Fallout Equestria: The Tartarus Contingency

Chapter 3: The First Day

Let me be by myself in the evening breeze,

and listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees.

Send me off forever, but I ask you please:

Don't! - fence me in.

–

A day to rest. Two full canteens, covered in cut furs so they wouldn't freeze, and two days of boxed food wrapped in a roughly hewn bag. A couple healing ampoules and a package of gauze. Finally, a pouch filled with a few hundred caps, for “persuading” traders to the far north.

This was the value Resilience placed on whatever remained of my existence.

I was allowed personal accoutrements, thank Celestia. What to take was an easy bit of brainstorming- My pistol, of course. Some ammunition and pre-loaded magazines. A few flares. My binoculars. My scrapbook and my camera, and a roll of parchment to reload it.

Finally there were the syringes, and the seventeen tiny cylinders of liquid that had three doses each. Thorn, Sureshot told me it was called. A fun little narcotic for crystals, it was a diluted poison that I was explained kept the mind sterile. He'd given me the recipe for it, thinking I could make use of it. It was mostly Chillbramble, a thorny root that looked like sharp veins running through our excuse for trees- the blue pillars of crystal that rise from the ground like large shards of glass. The rest was water, med-x, and brewing time.

Even though we, the pickers, were all armed mostly the same, I alone was insulted as “overloaded” by the only words I'd ever heard from the doorman. I told him to go and get bucked. I smiled when I saw he was not used to that.

The klaxons sounded, as they always had. The doors screamed and the chains jingled, as they always had. I stepped into the cold first, feeling the film of warmth turn to frost. I turned back around.

Two pickers remained at the doors, waiting for me. The doorman nodded. Sureshot, dragging off just one more cigarette, was standing there to see us off. Unfamiliar faces paused as they passed in their chores within the city, as if only to mourn. Snapshot had his coat up, and was hiding from me behind the fur. Even though a day had passed from the initial shock and the flat apologies, he couldn't look me in the eye.

I pulled my own hood free, and lifted the goggles. Even as my sockets began to freeze, the tips of my ears going quite numb, I barely acknowledged it. Thorned as I was, it was a welcome side effect. I looked back at him unabashedly. I wanted him to see my face, for that last time, while the doors began to shut. He finally looked up at me when I moved.

He didn't speak. He didn't look away. He waited, and didn't budge. “No goodbyes?” he asked me over the noise, the gate halfway closed.

I shook my head. “I think I got all those out with the bruises I gave you.”

He continued to watch me. As the view inside grew to a sliver, he had to lean in order peer beyond the door. “Don't let this get to your head. Resilience deserves to survive.”

The other two pickers with me glanced. They had already started walking, while I had lagged behind. They had paused for me, knowing our chances were so much better when a full troupe. What I replied to my brother with scared them.

I let out a unfaithful laugh. “We'll find that out soon enough I guess.” I yelled over the door's croon. His head lowered, and my home of twenty three years was sealed away behind that wailing and dense gate.

I clothed myself again, hood up, fuzz and goggles taut and comfortable. I turned around and grazed between the other pickers. They watched me with a worry that, I have to admit, satisfied me on some morbid depth of what my spirit then was.

They looked between each other for a while. I knew what they were thinking. The dose in my veins, still active since what Resilience excused as daybreak, kept me comfortably aware and resistant to whatever they could have said.

They were lagging then, uncertain if it was worth it to even follow me. “You coming?” I yelled back, continuing along.

With that, the two of them sluggishly took a place behind and beside me, wary enough to keep me in their sight. That made me feel dangerous.

“Where are we going?” The colt asked.

“There's a train station one of the other pickers marked a while back. From there, we follow the rails south.” There was the call of wind, making the coat fur at my face ripple and swipe.

“That's it?” the mare asked.

“Keep an eye out for movement that isn't ours. Besides that, yeah. That's it.”

Ten minutes in, we'd passed the only unique landmark. The train car. It's exposed corner was enraptured with frozen black muck, and large pink chunks in crimson stains.

There was a few hours of walking after that. A few bunker hatches, open wide, large red X's drawn on them to show they'd been pillaged by Resilience. We swiveled our heads over samey hills, twitching at errant flakes in the corners of eyes. Only the jaded sky and tender wind kept us company, the cracks in the clouds skirting sun around us.

With whispered conversation behind me, I had to give the drug credit. The way it kept my skin unfeeling, I never got cold enough to care about the things around me. It quelled my interest in what they were saying, and the claustrophobic blankness of the wastes as we traveled through it.

We reached the station without incident, and my vocally indirect partners galloped ahead to enter it's doors with a greed to get inside and rest. Thorned, I let them, only smirking as they distanced from me. The vague thought to scout it first with my binoculars quickly vanished. I didn't feel like a bastard, letting them play the distraction game for me. I knew I was, but the sensation of what that could have meant to me simply didn't register in my core.

Besides, I was intent on joining them then. It marked the end of the first day's trot. Being outside at night would have rendered a dervish invisible, the cold too intense. Still rather fresh, I never thought we would settle to sleep like we did- cozily, ignoring what we left behind, our eyes upon daydreams to be realized.

[***]

The hoary station was not forgotten. Inside, peeling wounds in the paint of the roof and walls had been plastered over with layers of random posters and bent nails. The light was from neatly tucked boards, with a single missing plank in the center that let me peer outside through a once elegant circular window.

“Is there even enough stuff to burn for the night?” The mare with me asked.

It was a big rectangular lobby. There was a door beyond the large, oak reception desk. That desk was more like a short wall upon which there were two terminals, their faces shattered and cradling broken tubes, and a nest of scattered tickets at their sides.

There were hoofprints in the dust, long swipes that had organized some of the little papers into a fan by one of the consoles. Canterlot, Ponyville, Manehatten, Hoofington. Those were only the names I knew, mind you. I pocketed the ticket that read “Crystal Empire” locating bitter sentiment in that it had a departure stamp twelve decades prior.

I read off more names in my head. Fillydelphia, Las Pegasus, Detrot... It was a veritable list of the scorches on the skin of the world. In reading them, I realized I had feelings again. The Thorn was wearing off, and for it, my dreamy, magazine perception of the old world began to clarify into nearly pitying the lost places.

While we continued to wander for supplies, I only found a few broken globes below a boarded window. One dingy orb still contained an unfamiliar and pointed tower. I tapped it, and the flakes of plastic inside spun upward into a miniature white out. What a twisted trinket... How could anypony want to make something like that in the north, let alone sell such a thing?

To distract myself from disgust, I pretended to care, and asked: “What's your names?” Being the first thing real thing I said to them as ponies instead of partners, they were surprised, but sighed in relief.

I had found a door behind a pile of garbage behind the desk while I talked; it was locked, but still I began to work at the knob. It didn't move.

You know how a crystal pony picks locks? With their rear hooves. I sent the glass jingling into the room it walled off. After kicking away the sharper shards that had remained, I stuffed my hoof through the window to slap around what I found was a push-lock on the opposite knob.

The mare spoke up first. “I'm Quartz Step.” She said. She started to drag a wire-mesh trash bin, scraping it against the cracked tile floor in a noise that made my flesh shiver. She smiled shyly when she saw my reaction, and stopped early to rummage around inside. She left only the paper and empty food boxes within, tossing the rest about behind her. She sat back, and produced a decadently engraved lighter from her own saddlebags – one of her own personal items. Smart girl, I thought, as she brushed a hoof over the flint wheel and lit the papers. She began to knead the fire to life with her breath.

“I... I'm Miser.” the colt said, after a long set of stares between Quartz and I.

I laughed at the name, then felt instantly apologetic. I had to remind myself I was trying to be “nice.” The gesture, to me, meant I had some soul left. “What do you do?” I asked. I grunted at the lock; it was rusted shut, and I had to beat on it a few times.

“Well, I... I'm good with caps.” he said. He had nothing more he was brave enough to say, and was watching me and the mare actually work. He was waiting, annoyingly lazy, or simply afraid to get in the way.

“That'll be hoofy.” I said, cheering for myself as the door clicked. Caring little about whatever life story he was ready to present, I began to tug at the front knob. “What about you, Quartz?”

Her cheeks slowly deflated as she distracted herself on me. The fire crackled. “I can dance.”

Fine. Neat. Whatever.

Then I realized these two were probably more useful than me, at least in a more immediate sense. She could boost morale, certainly, just by virtue of being cute or with smooth moves. He was good with money, and that was useful anywhere. I sure as hell didn't believe that what I had to my name held any value at the time, even with what Sureshot had done to reassure me about it's use to the pickers. Once again, I distracted myself, disrespectful of the value in my work. “Hey Miser- see if you can peel some of those posters down. We need to keep the fire up.”

As I pulled the door open, the dark recesses spilled clumps of metal and plastic trash. A pair of skeletons tumbled free amongst it, the bones splitting at the joints to become nothing more than pieces amidst the refuse. I hadn't expected that- my first sighting of the black bones inside had them embracing one another. At least they'd died together... Grumbling, I stepped amongst the litter, and began to search. “Well, I'm Snapshot.” I said. “I take pictures.” They looked at each other, and shrugged.

Mentally, I entertained myself in believing they were chatting about me. “Well, at least he isn't a complete asshole. It would be a lot worse if he was.”

There wasn't a useful thing on the shelves. The place had been rather clean; whomever first passed through must have ransacked it, then stuffed the garbage into the closet for comfort's sake. I then thought that our predecessors to that place might have organized the skeletons into some grim joke for a pony like me to imagine.

I rummaged around inside the closet, muttering to myself while I moved more and more pointless pieces. Beneath a wad of dented and empty cans, there were two fat pull-string bags. Inside, there was a plethora of unopened envelopes. “You know what? Forget that. I got something we can use.”

I dragged them toward the fire, and one of the bags threw up a collection of yellow letters. An object skidded to a heavier stop ahead of the others; a pair of letters, to which was tied a little metal thing. It was about the size of the other envelopes, though it was about an inch thick. One edge was curved, the other having a flat and once-shiny metal depression. To me, it looked like a book with magnetic tape inside, visible through gills on the surface. It had a small logo on the “spine,” one we all recognized- Stable-Tec.

Quartz found it immediately interesting, eying it pensively. She drew glances between the busted terminals and whatever it was, and grimaced when she realized we had no way to “read” it.

In taking up a knot of the remaining papers in my teeth, I was about to dump them into the garbage pail. Quartz stopped me with a hoof.

She took one from me, and opened it up with a long and tearing sway of her head. She unfolded it and started to read. I tried to dump the rest of what I had, but she insisted- “Wait a bit, huh?”

I rolled my eyes. “Warmth or peeping.” I said, over the paper crumpling in my teeth. “Pick one.” The cold was still sharp, and hung in the air like an invisible fog. I was not one to stand on another ponies whimsy for history. Not then, anyway.

She looked at me, then turned to toss the letter inside the bin. “Alright... Gimme those.” she said, pointing toward the letters and trinket. I slid it over carelessly with a hoof, despite her “careful” acting to make it look like she hadn't been the first one interested.

I took mouthfuls of the letters, and burnt them. Old wishes, what I assumed were ancient and poor attempts at poetry, kept us tepid. I had Miser crack the circular window to vent the smoke. Having loosened the string on her little treasure, Quartz overturned a flowery pink envelope with a bizarre and cruelly cracked wax seal. She opened it, and her eyes darted about the contents. She laughed a little.

I was about halfway through the first bag when she started to recite. Miser had taken a place next to the pail, and unfurled from his catlike placement on the floor to flick an ear toward her voice. “To my dearest and sweetest,” she began.

I know what you're doing. I have to say, I hate it. Please, I beg you, don't take that the wrong way- I hate what this war is forcing you to do. It just isn't you that has to do these horrible things, but I feel like it's you that's shouldering so much of it. The rest of the family keeps talking about you, wondering why they never see you... I know you so well, and I just can't believe you would want to do this out of some intent in the echoes of your heart.

Every ounce of me misses you. Not just you, but everything you mean to me when I see you. The warmth and understanding. All the strength you give, merely by being here with me.

You know where this war is going. We both see it. You're still out there, killing and gathering scars by the hour. I'm still here in the city, doing absolutely everything to keep the smiles and eyes bright with what few things I CAN do.

I just wish we could be together again. It's a need, a hungry wanting. You don't deserve this. None of us do, and I only wish every other pony out there could see that.

If you could just take off a few hours. Ride a train. Visit me, for even an instant.

Just let me tell you now. No matter the cost, no matter the time. No matter the wounds you have, no matter what you abandon. You know I won't judge, I won't care. You'll be here again, and that will be all that matters.

I'll wait for you, and you know there isn't a thing in this world that could stop me.

Come home. Please. I don't even care if you're in one piece. I just want to see you again.

“That's all there is.” she said, examining both sides of the paper.

“No signature?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. Not even an address. It's just a number.” She held up the envelope, and though it was hard to see in the feeble light, I could tell it was written by an accurate and artistic hand- too fine to be done by anything but levitation magic. 198149147. It was wrapped in a scribbled heart.

Quartz folded up the letter at it's creases and put it back in it's envelope, gingerly filing it into her saddlebag.

“You're keeping it?” I asked her.

“Of course!” she said, rearing back upon the question even being asked. She looked between Miser and I, whom shared offhand smirks. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Miser said. “Other than it's so goddamn gooey your bags will be leaking before dawn.”

“Oh buck you!” she exclaimed. “It's sweet. Well, I mean, romantic. Wouldn't you like somepony at home writing to YOU like that?”

“I dunno.” Miser said, with a smirk. “Sounds like I'd want to stay out for a while longer to keep the clingy mare away.”

I snerked. Even though I rather agreed with Quartz, her suggestion was only a sardonic hope for myself, and I had to at least be realistic. I'd certainly never met anypony like that, though the letter did make me wonder. How hard had I ever even tried?

She grunted. “Goddess, whatever happened to romance? Chivalry?”

“Being in a matriarchy castrated it.” Miser laughed. “Almost literally! That was before the megaspells even dropped.”

“Here's a better question-” I held up a hoof to her. “Romance and chivalry? What would you do if you actually encountered it out here?”

Neither of them had expected that. There came no replies, only an uncomfortable silence as they tried to grasp at a reasonable, purposeful answer. When I asked it of myself, then, I wanted to apologize again in some way for even bringing it up.

I didn't have to. Quartz took to playing with the other letter, maybe hoping she'd find something she could use against my inquiry inside it. She had quite a time; the seal seemed much, much stronger. She had to pin the envelope to the ground with her forehooves, then tug upon the bottom edge with her teeth. Even after all that, it took several seconds of solid effort on her part (which Miser and I both mocked). She couldn't open it, no matter how it stretched.

The seal was glowing when she gave up, and in her attempts had gotten brighter and brighter. It bled a milky violet light, which almost drowned the orange of the fire. She angrily tossed the envelope into the bin, and I just had to watch it.

It didn't burn.

The hell? I thought. I buried it beneath another wad of yellow papers, suffocating it's glow. No use for the relics of unnamed memory, I thought. Especially if they wanted to remain private for eyes long dead.

Quartz fondled the metal thing, and pursed her lips. She glanced once to the terminals. “Well, damn.” She said, and spun it end over end.

“Hey, wait!” Miser said. “Keeping that is a good idea.” He said. “We might be able to sell it. That's got to be Stable-Tec, it'll be expensive.”

Huh. Maybe the little guy had something to offer after all.

“... Provided you don't break it before that happens.”

Suddenly aware of what she was doing, the tape went airborne as Quartz tried to stop it. She bounced it between her hooves once, twice. It hit on it's corner, and clattered to a stop in front of me. She hissed, her hooves at her face.

We eyed her a bit. She pouted. “Buck you.” she said, curling up to lay down. When I took up the tape in my mouth, I waved it at her from the gripped corner with a tensing of my jaw. “Stable-tec.” I said. “You probably couldn't break it with a sledgehammer.”

She raised up to stick her tongue out at us, causing Miser and I to laugh again. At least she could take a joke.

I pocketed the thing, and took the first watch. I played it off how Miser had- just some toy to sell to an over eager pony. It's with no small admission I can say, the mere idea of what might be on it had me charmed. So too, had the letter... I couldn't say that then, could I? Not to them, not to myself.

When I was sure they were asleep (Miser's nostrils whistled as he snored, and the sound gave me confidence he was out), I took to sating the flames. I opened many letters that night, and read quite a bit before I burned them.

Some of them had several pages. They were just rambling worries that had been realized, many years ago. A lot of those numbered and unsigned envelopes were inside, all of them individual while saying much the same as the first.

Several of them had pictures. Foals standing next to mothers, wearing ribbons and giving half-full smiles. Some of them were pictures of soldiers against the backdrop of a Celestian flag. Even back then, with all they had and accomplished, they didn't have enough energy to care beyond their own individual bubble. If only they had known about what was coming, what would they have done differently? Would the smiles be brighter before the last day, or would they have occurred at all?

Would those photographers, like I thought myself to be, have even allowed them to falter in front of the lens?

There was an old superstition about my camera that I played with. The camera could capture souls. Burning the pictures would bring misfortune on the pony if still alive, or if dead, would release the captured entities to be judged.

Honoring the old idea, I burnt every picture I found. I swear to this day, I heard whispers as flames consumed faces. There were no screams, no cries, no words I could discern. The sound was there, palpable, and each picture felt dismally heavy until they curled into nothing more than a black soot.

It made me go over my own book again. I convinced myself I just wanted to refresh myself on the photo's- swap up the technique from the angles and bad focus. In truth, being where I was, I wanted to burn the whole damn thing then and there, especially that photo of Book Worm. I always was selfish when it came to that picture.

It came to me that the envelope in the fire was still undisturbed. The flames danced and tumbled around it, tinting it orange. Realizing I had a chance to retrieve it, I didn't improve the fire for a while, letting the pail cool off until it was nothing but a set of smoking embers. I stole the envelope, with some fumbling effort, dragging it quietly to the lip of our fire place. When it was free, freckled with ash and still warm, I bagged it.

Maybe a unicorn would know how to open such a thing, I thought to myself as an excuse. Maybe it would be a neat little diversion for emotion. Maybe the enchantment would be something a pony could reverse engineer, if such a thing were possible at the time, and that could be worth a well polished cap. It could have had pictures inside too, and the souls would need to be freed.

I looked at my partners. At the time, Quartz was apparently having a sweet dream. With nothing better to do I unscrewed the bulb on my camera, so as not to wake her up with the flash, and took a picture of the unsuspecting smile. I didn't bet on any of us surviving, not that we wouldn't try. I had planned to write upon it's back “burn me, if you find this on a dead pony.”

Miser awoke to the noise of the camera's printing. I bagged my toy before he got really awake, picture and all. I took the opportunity to make him take the next shift, and handed him the other bag full of letters. We had to restart the fire with our breath, but we managed, and eventually I used my own bag as a junky pillow.

It took a while to greet the day. I could hear Miser pacing, to the window, to the door, to the counter. Cowardice certainly granted a way of being alert, I thought to myself.

His hoofsteps were loud. The violet envelope and silver book grew petulant until warm darkness took me. I slept, and I did not dream.

[***]