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2935 16.42 KB 313
2935 16.42 KB 313
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[Copied from https://pastebin.com/DLJ8ydgA]
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>A loose piece of paper tumbles across the pavement.
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>For one second, it is the sole thing you focus on.
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>Not the oppressively dense fog.
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>Not the line of filthy people, yourself included, waiting for the line to move, if only just a tiny bit.
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>Not the heavily-armed, armored police keeping watch of the crowd gathered in front of the ration depot.
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>It's cold, being late fall, and your shabby jacket has no chance of keeping out the wind.
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>The surgical mask over your face has no chance of keeping out the sickness, either.
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>You try to quell a shiver, and burrow your hands a little deeper into your pockets.
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>You take a deep breath, and attempt to keep your thoughts away from the fact that they might run out of food before you even reach the entrance.
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>They have before.
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>You feel a tap on your shoulder.
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>"The line is moving ahead, keep going,"
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>The guard to your left addresses you in an irritated tone.
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>You don't need to see the expression behind his gas mask know that he's losing his patience.
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>You begin to take the few steps that mark the advancement of the line.
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>Then things start to go fuzzy.
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>"Hey!"
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>"Come on, wake up!"
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>Wait what?
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>"Wake up, we're here!"
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>Your eyes snap open as your dream of a time long past dissolves around you.
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>The plagues are over, and there's enough food that everyone can get by.
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>What more concerns you now is getting yourself a slave.
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>"Fell asleep on the bus, now did ya?"
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>That you did.
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"Great. Are we at the auction house already?"
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>You rub your eyes and step into the aisle.
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>"Yep,"
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>The guy sitting next to you hands you your coat, which you left on the seat.
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>The bus door squeaks open and you exit the vehicle.
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>You enter the local civic center where the auction is taking place.
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>Most towns host them like this, they're a decent source of funding.
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>With the war over, and so much of the population lost, enslavement of the ponies actually got enough support to pass through congress.
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>With a little bit of corporate nudging, mind you.
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>The man at the desk approves your papers, and you enter into the correct room.
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>You eye the ponies on display.
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>They all look kind of scared, but you have to suppress a chuckle at how terrified that yellow one looks.
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>Blue, rainbow-hair one looks like a bitch.
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>Mint-green unicorn? Maybe...
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>The big red earth pony doesn't look like he'd be good for anything other than farmwork.
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>Hmm...
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>You take a look at the others, too, but can't seem to make up your mind.
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>More people file in as the bidding begins.
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>First up is some earth pony mare, fetching an alright price.
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>You decide not to bid that time, and instead examine the ones in line to be sold.
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>Still don't have much of an idea as to which one you want.
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>They pull out the yellow pegasus you saw earlier.
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>You'd bid, but she seems timid as fuck.
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>Not the type of slave that belongs with you.
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>"Going once... Going twice... Sold to the man in the back corner!"
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>She's dragged away in tears.
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>Next up is a purple unicorn.
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>You bid twice, but stop after the price gets to be more than $1500.
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>It's a shame, telekinesis would have been handy for the job were looking to fill.
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>Looking back to the ponies in line, a light blue pegasus stallion with a darker mane catches your attention.
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>Might just be who you're looking for.
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>You're sure he's strong enough to move equipment around the boat.
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>Doesn't look too fucking dense, either.
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>You'll go for him.
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>He is led up after a couple more purchases, giving a weary look into the crowd with his green eyes.
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>You've got just about $3000 in your wallet, and you'll damn well spend it all to get the pone you want.
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>Bids start at $500.
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>One clueless fuck dooms himself to losing by wanting the same thing that you do.
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>"I'll go 500!"
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>Some other shitwad raises it to 600.
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>The first guy retorts:
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>"Six-fifty!"
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>You watch as they slowly raise the bid.
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>"Seven-eighty-five!"
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>"Eight hundred!"
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>"830!"
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>You decide to butt in.
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"One thousand!"
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>One of the two guys gives up, probably out of money.
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>But this other motherfucker...
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>"Fifteen-hundred!"
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>Oh no you don't.
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"Seventeen-fifty!"
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>He hesitates for a second.
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>"$2000,"
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>He looks desperate, $2000 must be close to all he has.
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"Twenty-two-fifty,"
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>"Going once..."
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>You smirk.
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>"Going twice..."
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>You're getting your pony.
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>That's right.
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>"$2500, that's all I can offer,"
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>Then he isn't getting the goddamn pegasus.
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"Three thousand!"
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>The auctioneer says his thing, this time uninterrupted.
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>"Sold to the guy in the third row, left side, in the black coat!"
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>Fuck yes.
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>You walk up to the side of the room where a desk is set up.
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>You receive his registration, miscellaneous documents you don't care about, and a shock collar.
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>One of the guys brings the pony over while the next, the big red guy, is dragged into place.
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>The stallion stares at the ground dejectedly as the man hands you his lead.
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>"Good choice sir, have a nice day,"
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>You look at the pegasus you've just purchased.
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>Depressed-looking, but overall not bad for the price you paid.
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>You're sure he'll be fine after a while.
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"Thank you,"
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>You leave the auction house, the pony only lagging slightly behind you.
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>He must be just about as tired as you are.
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>Stepping onto the curb, you find the bus idling a short distance away.
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"So..."
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>He slowly raises his head, his eyes dull.
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>Damn, he looks sad.
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>You forgot what you were going to say.
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>Instead, you take a look at one of the sheets of paper the auctioneer gave you.
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>It's a basic profile.
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>Name: Soarin'
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>At least you know his name, now.
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>Former Occupation: EUP reservist/show flier
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>Interesting...
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>Capture: Trottingham, eastern Equestria, by Senegalese Army.
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>You never really worked with them, you were on the other front.
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>You didn't really get why they put you, partially fluent in French, on the other side of the continent, with a bunch of Brazilians.
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>Anyway...
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>You continue reading.
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>Notes: Slight depression issue.
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>Fucking seriously?
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>*Slight* depression issue?
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>They think they can downplay *that*?
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>You look over at Soarin, who is staring sadly at the ground.
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>You also realize you've been standing out in the cold for five minutes.
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"Hey, you wanna wait on the bus? It's actually got a heater,"
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>He glances at you with a weary expression.
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>"I guess so,"
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>He replies in a gravelly, apathetic voice.
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>Yeah, put depression on your list of things you need taken care of.
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>Your squad and the Brazilians you are attached with are sitting around a bonfire, getting drunk as fuck.
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>Suspended over the fire by a spit is the skinned, sizzling corpse of a royal guard, a unicorn mare.
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>You don't care how immoral what you're about to do is, you haven't eaten anything other than meager, heavily processed rations for four years.
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>Just the thought of something fresh makes you salivate.
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>People saw meat off its body with combat knives in a fashion as orderly as 35 wasted soldiers can muster.
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>You get some leg meat and stumble back to the log you were sitting on, taking a bite of the morsel.
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>Tastes decent...
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>The 20-odd POWs, guarded by a few sober group members, are completely mortified, some crying or retching at what they see.
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>The leader of the Brazilian platoon removes the roasted guard's horn with his machete, and gives it to your sergeant.
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>A fine souvenir from your time in the Amazon, if you do say so yourself.
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>When you open your eyes, you are no longer in the rainforest.
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>Nope, you're in bed, at home, and you've put those times behind you.
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>People did crazy shit during the war...
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>You pull on some decent clothes while thinking about what to make for breakfast.
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>Wonder what Soarin would eat?
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>You'll just go with cereal.
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>Hard to go wrong with that.
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>Before you make breakfast, though, you take the tarnished royal guard helmet off your mantle and hide it.
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>Don't need Soarin seeing that.
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>You also put another picture in front of the one that shows you and your buddies dancing on the ashes of Canterlot.
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>You go over to the guest room, now occupied by your pony.
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>You locked the door last night, but in his state, you don't think he'll try anything.
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>Still, just to be safe, you unlock it as silently as possible, stand to the side of the door, and quickly pry it open.
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>He's just sitting there, casually flipping through a magazine.
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>No, not *that* kind of magazine, Anons.
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>You guys really do have dirty minds.
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"Good morning, Soarin,"
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>He looks like he's wondering how you know his name, but he rolls with it.
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>"Uh, good morning?"
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>Yes, he actually says it like there's a question mark at the end of the sentence.
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"Feel free to make yourself at home or something. What'd you like for breakfast?"
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>He looks at you unsurely and scratches his unkempt mane idly with a hoof.
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>"Uh... Well, I guess- uh... What do you have?"
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>What do you have?
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>Hmm...
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>"Let's see... Oatmeal, cereal, toast, maybe some fruit, yogurt, or bagels, if you want,"
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>His eyes brighten up slightly at the prospect of real, good-quality food.
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>"Toast sounds fine,"
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>He does a bad job hiding the slight smile forming on his face.
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"Alright, find something to keep yourself occupied, I'll go make breakfast,"
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>"Thank you, uh..."
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"Anon. My name's Anon,"
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>"Yeah, well thanks,"
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>He's genuinely happy.
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>You walk into your small kitchen.
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>It is time for master chef Anon to shine.
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>There's a loaf of bread in that drawer... Or so you thought.
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>You spend a solid minute searching for the goddamned bread, finally finding it behind the microwave.
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>How the fuck it got there, you haven't the slightest clue.
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>With your culinary prowess, you burn the toast like it's Ponyville after the firebombings, then manage to completely mangle it while trying to scrape off the burnt parts.
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>Comme un artiste.
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>While putting it on a plate, you realize you forgot to ask Soarin what he wanted on his toast.
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>Ah, fuck it. You're too lazy to ask, so you just go with butter.
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>Who doesn't like butter on toast?
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>You find Soarin in the living room.
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>He doesn't notice you, he's just kind of standing around, looking at the photos on the far wall.
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>There are a few ones with family that he glances at, but what catches his attention is one of you in a dress uniform, walking off the ramp of a C-130.
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>You still remember that day, finally returning home was nice.
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>He turns back to look at you.
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"Well, I've got breakfast. Go ahead, take a seat,"
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>"Alright,"
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>Good to distract him from that subject, you're sure he has bad memories of the war.
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>You can talk to him about those later.
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>Soarin complies and plops himself down in an armchair.
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>You hand him the plate, and he wastes no time digging in.
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>Shit, was this pony starved or something?
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>Yep, probably.
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>He finishes the first piece, and attacks the second one with zeal.
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>When he's done, he still looks hungry.
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"Yeesh, want something more? I've got more food,"
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>He looks up at you, eyes wide.
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>"I can have more food?"
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>Yep, those slavers sure do a shit job of feeding their ponies.
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>You nod.
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"Yeah. Want more toast, or something else?"
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>He takes a second, absorbing what he's hearing.
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>"M-more toast... Would be nice,"
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>The way he's tearing up about the prospect of getting a third piece of toast reminds you of when you first were drafted into the army:
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>After almost dying of starvation, your mind was fucking blown when you realized the military had enough MREs to provide *two* meals a day, not just one.
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>Shit, you felt guilty for being a damn glutton because of those two measly packs of shit-tier food you received daily.
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>Same thing is happening with Soarin here.
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>He looks like everything he's ever known was blown away just because you said he could have a second serving.
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>Tears well in his eyes as he embraces you with his forehooves.
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>"Thank you, Anon. Thank you,"
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>Even though the pegasus is weak with starvation, his hug still forces air out of you.
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>You have some understanding of where he's coming from, but you still can't help but pity him.
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>Those papers said he was, what? 19 years old?
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>You were only a bit older than that when you were drafted, but, I mean, you did win the war (and get a decent therapist afterwards).
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>And even though awful shit happened, you were the one doing it, not having it happen to you.
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>Soarin here has seen his entire adult life ruined by a conflict he probably never knew would start.
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>Sucks for him.
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>Either way, you should probably go make more food, Soarin wanted some and you haven't eaten yet.
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>And this whole hug thing is getting awkward, fast.
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"Okay, Soarin, uh, I get this 'undying gratitude' stuff, but if you want more food, I kinda have to go make it,"
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>He lets go finally, a sheepish grin on his face.
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>"Y-yeah, sorry..."
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>He sucks at hiding the flush on his cheeks.
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>You laugh it off and enter the kitchen.
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>This time, the toast isn't half as badly butchered, and you make some for yourself, too.
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>You head back into the living room with two heaping plates of toast.
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>Courtesy of Master Chef Anon.
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>You both begin to eat your food.
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>Neither of you talk, consumed by eating.
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>You look up at the photo on the wall, chastising yourself for not hiding it.
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>You don't care if he finds out you were in the army.
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>So many people served, it's only natural that there was a chance you fought in the war.
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>What you really cared about was little filly that was in your backpack at the time.
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>You wanted to make sure he'd never hear about her.
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>You are private first class Anon Y. Mous.
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>And you've found what was making the noises.
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>A small white filly, sprawled on the ground, a shattered horn poking through her pink-and-purple hair.
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>Where one of her back legs should be, there is only a ragged, gory stump that ends before the first joint.
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>Blood and ash are spattered all over her coat.
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>In between sobs, she cries, with labored breaths, for help.
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>She looks up to you, her tear-moistened green eyes desperate, almost pleading.
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>"P-please... It hurts, h-help,"
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>She begs in a voice laden with pain.
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>"I-it hurts s-so much,"
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>Does she care that you're the enemy?
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>"P-please,"
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>Of course not, she's a scared, hurt child who just wants comfort.
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>A corporal from your squad, who is going by, nudges you on the shoulder.
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>"She's yours, 'Mous, get it done and get moving,"
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>You sigh.
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"Yes, sir,"
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>Two conflicted, staccato words.
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>He runs off to catch the rest of the group.
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>You know very well what a "She's yours" means.
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>You ask for forgiveness.
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>You remove your pistol from the holster on your vest.
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>And pause.
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>Distant screams can be heard over the thunder of artillery and the pops of rifle fire.
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>The burning buildings can be seen, even through the thick cloud of smoke forming over the village.
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>And at your feet lies a terrified, broken filly, now fervently begging for her life at the sight of your weapon.
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>What a night.
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>You line up the sights on her head.
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>At least you'll make it quick.
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>You switch off the safety.
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>She's only a child...
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>The child of an enemy.
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>You move your finger to the trigger...
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>The hoof shaking your back brings you back to awareness.
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>You're breathing raggedly, cold sweat stinging your skin.
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>Your eyes begin to refocus, bringing the living room back into view.
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>Fuck...
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>Reminiscing a little too vividly on the old war days, now were you?
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>You look down to your right, where you're pretty sure Soarin must be.
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>The concerned look wipes off his face as he shrinks back from your gaze.
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>Does he really think you're enough of a dick to hit a pony because they were concerned about you?
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>Are you?
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>Dick enough to mess with the poor guy, that's for sure.
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"DID I ASK YOU TO CHECK ON ME?!"
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>You yell with unnecessary volume.
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>Soarin looks fucking mortified. He quickly tries to stutter out a response:
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>"Uh, well, n-no... B-but you w-weren't responding, I wanted to-"
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"BUT DID I ASK?! HUH?!"
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>He's looking like he's regretting his life choices at this point.
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>He shrinks away even further, clenching his eyes shut.
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>"Please! I j-just wanted to help!"
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>Too far, Anon, too far.
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>The joke is over.
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"Shit, man, calm down! I was just fuckin' with you!"
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>Soarin whimpers from the corner he's backed into.
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>"Huh?"
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>You sigh.
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"It was supposed to be a joke,"
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>He looks up at you and visibly calms down.
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>"A joke?"
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>Mmhm.
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"Yeah. I will say I was glad to see you were actually concerned for my wellbeing,"
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>The look of confusion still evident on his face, he responds.
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>"Uh, thanks,"
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>While you were spaced out, he could have easily left you there, broken a window, and made a run for it.
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>Hell, he could have even killed you.
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>But he didn't.
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>This pony is actually starting to gain your respect.
by SlavePonyGeneral
by SlavePonyGeneral
by SlavePonyGeneral
by SlavePonyGeneral
by SlavePonyGeneral