((OOC: Short of a full rewrite, this starter has been edited down to somewhat lessen its graphic intensity. However, as with all things related to Fallout, viewer discretion is advised. The subject matter discussed herein can only be made so clean. Should you wish to object to the nature of this content, feel free to send in an ask detailing your complaints.
Otherwise, you have been warned.))
It was a typical story, for the Wasteland at least. A raider attack where the remaining survivors were carted off to some hellish den of unbelievable horrors. You awake to being dragged, hooves tied up in bloody rags, horn clamped down with an anti-magic dampener that had once been used to suppress magical engines in repair shops. Your hooves slide across the broken and bloodied tile work of the floor, past the unidentifiable remains of bygone victims, and finally come to a stop on the corrugated steel floor of a large and empty cage more characteristic of a slaver pit than not. Perhaps this place had been one long ago, but there was no mistaking what it was now. The poorly lit emergency lighting, the bubbled and burned ceiling, the charred and exposed concrete walls, none of it hid the stench of the dead nor their undeniable rot. For a brief few precious moments one might think that they were simply left here to die, were it not for the one raider with a cyclops-like cowl made from the glass lens of some old prewar truck and the leather of goddess knows what, staring soullessly at you through the bars from across the room. After all, what use was there in watching the dead and the dieing?
Other than that one lone and unsalvageable soul left to keep watch, the only other company to be found was actually quite surprising. A bloodied and battered alicorn sat in the darkness of the nearby cell. By sound alone it was clear the mare was sleeping, though she was not hard to identify in the dim light provided by the unforgiving room. Her mane, a multicolored soup of swirling impossible translucent fog blowing in an imaginary breeze, almost appeared to glow in the shadows. Its color and glow gave off a distinct warmth that was otherwise wholly unnatural in the center of this cavernous ruin of a structure. As if her unique mane and tail were not identification enough, even the thickest of skulls were bound to notice the glint of gold from her four horseshoes, jeweled chest piece, and iconic crown. Her feathers, ruffled and bloodied, stuck oddly from her slightly protruding wings. Her immense horn was only a little easier to spot under the shadow of another heavy industrial brace, similar to Velvet’s own impromptu magical suppressor.
It was all too clear, even if completely implausible, just who was sleeping in the cell next to Velvet Remedy, and were it not for the additional three slave collars beeping gently around her royal neck it may have been a mystery as to why such an important creature had bothered to stay in a cell at all. Princess Celestia awoke slowly as the burly raiders marched loudly out of the room, taking the keys to the cells with them. She blinked and looked around the room in confusion.
“My apologies, but.. ”
She appears to begin, politely addressing the cyclops raider across the room.
“..did I miss something?”
The lone guard, a unicorn with a red coat and a truly wonderful disposition, responds by kicking a bone across the floor to Celestia’s cell door. If this action had been symbolic of anything important, it certainly failed to register in Celestia’s deep frown.
The mare began to insist, resolving to scold the silent raider like a child.
“You cannot just go kicking around the bodies of other ponies like that. It’s rude.”
The raider’s assuredly articulate response never left his lips, nor did it materialize on his particularly expressive cyclops headlamp visor, which simply continued to stare into Velvet’s soul.
“After all, how would you like it if other ponies wandered about kicking pieces of your body around like that?”
Once again, no response, not even a semblance of movement or intelligence of any kind.
“You should treat others the way that you want to be treated, and you should always strive to be treated well.”
The bloodied alicorn mare, slave collared, chained, magically suppressed via industrial means, likely injured, entirely unwashed, and almost certainly left to starve, boldly declared to her unflinchingly expressionless jailor with a bold honesty and hope that many ponies in a distinctly better position would be too frightened to ever consider showing for themselves. If nothing else, the mare was certainly unwilling to carefully pick and choose her battles, even if her words were completely wasted on the particular stallion still watching only Velvet from across the room.