once you pierced the first six or seven centimeters of muck. Only the stagnant surface kept it from dragging either pony under, but Scootaloo had drifted nearly a meter under that thick skin before she’d been fished out.

And to top it all off, CD was pretty sure the smell had burned his nose-hairs out, or fused them, or something, because he couldn’t smell anything anymore.

“Well, this stinks, surprisingly not literally for once. I wonder why there’s all this muck, I didn’t think that a few burst pipes could have this much stuff in them.”

“Ugh, some of this probably isn’t just sewage. We are in a mechanical, biological, and medical research station, after all. I’m trying really hard not to think of what’s actually all in this, and being extremely glad my suit’s still sealed. Even if the smell still got in, somehow.” Scoots wasn’t nearly as winded as CD, but she was still tired. The chemicals had been making her eyes water, something CD, with his greater body mass to diffuse the problem, hadn’t had to deal with. Yet.

“I wonder what everyone else is doing, or where they are, this place is huge. Do you think we’re lost?” CD asked, a hint of worry obvious in his voice.

“We’re backtracking a trail this obvious. If we got lost following this, we’d have become officially easier to lose than my aunt, Ditzy. Or her sister, Derpy. Neither one could get lost in this.”

“Given their names, I feel kinda bad for ‘em. And I was mainly referring to us knowing where we were compared to everyone else.”

“Well, uhm... As long as Sweetie’s still around, she’d tell them to head towards the transit hub. Fallback plan three. Or gamma. Or was it ‘C’? I can’t remember, Sweetie used a lot of tallying systems for her backup plans. Not sure, exactly, where she got that habit, I’ve met her sister, and she’s not that similar.”

“So on a scale of ‘one’ to ‘me’, how special is Sweetie anyway?”

“... Uh, is the scale linear or logarithmic?”

“Yes.”

“... She’s a nine.”

“Alright then. So how long do we have to wade through this goop? It seems like it’s taking forever with nothing happening, it’s creeping me the fuck out.”

“Dude, we’ve been sitting here for, like, half a minute. We’ve got at least three before the shit hits the fan.” She paused for a moment, her arteries pulsing a steady, pale blue in CD’s vision. “Well, more than it already has.”

“You don’t say? Alright, let’s get out of this gunk. Preferably without sinking into it. Again.”

Scootaloo chuckled. “You just want the chance to save me again, don’t you, make it up to three girls going after you, eh? Veritable harem, there. Full herd, as it were.”

“To clarify, I never tried for any of them, and one of them I don’t even remember knowing. Also, you’re still a bit young.”

“I’m fifteen! That’s not young at all!”

“Who said anything about typical standards, I meant my standards. Unless we can look each other in the eye without one of us looking down, you’re gonna have to wait a bit longer.”

“I’m not young. I’ve only got, like, thirty years. And if my parents didn’t give me their shrimp genes, I wouldn’t look like I’m still twelve!”

“I never said it was anyone’s fault-”

“But I am! Everyone calls me ‘young’ or ‘kid’ or ‘little girl’ or ‘squirt’ all the time. I’ll be old enough to vote in seven months, for Celestia’s sake!”

“And I’m sure a lot of older mares might kill to be called ‘young’ even in their twenties or thirties.”

“But nobody takes me seriously. Even if I could somehow get into the training for it, I can’t be on any EVA team. I’m too short! At most, I could be a shuttle pilot, and that’s for folks who can’t do anything else.”

“If you say so, miss negative. At least you can avoid these necromorphs a bit easier.”

“Only ‘cuz they’ll trip over me! Which would be pretty awesome, I’ll admit.” Scootaloo’s voice brightened considerably for a moment, but it fell again a moment after. She looked away, gazing at the post-meal river.

“It could be worse. You could be ugly, too. Always remember, try to shine by comparison, and you’ll feel better.”

“Yeah, at least I’m doing better than you.”

“Oh gee, it seems my horrible ugliness and stupidity is making me fall over, I hope I don’t push anything headfirst into Lake Shitriver.” He began to totter wildly, swaying back and forth as Scootaloo hung on for dear life, shrieking happily. After a few moments, he stopped again, laughing as well as he dragged himself onto another pile of scrap metal to rest.

From his back, Scootaloo was catching her own breath. “Man, I wish... I had... a big brother... like you. Y’ seem... pretty cool... for a... a seventee- teen year-old... geezer.”

“Actually, I’m... p- pretty warm.” He smirked. “And... I’m... missing a... few screws.”

Scootaloo just chuckled along with him. “I’m... I’m prolly jixin’ this... but I’m glad we got... this moment. It... It’s good to have... family who cares. Or something like one.”

“Nothing like trudging through a lake of Celestia-knows-what to make a perfect bonding scenario.”

The two lay on the heap of junk for several minutes as they rested. “Hey, CD.” Scoots called out, raising her head.

“What? Is something finally happening?”

“No, I think I see a door that still works. C’mon, there shouldn’t be any shit up there but necromorphs. And man would that be a welcome change at this point.”

“Unless there’s more crap up there and the necromorphs are covered in it. Nah, I’m joking. Yeah let’s go.”

The two stood back up, hobbling up and over the piles of debris and through a shallow pool of dull-red goo, which thankfully only came up a small distance past their muck-encrusted boots.

As they approached the door, they missed the sight of a portion of the muck heaving itself out of the rest of the river in the form of a thousand tiny, squirming shapes, quietly flipping along to move as they migrated from one section of the mire to another. If the duo hadn’t went to the door, they probably would’ve been covered in the tiny things by this point.

Stepping into the corridor beyond the door, the pair found a clean, white-tiled hallway, with faux-wood panelling and red drop tile ceiling. The lights, evenly spaced along the hallway, were producing plenty of illumination. Multiple doors, these all posh wood-panel doors, lined either side. Hollowcore doors never looked so inviting.

In a sing-song voice, Scootaloo declared, “Let’s go lewting!”

“Is that like rifling through people’s stuff trying to find vibrators?”

“No, it’s when you rifle through their stuff for valuables. Including vibrators.”

Rick, Johan, and Sketch were all screaming. The main reason for this was because they were covered in tiny, biting, horrific nuisances. The little creatures had arrived in a muck-covered swarm, and stormed up the legs of most of the group, or jumped at them from the walls or from the sludge.

In spite of the horror of being snacked upon by tiny fleshy flapjacks aside, most of the group was screaming at the fact that the horrible little things were covered in shit, and had bitten them anyways. It’d be like if mosquitos as long as your forearm had been bred in a garbage pit, but worse. Because each of the creatures could bite and then they kept biting. And they were covered in shit.

“Why the fuck do these things even exist?!” Sketch shouted.

“Damn, that shit sucks... almost literally,” Allen said as he tried to nick a couple off of the nearest person, a pony. The screaming artist just continued to flail and roll, attempting to get the things off any way possible, in spite of the consequences. It was better than the alternative. Barely.

“Why the hell aren’t you covered in these things like us you asshole!?” Sketch yelled at Allen.

Sweetie’s response superseded Allen’s. “Engineer fourth grade, special order three Allen Rihkart was the quickest to remove the smaller hostiles. Using his hands. Which you now possess mechanical duplicates of. To reiterate-”

“We get it, Sweetie! Aaaaagh!!” Johan screamed as he continued to tear the group of them from his back.

“Wait, waitwaitwait... theres stuff that goes after the engineer title? What’s that shit mean?” Allen asked.

As the other three members of the group joined forces to remove the little... shits... from each other’s backs, Sweetie elaborated. “Your full title is Engineer second class, fourth grade, with three ranks special munitions for purchasing and access reasons. Personnel files indicate that you are also overdue for an inspection of your work gear, and are also listed with fifty-seven absences from a workplace meeting, and two unpaid probation periods on file.”

“In engli- wait... What?!” Allen shouted, “You’re meaning to tell me that there have been more than two workplace meetings I missed, and what are you talking about unpaid probations... I’ve never heard about any of this!”

“Probation guidelines require notification. If that has not occurred, then you are entitled to full compensation.”

“Fuck yeah I’m getting compensation! Now if you excuse me I have some calls to make.” Allen said.

“Engineering administrator Anoleis is not currently available, according to station files.”

“Fuck. Well I’m going to call everyone. Someone will have to pick up,” Allen said hopefully.

“Administrative assistant Everard is also unavailable.”

“By Altman’s salty anus!”

Sweetie seemed unimpressed by Allen’s ‘colorful’ outburst, and the others were too busy ripping the last couple of swarmers, now engaging in a merry game of ‘can’t catch me’, to even care.

“So... could you see how much money I do have since you seem to be able to see all the files?”

“Credits are stored locally, in your RIG’s primary synch files, to prevent both theft and counterfeiting.”

“So... I only have twenty-one hundred credits... well, fuck... someone’s going to hear about this one when I find them if they ain’t already dead.”

Sweetie shrugged. “Authorities at the military installation could reroute funds and annul the probation periods if presented with evidence that would prevent their initial activation.”

“Sweet, well at least now I have a motivating reason to go to the military district,” said Allen.

“That would be correct.”

Sweetie and Allen sat in companionable silence for several seconds, watching as the other three members of the group finally finished their screaming and the destruction of the tiny biting horrors that had been clinging to them.

“Those necromorph forms appear to be exquisitely painful. I am very glad I failed to attract their attention.”

“Same... we should probably help them.”

“That would likely be an optimal resolution to their suffering.”

Neither Sweetie nor Allen moved. The young pony shifted slightly.

“They appear to be done with removing the creatures. Perhaps medigel applications would be optimal.”

Allen nodded sagely in response, still not moving as the three beleaguered victims slowly collapsed back, panting and in pain from the numerous tiny, stabbing wounds on them.

“Yeah, it probably would.”

“Affirmative.”

Scootaloo stepped towards one of the rooms nearest to her, poking at the control. It beeped softly, and the wood-styled door hissed and opened slightly, being one of the rare hinged doors on the station. The door opened inwards, towards the room.

“So... who’s going in first?” Scoots asked, sitting next to the now open door. Light spilled softly from the doorway.

“Well, I guess I will, not really important though.” CD walked into the room, unworried but prepared anyway. Peeking his head around first, he could see a large, mostly unmarred laboratory within, whitewashed by the bright fluorescents. There appeared to be a large number of stations to work at, a large banner hung nearby, welcoming the ‘Junior Science Associates’ to the room. Thankfully, there weren’t any bodies, but the sterile environment seemed almost intimidating in its perfect levels of clean.

Looking around the area, he realized that the stations were all built for humans, being all at eye-brow height for him. Utilizing the suit’s servos to stand, he was then tall enough to survey the stuff laid out on the table. He reached for a small vial, empty and hanging in a rack of similar test-tubes, just to get a better look at it.

“See anything dangerous?”

Scootaloo’s words made him jump, arm sweeping many of the (to him) yellow-coated glass tubes from the table, shattering and annihilating a large number of glass lab equipment pieces.

“You, for one. Don’t scare me like that, I have no idea what any of this stuff is, I’m a techie, not a science nerd.”

Scootaloo rolled her eyes, the action unnoticed by CD’s still-blocked eyesight. “You do realize that a techie is a nerd, right? And besides, are you sure you should be touching things with your hooves all grimy like that?” Scootaloo gestured towards his outstretched leg, and he realized he could tell how bad the had actually gotten.

“No I don’t. Sue me, I’m curious to a fault. On second thought, don’t sue, I hate the legal system. Jokes aside, do you have any idea what this stuff is? I’d like to know if that stuff I threw everywhere is horribly toxic.”

“Well, judging from the big ol’ banner saying ‘Welcome to Chemistry 103’ hanging up there, I’d doubt it. Here, gimme a sec, I’ll go see if the big table near the collection of lab consoles has a plan or something. Also, that thing over there looks like an emergency shower, and I’d classify your current state of disgusting appearance to be a big enough emergency to count.”

“Yeah, you’re no rose garden yourself. You’re after me, especially after what we just swam through, we could both use a shower.” CD commented as he headed for the first chance to clean off since he last remembered, which was a year ago.

Reaching around with his mechanical fingers, he grasped the chemical safety shower’s handle and tugged. The sudden downpour slammed into him, with enough force to knock him back, even through the helmet’s faceplate. As the water dumped over him, sloughing off the grime and muck, he sighed. Though the temperature was negligible, even unnoticed through the suit, the not-so-gentle susurrus of the water was calming for his nerves.

Sighing, he opened his eyes again, still marveling at the weird vision he’d acquired. He hit the handle again to shut off the water, having to hit it a few times to turn it off. After a moment or two, the torrential water finally swept off from his helmet, no longer obscuring his vision. Now that he could see clearly, the view wasn’t as brightly visible as before. Only the emergency lights were on, and the lab equipment had a whole series of brightly-colored fluids in them, now mixing freely in the gunk-filled water spilling into the drain in the center of the room.

Sighing, he looked up, seeing Scootaloo rummaging through the cabinets at the larger table.

“When you’re ready, feel free to wash up after your little swim.” CD wandered over. “Hey what’cha got there anyway?”

“I think... I think it’s the teacher’s notes. Yeah. So today, it appears they were learning about viral chemistry... Oh, shit, I think you’re contagious!” Scootaloo began backpedalling away from CD rapidly.

CD looked down at his arm, where he’d smashed the vials. “Y- you said that stuff wasn’t dangerous! Aagh! Get it off, get it off, get it off!” CD began waving and shaking his arm, trying to do something, anything, to prevent the probably horrifying infection from setting in.

He could hear Scootaloo making terrified noises, and flailed harder. His life flashed before his eyes. It was a lot more boring than he’d want to admit, except the really recent stuff.

Finally, he dropped to the ground, panting and gasping for breath, wondering if, perhaps, that was part of the effect of the virus, whatever it was. Maybe he was going to turn into a disease-riddled necromorph, devour Scootaloo, and kill everyone else? Was that even possible?

His head rolled around to look over at Scootaloo, still in the corner. She appeared to be screaming, perhaps in pain, legs flailing as well, also gasping for air. Her convulsions looked like she was in incredible agony, and CD felt a brief flash of sorrow for her, doomed before she could even reach full adulthood.

Finally everything quieted down, and CD wondered what it would be like to be a necromorph. He looked over at Scootaloo, unsure if he should go and try eating her brains or something. The younger pony looked up at him as well.

“Y’know, you are the biggest dork I’ve ever seen, and I’ve got eight issues of Playmare.” Scootaloo’s voice was full of mirth, and she had to suppress an honest-to-goodness giggle. “It’s just colored water, dude.” Scootaloo burst into laughter as CD just stared at her, uncomprehending, at the filly.

His eyes narrowed behind the glowing helmet. “Oh, you’re good.”

Back in the wet morass of sludge and grime, the other five members of the group were huddled atop of a pile of ceiling tiles that had formed a barely-visible hump in the gooey river. Surrounding the quintet of survivors was a veritable army of necromorphs, slashers, pukers, lurkers, and even the tiny little swarmers crawling over even the slightest piece of debris.

The five of them had expended a few clips of their main weapons each, Johan’s pulse rifle peppering the creatures as Allen’s plasma cutter removed limbs. Sketch was using his Divet, just to conserve ammunition. From atop his back, arcs of actinic fire stretched out to tap the necromorphs, incinerating them chunk by chunk. Sweetie’s fire was neither precise nor common, but it was enough to sear away groups of them. Rick, with his heavy cutter, was at the top, trying to hit the largest waves as quickly as possible.

The group, however, was still surrounded. The necromorphs were closing in, and even Johan was beginning to run low on ammo. With the suddenness of a riptide, the pile shifted and moved, falling down and in, dragging each of the ponies and humans still alive down a swirling green, red, and black whirlpool with a variety of necromorphs not far behind.

As Johan felt himself fall, he tried flailing for the edge, but missed, feeling himself slam back-first into the floor below, along with a sharp pain in his left shoulder. He tried to scream, but the sound was choked off by the sewage pouring in a torrential, vile ‘waterfall’.

Sketch, as he fell, felt himself smash against something in the disgusting slurry, hard, like an I-beam or other piece of construction. Whatever it was, he wasn’t sure, as he fell past it in the mire. The muck slid past his visor, for he was thankful it was a self-sealing system. He honestly didn’t want to think about what it would mean to get any of this in the ruin of his eye.

Slipping into the sludge quite unexpectedly, Rick flailed for a moment before the sensation of something clawed grabbing him held his attention. The grasp was, oddly, not at all hostile, and seemed to steady him before relenting. Then, he was back into the swirling sewage, landing in a barely more dignified heap than the others.

And as Allen fell backwards into the gooey refuse of far too many bean burrito sundays, the only real, coherent thought that came forth for him was, “Oh, balls, this is just like high school again.”

Scootaloo and CD had found a bunch of water balloons, probably for some experiment or another. They had decided that goofing off was the best way to clean off Scootaloo, or at least CD had. The first one had hit her in the back of the head, and he considered the shot fully worth the virus prank a few minutes before.

The two ponies, acting like children, had the first actually relaxing moment of their day. They found that the suits, designed to resist high-impact zero-g debris, was more or less impervious to the tiny bits of crushed glass and the like, and got into a beaker fight. They came out of that one having learned that corn syrup was also in some of the beakers. The purpose: unknown.

But very entertaining to peg others with, especially when filled with colored fluids in addition. In all, the two barely had the time to wonder why no necromorphs had invaded their area, instead rampaging happily through the science classroom. After they finished the romp, they sat back, having rinsed off with one last round of water balloons.

“So... we should probably get moving.” Scootaloo spoke quietly, obviously enjoying the time to rest. “Maybe, uh, ‘scavenge’ one more room. These might all be classrooms.”

“Who knows, maybe there’s a pinata in the next room.” He looked over at Scootaloo for a moment. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Kind of.”

Scootaloo huffed a laugh.

The two ponies sat for a moment, bonding. They both, however, practically jumped out of their suits as another RIGlink call crackled on CD’s suit.

“N- number eight! I just remembered! Number eight, it’s important, please!”

The voice was back, and this time it was accompanied by the video link, not just audio. As CD had guessed last time, it was a mare that had contacted him. Bright eyes, like circles of sapphire, looked from a haggard visage. Those eyes, sequins in a field of bloodshot white, were frantic and frenzied. It looked like she was grabbing the holographic ‘screen’ with her hooves and dragging herself close to it.

“P- please, you’ve got to remember the sequence, okay? It’s broken, and they can hear us, but they aren’t interfering, they’re just watching us. Please, you’ve got to remember the sequence. I- I can’t, they’re waiting for me and I jus-”

The tirade cut off with a pop and the harsh noise of static. Scootaloo, watching in vague terror, turned to CD. “So, uh, what’s going on with her? Are you sure you don’t know her?”

“Kind of. I might know her, but I have no memory of her. And what she said bothers me. This ‘sequence’ she mentioned, the scientists who messed with my head for a year, they wanted the same thing. But I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what most of the stuff that’s going on is.” CD sighed. “Well, she doesn’t seem to be with the scientists, so I guess she’s fine, I just have no recollection of her whatsoever.”

“Well, she sure seems to remember you. You think the ‘them’ she referred to was the scientists? Or someone else entirely.”

“Most likely the scientists. But I want to know why she remembers me if they had her too. Why’d they only wipe my head?”

The RIGlink crackled again, but this time it was just a voice connection. The voice, from the other side of the link, sounded scared and whispered, as if she was trying to keep someone from overhearing.

“Please... Number eight, you have to remember. B- before they find it on their own. They can’t get finished, or they win. You- you remember the machine, right?”

“Uh, kinda? Not really, it’s all sort of blurry at this point.”

His response was met with silence for several seconds. Then, she whispered again. “You’re lucky. You’re lucky you don’t remember. I- I can’t do it again. You have to remember the sequence, eight.”

“I’m lucky... I don’t know? I thought you said I have to remember!”

“No, it’s not that, you need to remember the seque- oh no, they’re back. I- I have to go! Oh no, oh n-” The RIGlink simply cut off.

“I, uhm, think we should check another room or two, and get to the hub.” Scootaloo cut in nervously, as she looked at the stunned pony next to her. “It- it’s the only place I can think of, right now. To get with the group again, that is.”

CD looked over at her. “Guess the fun’s over. Man this got depressing fast. So, guess we just keep going and hope the rest is fine.”

“Uh, yeah.” The filly said with a nod. “That sounds good.”

Sketch, recovering the quickest, sat up with a groan. He was in the growing pool of disgusting refuse, and looked around. The other members of the group were also trying to stand up, and several other forms were, too. Sketch backed up from the forms, looking all around, up and down, to make sure nothing would get him this time around.

Sketch quickly backed into a cheap-looking couch. Looking at it, he decided it wasn’t worth his life, but it was worth a few seconds. He began to work his way around it, only to find a body, stripped of much of its flesh and laying still. Much of its body was missing, but Sketch saw only the horror of the shape, and began to fire wildly at the thing, hoping it wouldn’t get up.

As the Divet clicked empty, he realized he’d just emptied a full clip into a corpse. One that wasn’t trying to stand up and get him. Reloading shakily, he backed away from it with a gulp, again. Still panicky as fuck he looked around seeing more shapes standing slowly.

Johan, buried under the torrent of sewage, wasn’t able to do much more than gurgle and flail, left arm dead to his senses as he tried to push himself off whatever had impaled him in the fall. As he moved, something below his twitched, and he had honestly no idea who or what it was.

Not four steps away, Rick was standing up from the pained crouch he’d landed in. He wasn’t entirely sure what had grabbed him, but the feeling had been both familiar and comforting. Looking around, he couldn’t see much through the thick slime coating his visor, and something told him that retracting the helmet would probably, in all likelihood, make things far, far worse. The smell, he decided, and the faint screaming in the back of his head, next to the spectre of his wife.

As he realized what he was seeing, imposed across his vision with the sight of the chapel they’d been married in, he leapt back, shaking his head to clear the image from his mind. As much as he longed to see her face again, that wasn’t the way. Thankfully, the hard shake of his head had not only cleared it, but his vision as well, much of the goop having been flung from it. As he stood, he held back a gasp of pain, recognizing some of the shapes as the simpler necromorphs; slasher, pukers, and other strains rising from the expanding pool of sludge.

“Ah, fuck.” He whispered to himself.

Allen rose, vision blurry, to his feet, the mire’s contents sliding off his helmet, leaving nothing more vision-obstructing than brownish streaks down his visor. All around were the shapes of either necromorphs or his new allies, and he couldn’t tell which just yet, under the torrent of slime and gunk. As well, all his lights were covered, making him only visible by the bronzed, glassy dome over his face.

As he went to check his stuff, he realized something; he had promised to help get Sweetie back, and he had no idea where she was.

“By the Marker’s good graces, I can only hope we make it the fuck out of this alright.” Allen muttered, before casting his gaze around, searching for the apparently valuable young unicorn. “Sweetie! Sweetie Belle!”

The muck beside him mounded up, resolving itself into the shape of a small pony. Allen looked down at the pile of filly-shaped... poo. “That’s... fuckin’ disgusting.”

The pile looked up at him and nodded. “... Affirmative. Hostiles inbound.”

Allen looked up at her comment, staring at the shambling thing heading for them. “Aw, sh- uh, damn.” As he drew his rivet gun, he began to fire at the incoming necromorphs.

Nearby, Johan was struggling to stand, feeling the thing impaled in his shoulder shift as he rolled to the side. The spike, or whatever it was, slide out, along with the burning sensation of whatever had coated it at the time. Gritting his teeth, he finally rose from the swampy sludge, clutching his shoulder. Letting go to wipe the muck from his visor, drawing his weapon once more to scan around. He could already see at least two standing forms, and the shambling movements of what could only be, now that he could see the lights of his companion’s helmets, necromorphs.

The group, now standing, began to fight the beasts once more.

Author's Notes:

Cliffhanger! Sorta!
Not really, but still.

Make sure to vote! High fame = high survival chances, lower fame = lesser survival chances!

Also, ew.
Just eww. That sewage has to go somewhere after all, they can't simply jettison an entire city's worth of literal crap into space; it'd form dangerous asteroids that could cause huge amounts of damage.

Hmm, I wonder if that flash game's been made yet, "Crapsteroids"
Wouldn't surprise me, with today's levels of poop jokes on the internet.