Who put up this wallpaper? Plough thought, studying the intricate, beige and mud colored, damask patterns which adorned the walls in his room. Perhaps the colors were a much more vibrant monochrome in the past, but time had etched its likeness upon the walls, leaving only hints as to what things truly were. More importantly, he continued his internal lecture to himself, what were they thinking as they did? What made them come to the conclusion that this wallpaper would be the best for this room? What happened to them?

The early morning aroma of his mother's polenta easily tore him from his bed of piecemeal fabric on bare springs. He carefully made his bed look as neat as was possible for the materials used in its craft, and started walking towards the door, stopping for a moment to admire his book and periodical collection. Plough had always been interested in pony psychology and had the book collection to prove it. Herd Psychology: A Behavioral Analysis by Dr. Merciful Hooves, an incredibly used and abused copy of Awaken the Dragon Within by the minotaur Iron Will, a cherished, translated, half-copy of Zebra Infiltration Tactics which was poorly attached to a large pile of crumpled notes, and a pristine copy of Motivational Secrets of Da Magicks by Photo Finish and apparently a host of ghost writers and translators.

Pushing Awaken the Dragon Within into the makeshift bookshelf to be flush with the other books, he opened his room's door and charged downstairs. The house the Maize family had come to call “home” had held up quite well over the years, and the stairs Plough abused at meal times only creaked and groaned moderately, lending a much-needed soundtrack to the normally dense silence of the house. The crude, but newly fashioned windows let in the cracked and irradiated light of the wasteland, giving everything it touched the appearance of an old book, its parchment scribbled with stories that were slowly bleaching away by the light over decades. To Plough, this yellowish light just reminded him of the breakfast that was sure to be waiting for him in the kitchen.

He stopped in the door frame to the kitchen to sniff the sweet, earthy scent. He saw his mother scooping up large helpings of the golden porridge with a steel spoon and letting them fall, in steamy chunks, into three bowls she had set out. “Good morning, mom,” he said with a smile.

He stood there as Kandy gave a look of surprise, spat the large spoon into the sink and walked over to give her colt a little nuzzle and kiss on the cheek. “And how's my favorite child doing today?” she asked as she looked back, lovingly at Plough's face.

Plough noticed a little crack in his mother's cheery facade through a slight, unintentional eye-twitch she gave. Dad must've had a bad night, he thought. I wonder what she'll do when he finally goes. His father, Shucks, had been nearing death's door for months, now. The cancerous blight afflicting everypony in the town was working its might on the old stallion and he surely wasn't getting any better. Plough's mother, Kandy, a trained nurse, was keeping him alive through no small feat, using every manner of medical gadget she could obtain, and some other, extremely rare and dangerous materials. In this case, the poison was also the remedy. The balefire radiation that surely caused his suffering was also destroying the disease that was killing him. The whole ordeal was exacting a massive toll not only from Shucks' body but also from his mother, Plough knew. “I'm doing wonderfully, mom. Thanks,” he said gently, placating her.

“That's fabulous, honey!” she said walking back to the table where she set the bowls and pointed at one. “Here, take this to your father. He's having trouble getting up and down the stairs right now, so we'll have to help him out a little. I'm sure he'll be fine in a few days.” She gave him another big smile and went back to her work, ignoring her own meal, slowly cooling off on the table.

It's been months, mom, Plough thought as he let out a little sigh. He shook his head, nabbed his father's breakfast and headed down, toward the basement. I only wish you were really here so we could meet this together.

As he carefully descended the concrete steps to the basement, he heard his father give a few, juicy coughs followed by particularly nasty hacking that was complex enough to be its own foreign language. It was a language Shucks had become all too fluent in over the past six months. Plough reached the basement floor and walked past the beeping machines his mother repaired and used to help keep her husband alive. The light above them was laboriously buzzing out an inadequate, bluish light, adding a low drone to the soft symphony of noise, which seemed to strain to be something more appealing, but failed, miserably.

Plough gently put the bowl of warm cornmeal on the tray next to his reclining father, whereupon the old stallion looked from the yellowish mush in the white bowl to his son and asked, “' The Hell is thee-us?”

“It's your breakfast, sir. Polenta. Mom made it for...”

“Don't gimme no lip, bow-ay, I know whut it ee-uz!” Shucks gave another deep cough and was rewarded with a nice chunk of phlegm that he quickly spat at Plough's hooves. “Yer goin' to th' store t'day. We need some * COUGH * s'mmore 'o them applecakes 'n whutever else you c'n * mmm, mmm, hmmm * you c'n find.” He motioned his hoof to point at nothing in particular. “After yer done plowin' fer t'day, pack up th' wagon with some o' them books o' yers 'n head out t' see if'n yuh cane't get sum'm good fer 'em; ah'm tired o' thee-us crap!” he said glancing at the bowl of now cool mush.

“Right, sir,” Plough said, giving no emotion, positive or negative to his father, not wanting to allow him any ammunition; his father's stockpile was already full enough, and if Shucks ever ran out, he was sure to craft some more. Plough turned from the sore-laden, living corpse he once called “dad” to head up stairs.

“Colt! Ah'm not finished with yew!”

Plough turned his head, careful to not show his crestfallen attitude nor his loathing of the old, cancer-stricken pony before him. “Yes, sir?”

“You don't tell NO-body 'bout err-thang yer mom does fer me!” he said in what was neither a whisper nor a yell. “Nuthin' 'bout these machines, nuthin' 'bout th' batteries...nuthin'. 'S bad enough we got yer mom waggin' her damn jaw tuh err-body 'bout my illness 'n whatnot. Yew got that, colt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mmm,” his father grunted as he gave a terse nod and waved his hoof as he started going for his food. “Now, go on.”

Plough didn't need to be told twice. He somewhat stiffly turned around and walked up the stairs, back to the kitchen. After eating his room-temperature, though deliciously agave-sweetened breakfast, and giving his mother a kiss on the cheek, he opened the back door.

He was met with a gust of oven-like air. It was hot. Real hot. His body resisted going out the door to the furnace outside, making him simultaneously scrunch up his eyes and sweat. This has to be why they called this place Balk, he thought. It's too damn hot to want to do anything.

He squinted through the powerful, yellow light which reigned during the day. After his eyes became accustomed to the vast, yellowed expanse, he trotted out to the dilapidated, old barn, which had been “fixed” with so many pieces of carriages, fences, tin roofing and other such garbage. If Plough noticed the barn's ramshackle nature, he didn't show it, as he lifted its locking bar and threw open its doors to reveal his entire life up to this point.

A plow. His plow. Complete with retractable wheels. Plough maneuvered his head through the heavy, rubber tire he used as a yoke and felt its weight bear down onto the callous which had formed around his neck after years of its use. He may have missed the nice ring of chestnut coat and dark, brown mane now gone from his body, but at least he no longer felt the sting of its chafe. Only its weight.

Without much effort he released the brake, bore his immense mass against the yoke and coerced the monstrosity out of the barn and into the field that was to be left fallow for the next season. He had already strewn most of the field with as much manure as he could gather from the town. It wasn't the most pleasant job, but it at least gave him a reason to meet with the people in the town and develop the ability to relate to others, making him a master at telling jokes and stories. Around others Plough felt at home. Around others he felt powerful, in control and able to make bold decisions. Plowing his father's manure covered field wasn't exactly the most personally enriching activity. I am a piece of shit, he thought. A piece of shit plowing an island made of shit, floating in an ocean of piss and my son will use my bones to fertilize his fields. Plough didn't much appreciate his brain for that metaphor.

“I just need a reason,” he muttered to the dirt and feces littered around in the field. “A reason good enough to leave this hole.” He turned the corner to face the town's center. A large, brick structure with white, stone archways supported by similarly white columns dominated the small town. The old train station, like much of the town, was fairly well preserved since before the balefire blasts that ended the war. Unlike the rest of the town, it was constantly being groomed as if being prepped for a beauty pageant. He eyed its gleaming heights cooly, then looked at his own, chewed-up, ragged coat. The contrast was not lost on Plough, who had been consumed by the idea that the mayor had been hiding a cure for the blight wreaking suffering on the poor citizens of Balk, just as his coat was being consumed by the sickness, producing sores and other such maladies on his nonetheless powerful body. “Maybe I'll take that fucker down with me.”

Plough was brought back to the present through the acrid smell of something burning and a muffled, sizzling sound. He looked at his forelegs and noticed that he had inadvertently opened one of his scabs, which was dripping his caustic blood upon the ground, leaving a trail of smoke and ash. “Aw, crap,” he groaned as he finished his work. He hurriedly stowed the plow and yoke in the barn, drips of his blood eating small holes in the cement foundation. After he closed and locked the barn he called his mother outside to help him with his wound.

“Mom, another one opened up!”

“I'll be right there, sweetie!”

He stood there watching his life force burn off portions of his tan coat making small ravines of naked skin. Everypony Plough knew had their own mutation. Normally these abnormalities were expressed in less pronounced ways, such as Digger's cloven hooves, Drainpipe's donkey-like tail, or even Cheese Curd's outrageous second pair of ears. Plough's mutation, on the other hand, was different; it proved it could could be quite dangerous. The first time he noticed the mutation he had fallen and scraped his knee on one of the large boulders in the outcroppings on the outskirts of their farm. Plough knew better than to cry to his father. He had to prove himself a big pony and held back the tears of pain. Not that he needed reinforcement. The sight of his blood burning through the rock horrified him into a sense of awe. His shock was only magnified when his father attempted to bandage the scrape and burned off nearly half of his hoof. Yes, everyone had their own mutation, except for the caravaners, the mayor and his family and, as Plough often noted, some especially comely fillies.

His mother came dashing out of the house, a bucket, plastic wrap and a smooth piece of glass in her mouth. When she was close, she spat them out onto the ground.

“Mama's here, baby,” she said to him with her most concerned look. “Take the piece of glass, baby, I'll wrap you up.”

After his mother poured the contents of the bucket over his leg, Plough scooped up the worn bottom of a Sparkle~Cola bottle and gently placed it on his wound, taking care not to get any blood on his hooves. He then helped her wrap the glass piece onto his leg with the plastic wrap. I swear, he thought. Where would I be without this stuff?

“Are you going to be okay?” his mother started. “Do you need to sit down? You don't need to go into town right now. We'll sit you down by the radio. Maybe the Adventures of General Mare is on, I know how much you love that show!”

“I'll be fine, mom,” he smiled, chuckling. “We need some food and...other...supplies.” He gave her a pained grin.

“Are you sure? I don't want you falling down half way and skidding your knees or something. What if somepony...”

“I...I'll be fine, mom. And so will you. If anything at all happens, remember I'll be within walking distance. Just right down by the store, okay?”

His mother gave a little sigh and smiled at him. “Well, then, hurry back, now. Don't stay out too late. And make sure to say 'hello' to that Chaff girl! I like her!” she emphasized every syllable with a little jab to Plough's ribs. Maybe you two could spend a little time together this week. You know, I heard there was this great party over at...”

“I'll talk to her, mom, I promise,” he swore. He gave his mother a little nuzzle and trotted up to his room. He gave a glance to his cherished library of old books. “Don't worry boys,” he mentioned to them. “You're safe.” Passing them up to look under his bed, he pulled out a canvas bag he had filled with bottle caps, the undisputed currency of the wasteland. He smirked at his own bartering prowess and guile as he tossed the bag of caps into his agave fiber saddle bags, headed downstairs and out of the front door.

Plough hitched himself to the family wagon through another tire-turned-yoke, and heaved his great bulk against it. The wheels gave way to his strength and soon he was alone on the road to the center of town. The creaky sound of the ever spinning wagon wheels lending their groaning to the soundtrack of Plough's ever-fleeting thoughts of escaping the grinding toil of his life in Balk. At least I get to talk to Chaff, he mused. Yeah. At least there's that.

This story is based on Kkat’s strange and wonderful, Fallout: Equestria. If you haven’t already, please do so. Here’s the link: Equestria Daily

If you’d like to read more Fallout Equestria Side Stories, take a look at: Fallout Equestria Side Stories post on Equestria Daily and the Fallout Equestria Side Stories thread on Ponychan

Thank you also to Arcane Scroll for the excellent site: Fallout: Equestria Resource. There is a chat function on that site, come say “hello.”