This is How You Lived


                                            "So are you like, uh..."

                                            >"Am I what?"

                                            >You stare at the tan-coated pony. Her gray eyes peek out at you from the comfort of the hoodie pulled over her.

                                            "Do ponies normally go off on uh... 'excursions' like that?"

                                            >"No. I just love killing those things."

                                            >You pause.

                                            >...That's /way/ too big a smile.

                                            >You shake your head, and turn to face the fire.

                                            "Whatever makes you happy, I s'pose..."

                                            >You wish you had something like that.


                                            >Blood. Bodies. Arms, legs, and heads.

                                            >The zomboids had themselves a bad day.

                                            >And somebody else had a field day.

                                            >You step carefully past one of the worst-looking of the dead.

                                            >You wouldn't think that looking bad would be a high bar to reach, but it was.

                                            >Like most of them, a giant hole has been punched through its skull.

                                            >But the humanoid had some not so humane holes of the same type punched through its torso and waistline.

                                            >Evidently, this one hadn't gone down easily.

                                            >But it left you wondering just who could be so brutal, even with one of these nightmarish dead.

                                            >You found the source in the center of the madness.

                                            >There was hardly any birdsong left to the campground, and none of the screams and yells that had attracted you here in the first place.

                                            >But somehow, you had finally found something vibrant in the apocalypse...


                                            >You're roused from your firegazing by a sharp call.

                                            >"Hey!"

                                            >You back up a little with a wave of your hands when a giant piece of plastic prods your arm.

                                            "Woah! Watch where you're swinging that thing! Christ..."

                                            >"Quit it!" she manages through a mouthful. She leans back, and drops her weapon to speak clearly. "Stop it with the 'Christ!' I already told you a million times, my name's /Hind/."

                                            >As she scoots her 'Bicscalibur' back aside the fireside logs, you shake your head.

                                            "You just don't get it, Hindo."

                                            >She glares.

                                            "Hindleg."

                                            >"Now you're just bucking with me." She huffs, and with a cranky hoof, yanks her hood down from her head.

                                            >Her ears prick up and out; the swiveling little things poise themselves toward you in a cock-eyed stance.

                                            >And the pout on her face tells the rest of the story.

                                            "Dig the swell hoodie, by the way. It looks good on you."

                                            >Hind's fumes continue for a moment, only to give way to a fierce blush. "T-thanks... it's comfortable, too," she growls.

                                            "You know, I've got a working washing machine."

                                            >"A what?"

                                            >You gesture with a thumb to the building next to you.

                                            >Sure, you might be in the middle of nowhere, but you've had 17 apocalyptic months to get used to being in the middle of nowhere.

                                            >The hum of the generator bounces off the wooden walls of the compound, echoing into the night sky above.

                                            "C'mon, I can tell you've tried cleaning out the blood before. I can get you a proper wash."

                                            >"...Do you have a real bath, too?"


                                            >A muffled yell from your bathroom door sends you reeling from your workbench in an instant.

                                            "Hind? You good in there?"

                                            >As you approach the door, her voice becomes more clear. "How the hay do you deal with these?"

                                            >You wrap a knuckle against the door.

                                            "Can I uh—"

                                            >"Get in here!"

                                            >You're not really sure what to expect on the otherside, so you slowly coast the door open.

                                            >The sturdy wood door only squeaks slightly on its hinges.

                                            >In any other place, that sound would've been some cause for concern.

                                            >But the frustrated squeals that follow are just too much for your heart to fret about.

                                            >Stepping into the bathroom, you can immediately tell that she's at least managed to not run through all of your rainwater tanks with her bath. The tub slurps noisily, happily sending its contents off through the septic system.

                                            >What doesn't go down the drain is the miniature flood of water spilled over the floor.

                                            "Jesus Christ!"

                                            >"YOU—what the BUCK!" she screeches. "Are you serious?! It's—it's HIND! My name is HIND!"

                                            >The floor shakes with hoofstomps.

                                            >This poor little pony is fighting for her life.

                                            >And you can't help but laugh.

                                            >"How do you—why do you even have a towel this big?!"

                                            "Well, why are you so small?"

                                            >"Just help me, you pain in the flank!"

                                            >From beneath a giant lump of blue towel, a tan hoof stomps angrily.

                                            >You laugh as you kneel down and take hold of the towel.

                                            "Where'd all that fighting spirit go, huh?"

                                            >"I-I've had a long day, okay?"

                                            >With your hands firmly wrapped around the towel, you practically push yourself into the mass: you can feel and hear all of the water in Hind's coat sloshing as you do your absolute best to dry her off.

                                            "Holy hell, you're a damn sponge under there, aren't you?"

                                            >She sighs as you go to work. "S'not my fault."

                                            "Uh huh, born that way, huh?"

                                            >"Shut up."

                                            >The tempestuous arrival passes just like that—within moments, she's nothing but a pile of putty below a soft blanket.

                                            >You knead at the waterlogged pony, and she obliges with a quiet energy that brings a chuckle out of you.

                                            >She leans into your work, murmuring exhausted words.

                                            >You have plenty of comments you could make, but you don't take advantage of the moment. Not in that way, at least.

                                            >All in all, the minute-long drying is a minute too soon gone.

                                            "You got any other wet spots in there?"

                                            >You hear a sputtered "What?" A hoof strikes out against the towel, though it doesn't push far. "Pervert!"

                                            >You snort.

                                            "Not like that, Hindo."

                                            >Her frustrated scream is buried in the cotton.


                                            >The night passes into the late hour. But schedules have long since lost meaning for you: you work whenever there's light, and whenever you're at home base, you've got plenty of it.

                                            >The tuckered-out mare on the couch beside you might have had a similar schedule at some point, but right now, the fire inside burns bright.

                                            >But with the cozy blanket she's holding close to her, you're feeling a lot of mixed messages.

                                            "Are you /sure/ you don't want to just take a bed? You look like you could do with it."

                                            >"No. I'm happy right here. Awake." She glances at the mug of coffee you set out for her a while ago: she's long-since drained it, and even though you've got plenty grounds spare, she just hasn't asked for more.

                                            >You can tell she absolutely wants it, though.

                                            "Mhm, well, you let me know when you want something."

                                            >You take another sip of your own coffee.

                                            >You know she wants something.

                                            >The same kind of something that you've been looking for.

                                            >So, you wait.

                                            >And wait.

                                            >...And wait.

                                            >"...Can I..."

                                            >You lean over.

                                            >"Can I ask you for uh... something...?"

                                            >/That/ gets you; you can already tell this isn't going to be a normal something.

                                            >Well, you were exactly sure what you'd been expecting, seeing as how you now had yourself a little pony for company, but...

                                            "Shoot."

                                            >"Could you just... come a little closer?"

                                            >You set your mug down, and scoot over.

                                            >"Closer?"

                                            >You blink, then scoot even closer. Move any more, and you'll be sitting right on top of her.

                                            >You can feel her warmth through the blanket.

                                            >Her ears are pinned at her sides as she looks forward across the living room. She turns her head away from you, then right back.

                                            >Silently, she snakes a foreleg out from the front-facing part in her blankets.

                                            >It emerges like a rocket headed for orbit, arcing out toward you in a slow burn.

                                            >Her hoof reaches out, and shyly, she rests it on your hand.

                                            >You can feel her strange grip on you as you allow her to pull your hand.

                                            >The blankets part for her hoof—and your arm—and she draws everything into the warm depths.

                                            >You feel her hoof squeeze the back of your hand.

                                            >You roll your hand over, and properly hold her hoof.

                                            >She blushes, ears and head tilting down to not-quite look into the blankets.

                                            >The contact is warm, quiet, and... nice.

                                            >One part of you desperately wants to make a remark.

                                            >And you're sure one part of her—equally as desperate—wants to yell about the events transpiring.

                                            >But for the moment, you're giving the this little mare the contact she's needed for a long, long time.

                                            >And to be honest, you've needed it, too.

                                            >You'd figured that some day, the inevitable would happen: you wouldn't be able to survive any longer.

                                            >But now, for what's surely only for the better, you've found something.

                                            >Hind takes your hand, raising it up through the blankets.

                                            >You breach through, and she rests her head against your wrist.

                                            >She sighs. It's an even deeper one when you move to hold her neck, slowly scratching your way up the back of her head, through her mane, and to her ears.

                                            >"Thank you," she mumbles. "I promise... I can help you. I'm good at cooking..."

                                            "Well, good. Because I don't think you're leaving anytime soon."

                                            >She giggles as you thumb her ears.

                                            >You smile.

                                            >This is how you'll live.