Zero Action Points

In celebration of my upcoming birthday, Zestari and I have decided to start a “Choose Your Own Adventure” adventure! You know, like one of those old Steve Jackson books, except you don’t need to pencil in any stats or cheat at the combat.

A couple of things to keep in mind while you partake of the words below:

• Please don’t vote blindly! Read the post first.
  
• Don’t actually post in this thread! All you have to do is vote.

All right, I think that’s everything. The adventure begins after this line of equals signs.




You are a raider; your hobbies include looting, interior design, and murder. Your raider posse, of which you are the newest and lowliest member, is back from a hard day of rampaging around the wasteland and getting just about diddly squat done – not even a single measly maiming or evisceration!

You are currently in the back room of your raider lair, a modest affair built into the ruins of an old school house. The other five members of your small raider posse are currently lazing around in the next room over, grumbling about today’s lack of wanton violence, while you do some housekeeping.

At present, you have no prisoners – the last one died of infection a few days ago – so you’ve been tasked with cleaning the blood from the cages. As you smear some gore with a filthy rag, you somehow manage to uncover a clean bit of metal; you catch a glimpse of your reflection and decide to indulge in a spot of vanity.

In the somewhat shiny metal of the otherwise filthy cage, you see the dull image of...

• a terracotta-coloured unicorn mare with a short and spiky mahogany-coloured mane, and a lean, athletic build. (3 votes)
  
• a brick of an earth pony stallion with a dark blue-green coat, a short, cream-coloured mane and a tangled, matted tail. (1 vote)
  
• a slender, electric blue unicorn stallion with long, flowing mane and tail of deep royal purple. (3 votes)
  
• a slight, salt-and-pepper speckled female griffon with light grey hindquarters. (6 votes)

You take a moment from your somewhat gruesome chore to smooth out the feathers on your head, and then clear a few flecks of dried blood from the side of your beak. Your beak’s a little straighter than is usual for a griffon. A pony once told you it looks sort of cute. That buck was all over you! Or rather his brains were after you shot him in the face.

Distracted as you are by your impulsive vanity and reminiscing, when you step to resume cleaning the cage, you accidently bump the half-open door and, having just cleaned those hinges, it swings like a dream and clicks itself shut. Oh crap. You toss the rag to the ground and lunge towards the door, tugging at it for a moment, but alas, in vain (a different kind this time); the door jostles noisily in its poorly fitted hinges, but it doesn’t budge. You find yourself really wishing you had some bobby pins right about now.

Well, only one recourse, then. You poke your head between the bars and call out to the other room, trying to get one of those lazy slobs in here to let you out – once they’ve all had a good laugh at your expense, no doubt.

Unfortunately, the only response you get is an explosion from the front room, followed shortly by shouts of alarm and the thunderous chatter of gunfire. You’re under attack! Oh, what a time to lock yourself in a cage! You grab the bars of the door and shake it in a burst of panic, but your stick-like forelegs still can’t muster enough strength to overcome the cage’s homebrew engineering.

After almost half a minute of cacophonous battle echoing down the short corridor, you hear Gristle shout inarticulately before being suddenly cut off by another burst of gunfire. For the next several seconds, there’s no sound but the flurry of hoofsteps on the decrepit wooden floor. The hoofsteps come closer until they abruptly pause the other side of the door.

Everypony likes to think that when death comes for them, they’ll look it in the eye and dare it to try and take them, or welcome it as a proud and fearless Equestrian should, laughing in its face. Everypony likes to think they’re stronger, better than they are, but when the Pale Pony finally comes, it’s all snivelling and regret.

As loath as you are to admit it, you’re no different. You huddle as far back in the cage as you can, staring wide-eyed at the door – unarmed, trapped, helpless. Your eyes burn with suppressed tears as you desperately hope it’s one of your fellow raiders, but you’re not convinced. There’s no way out. They’ll stroll in here, blood-stained and cocksure, maybe laugh at their good fortune to see their last target trapped like a particularly stupid rat, and then put a bullet through your skull without so much as a pithy one-liner.

Forget the bobby pins. You could really use a stiff drink right about now.

You almost leap out of your skin as the door jumps in its hinges with a thump, and another thump, before exploding out of the wall and flying into the room. A kevlar-clad earth pony strides through the now gaping doorway and sweeps a heavy black submachine gun across the room.

Well, this is it; nothing left to do but wait... a bit longer. You wipe your eyes and slowly let out an anxious breath. Do your worst, Pale Pony.

The pony’s eyes go wide as he spots you; he spits his gun into a holster and looks over his shoulder. “We’ve got a prisoner here!” he calls back through the doorway. He turns back to you and walks into the room, gun still in its holster. “Don’t worry,” he says, examining the lock on the cage, “I’ll have you outta here in a jiff.”

A few moments later, the rest of the hoofsteps converge at the door. A stocky unicorn mare with a short, unkempt mane steps into the room, levitating a double-barreled shotgun, followed shortly by a short, lithe unicorn stallion wearing a baseball cap and levitating a revolver. As they approach, the mare tucks her shotgun into a sling across her back and peers at you with sorry eyes. “Oh hay, the poor lass is terrified.” You stare back at her in stunned surprise.

The behatted pony walks past the stocky mare and up next to the pony fiddling with the lock. “What the deuce do you think you’re doing, Sticks?”

“I’m, uh... doing the lock. You know.”

“Shove over, chap,” he says, producing a bob– a kit of professionally made lock picks! “I’ll handle this.” The other stallion – Sticks, apparently – rolls his eyes and steps back. The behatted pony shoots him a sideways smile and then goes to work on the lock. After a moment of tinkering, the cage door swings open, and the behatted pony ushers you out with an overly theatrical bow.

“Well, come on then,” the stocky mare says, waving you towards them. “You’re free!”

You nervously step out of the cage, trying to put on a smile. On your nerve-wracked face, though, it feels more like an awkward grimace.

The ponies seem eager to get you to... safety, you suppose. How should you approach this opportunity?

• This is your chance for sweet, sweet freedom! Make a run for it; if you can get outside, taking flight would ensure they can’t follow. (1 vote)
  
• This is your chance for sweet, sweet revenge! Distract them, then go for a gun while they’re not looking. (1 vote)
  
• Perhaps immediate action isn’t the best course. You could play along for now until a better opportunity presents itself. (4 votes)
  
• You know, you were never very good at this whole raider thing. Maybe this is your chance to turn over a new leaf. (5 votes)

Raiding is hard. You essentially murder ponies for a living – ponies who seem very adamant about not dying and hence usually try to murder you back. You spend your life at almost constant, self-imposed risk of violent death. You live in isolation and squalor. The only ponies you have contact with on a regular basis are – let’s be frank here – not especially pleasant. All in all, it’s thankless, unsatisfying work.

Fuck it. A change of pace sounds pretty good, now that you think about it.

You follow your three “rescuers” out of the back room and through... wow, it sure is a mess in here. Bullet holes, splintered wood, and scorch marks from the occasional explosion litter the room. You see Mortar Flare lying behind an upturned table, throat slashed from ear to ear. You help yourself to her 10mm. Socket Wrench is lying on his side in the middle of the room, blood oozing from multiple bullet wounds in his barrel, his carbine by his side; it’d be a shame to let that go to waste. Sun Spot – you can tell from the coat colour – is missing most of his head, a good proportion of it likely accounted for by the large blood spatter on the wall behind him. You find Shrapnel just by the front door with a face full of shrapnel, amusingly enough, and a single bullet wound through one eye. But where’s...

Oh, there he is. Under a collapsed bookshelf near the other side of the room, Gristle lies dead, a pair of bullet wounds in the head. His beloved knife, oversized and viciously serrated, is still clenched in his jaws as if he still has some fight left in him; all the blood and brains coming out the back of his skull, however, say otherwise. Won’t be ordering anyone to clean out the cages now, will you? Dick.

You take the knife; it could come in handy down the road.

Having taken a few mementos from the slaughtered carcass of your erstwhile home, you and your “rescuers” head out for... wherever it is they’re going. The light outside is as meek as ever, despite being early afternoon, and the scenery is as you’ve become accustomed to: dreary, desolate, and mostly grey. You make cautious conversation with the three ponies as you travel, mostly because they won’t stay quiet.

The stocky unicorn mare seems the most talkative. She introduces herself as Bell Crank (but please, please, call her Bell), a self-taught mechanical engineer who’s been studying any snippets of old Equestrian automotive design she can get her hooves on. It’s this pursuit of elusive information that has taken her across Equestria. She also really likes showing off some of the unusual tools she has packed in her saddlebags and then speculating on what they’re used for.

The lanky unicorn with the lockpicks (which you can’t seem to get out of your mind) says his name is Trilby, and laments his current headwear. You don’t get the reference. He says he originally hails from Trottingham, hence the accent. He seems to walk with an odd gait; you can’t help but wonder if there’s something wrong with one of his legs.

The earth pony stallion is named Match Sticks, apparently (you think you prefer “Sticks”). Apart from coming across as a bit cocksure and having an odd habit of occasionally pulling out his gun and twirling it on his tongue (eugh), he seems friendly enough. He says his little sister was taken by raiders a while ago, and he’s been searching for her ever since.

Well, that sure killed the conversation. Probably for the best; you’re still not accustomed to this “civility” thing, and you wouldn’t want to make a fool of yourself. Normally, you’d laugh at him, punch him in the shoulder, and tell him to stop being such a sook, but you get the impression that that sort of reaction wouldn’t go down too well here.

Instead, you look off into the distance and distract yourself with the horizon, out of which sprouts the lumpy silhouette of a small town.

“Welp, there it is,” says Sticks, nodding toward the tumor on the horizon. “Abishot. Home, sweet home.”

You look at the sky. Looks like it’s just past nightfall, which surprises you a little; with all the conversation you’ve been subjected to, it feels like you’ve been travelling for days.

You finally arrive in the crappy, ramshackle assemblage of Abishot. There don’t seem to be many ponies outdoors, but the few that are wave cheerfully to the three ponies with you. Some of them shoot you strange glances.

It seems that your three new... friends... are going their separate ways for now. Bell says she’s going to work on “The Wagon”. Trilby apparently plans to hit the tavern for a nightcap. Sticks says he’s going to “pay his respects,” whatever that means.

First night in a new town in which hopefully not everyone wants you dead. What a strange sensation. What should you do?

• Go with Bell to check out this “The Wagon”. (4 votes)
  
• Join Trilby at the watering hole. (3 votes)
  
• Follow Sticks to... um... wherever he’s going. (1 vote)
  
• Check out Abishot’s nightlife on your own. (2 votes)

You follow Bell through a couple of dingy dirt streets, and eventually, you come to a large roller door. Bell levitates a small device out of one of her pockets and presses the button. After a couple of seconds, she narrows her eyes at the button and hits it again. And again. Finally, she chucks the thing into her saddlebag and points her horn at the roller door, which shimmers turquoise as it slowly rises in gratingly noisy fits and starts.

A few minutes later, you walk into a mostly concrete room caked in grease, tools and parts of all shapes and varieties lining the walls and littering the floor. It smells very strongly of oil in here, you’re unsurprised to discover. In the centre sits a chunky-looking van, which you assume to be The Wagon.

“Sorry about that,” Bell says between strained breaths. “Blasted door motor keeps breaking down on me.” She brushes it off with a smile and happily walks up next to the wheeled monster in the middle of the room, which she gives an affectionate pat. “Well here it is. Beautiful, ain’t it? It’s powered by a triple injection thermotheurgic crystal array hooked up to your basic, run o’ the mill expansion valve. Should run like a damn dragon once I get all the parts I need, only with how big it is, the economy’ll probably be nothing to write home about. I was planning on making the engine entirely autonomous, but I’ve got the unicorn powered setup as a stopgap until I can figure something out.”

You step up and look the thing over while Bell keeps yammering on in the recesses of your consciousness. The thing is built like a tank, three ponies high and five or six long, with high sides and a dark coat of paint. The wheels look so heavily reinforced that they could probably deflect a mortar shell. At the top you can see two circular sets of railing. Bell grins as she notices the direction of your interest. “Modular heavy weapon mounts. I’m pretty proud of ‘em. Only I’d be even prouder if I could get my hooves on any actual heavy weapons.

“Yep, I’ve spent the past few years here in Abishot working on this thing. Used to come from up north, past Trottingham, but ended up here with The Wagon, and been doing her up ever since. I go out with Trilby and Sticks every now and again, searching for parts to scavenge, or rescuing ponies – I mean griffons!” She chuckles, giving your ears a moment to breathe. “And, welp, hoping to get this up and running before too long. Sure be a lot nicer travelling the wasteland in this beauty.” She slaps the van again. “Throw an army of raiders at this baby and see if it comes away with a scratch.

“Speaking of which... What’s your story? Where’d you come from? And how’d you end up captured by raiders? Sure ain’t common to see a griffon in a spot like that.”

You... hadn’t really thought this far ahead. What are you gonna tell her, huh?

• I was a mercenary. I got separated from my mercenary company group while they were securing the perimeter. And that’s when I got captured by raiders! (No votes)
  
• I was a scavenger. I used to collect all kinds of scavenges and junk, but then I fell into a raider trap. It was, um... a pit covered with a rug. In an abandoned warehouse. Yep. (No votes)
  
• I was a courier. I was making a really important, like, fate of the word delivery, and then some scumbag shot me in the he– uh, knocked me out. (1 vote)
  
• I actually used to be a raider. (3 votes)
  
• I don’t really want to talk about it. (2 votes)

Bell is collecting a couple of tools from one of the nearer workbenches as you chew on her question. A few stories flow through your mind, but you aren’t that pleased with them, and for whatever reason, you decide to just be straight with her.

You used to be a raider.

As you say that magical word, the subtle sounds of the garage around you halt in stark shock. Bell gingerly puts the wrench thingy she was levitating back on the benchtop and –

Before you can even think, you find yourself staring down a pair of shotgun barrels and the cold gaze of what was once a warm, gregarious mare. “Mind explaining just what you mean by that, lass?”

Well? Just what do you have to say for yourself?

• It was a long time ago! I ain’t like that now. (No votes)
  
• It wasn’t by choice! You freed me from more than just that cage. (5 votes)
  
• I’m leaving that life behind! I regret all the wrong I’ve done; I want to do better. (3 votes)
  
• Calm down! It was just a joke. (No votes)

There’s a faint urge to tell her the truth, to admit that you were a raider by trade for some time before she and her friends found you, hoping that the promise of redemption will give her pause, compel her to give you a chance. At the same time, though, your better judgement urges you otherwise – that would be admitting to years of murder and theft, of hideous atrocities in the name of nothing and no one that no amount of begging or promising could absolve.

You startle backwards as the shotgun lurches at you; a precariously placed tin falls from the table behind you and clatters to the ground, shattering the accumulated silence. Bell cocks an eyebrow at you. “Come on, lass. Yer silence is damning you.” She’s clearly fed up with waiting.

Well, no point in facing the music now; you can hardly redeem yourself if you’re dead.

So you spin a tale of forced servitude – slavery, you suppose – explaining the events that led up to this point and hopefully rationalising your crimes. You were just a chick when your family was captured while your hometown was razed around you. Your abductors fashioned you into the monstrous thing you were, on pain of your parents’ untimely demise. Your dear mum and pop died months ago, but you had nothing left anyway; raiding was all you knew. Bell and her friends saved you from a life of vicious, meaningless evil, and you’re eternally thankful for it.

Granted, your storytelling skills aren’t anything to brag about, so it wasn’t a very interesting tale, but you think it did the job. Bell’s no longer pointing a shotgun at you, at least, even if she’s still pointing that scathing glare at you.

“All right,” she says, replacing her shotgun in its sling. “But don’t think this is all sunspots and rainclouds, missy. One feather out of line, and I’ll fix your life of crime for you.” She goes to turn around, but stops and throws you another glare. “Now git. I’ve got work to do, and I’ve changed my mind about your company.”

You nod emphatically and turn around, running under the roller door that Bell raises halfway for you, and then slams down a hair’s width from the end of your tail.

Well, that turned out okay, considering! What should you do now? It’s only been about ten to fifteen minutes, so if you wanted to catch up with Sticks or Trilby, you could probably track them down easily enough.

• Find Sticks and his respect-paying. (3 votes)
  
• Find Trilby at the bar or whatever. (3 votes)
  
• Explore Abishot on your own for a while. (4 votes)
  
• You’re feeling pretty tired, actually. You should find a place to sleep for the night. (2 votes)

As you take in the dusky light of the rapidly cooling evening, you find yourself curious about the town – to put it generously – that you’ve found yourself in, and decide to spend the remainder of the evening having a look around.

There are a few ponies walking the streets – more than there were when you arrived, but still not many. Hmm. You don’t really feel like dealing with ponies right now, what with the way some of the residents were looking at you earlier, and the cold shoulder you got moments earlier from Bell Cranky (heh, because she’s cranky). You decide to give the place a quick fly-over before you check out anything up close.

The town is relatively well lit; presumably, they have an old stable’s power generator or something providing electricity. This makes it easy to see some of the town’s more remarkable structures. Relatively speaking.

The focus of the town this evening appears to be a ramshackle two-storey building with a steady stream of ponies both coming and leaving, which you identify as the tavern. Further along the street, a somewhat imposing building juts out precariously, softly illuminated by more muted lighting. At a guess, you think it’s a council office or a town hall or somesuch.

You continue in a slow descending glide, flying over what you believe to be the business part of town, or at least the verandah’d buildings appear that way from up here. Tucked in the centre of the business area is a somewhat stocky and heavily constructed building, which you figure to be the local sheriff’s office.

Looping back around, you spot a nice, clear landing place in a side street, and with a soft thud and a small cloud of dust, you touch down. As you tuck your wings back against your body, you hear a sharp hiss coming from somewhere behind you.

“Psst. Hey, griffon, over here.”

You look around for the unseen speaker, but all you can see is a mottled grey stallion walking down the street. He stops to return your stare and adjust his monocle. “I think she’s talking to you,” he says, one eyebrow creased upward as he continues on his way.

“Hey,” the whisper continues, “come here!”

You turn around and see, standing in a shadowed alley, a dull pink earth pony wearing a hooded jacket, waving you over. Well, you’re not doing anything else right now; may as well see what she wants. You make your way over to her, wary not to step too far into the alley, wings primed to burst into action should anything be amiss.

“You look like a griffon of refined taste,” she smarms, eyes darting back and forth. “I happen to know of an establishment where you can find a decent evening of blood-pumping entertainment, and maybe make a tidy sum of caps on the side.”

You furrow your brow, unsure of the proposition. This sounds all kinds of shady.

“Look, lady,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “I got places to be. Do you wanna watch a couple of ponies beat the crap out of each other, or not?”

• Well, you don’t have any other plans. Might as well check it out. (6 votes)
  
• That’s disgusting! You’re no longer interested in deriving pleasure from the suffering of others. (2 votes)
  

You nod, and the hooded pony promptly leads you down into the alley, and through a door in the side of a large corrugated iron building – lots of mouldy cardboard boxes full of junk in here. She picks up a metal ring in her teeth and lifts open – no prizes for guessing this one – a secret hatch in the floor, revealing a flight of metal stairs. You can hear a steady, muffled noise coming from the bottom of the stairs, like the howling of wild animals.

You follow the hooded pony down, the clank, clank, clank of her hooves against the stairs overpowering the more subtle padding of your own feet. You both reach the bottom, and a thick wooden door stands against the wall to meet you; a yellow light dances under it, and the muffled howling sounds louder, now. The hooded mare opens the door, and the sound of raucous cheering explodes outward.

You walk out into a dimly lit room filled with all manner of ponies all facing towards the centre. There is an uncomfortable warmth, and the stink of sweat, blood and spilled alcohol in the cloying air stings the senses. You step in further, pleased that the crowd seems to part for a griffon – as they should, frankly – and you find yourself looking down at what has them all so entranced. A dirt-floored pit lowered about the height of a pony and spanning about four body lengths across in both directions sinks into the floor. Looking down, you see two earth ponies grappling with one another.

Looking about the sea of cheering faces, you think you spot the pony taking bets, but it’s still unclear how this place operates. Do the fighters in the pit get paid for participating? Is there a pool that the winner claims at the end? Is there some sort of leaderboard?

“They’re not running any leagues or tournaments at the moment, just one-off matches," says the hooded pony, who you’d almost forgotten was still accompanying you. “Winner gets a tidy sum of caps, though, so the place still attracts some pretty strong contenders. Bets are closed for this match, obviously, but you can still get in on the next one, which should be starting soon. Those two are fighting next.” She points across the pit at a pair of fierce-looking ponies standing in a fenced-off section. “The orange unicorn in the mask is Falling Star. He’s a mean one, but he’s the underdog this time around. He’s up against that concrete bunker of an earth pony, Pile Driver. A couple years back, he snapped a pony’s neck with a one-legged buck.”

You shoot her an incredulous look.

“Not even kidding. Name’s Peachy Keen, by the way.” She flashes a grin and extends a hoof, which you reluctantly shake. “Shame we don’t get any pegasi around here. I bet folks’d love to see a match with a flyer.”

Should you make a bet? You don’t have any caps, but you’ve got a few weapons you reckon you could wager.

• Snapped some loser’s neck? You’d be crazy to bet against Pile Driver!
  
• The combination of a wrestling mask and telekinetic power is a tough one to beat. Your caps are on Falling Star.
  
• You’re not exactly swimming in material wealth, you know. Just sit and watch.
  
• You bet you and your wings could teach these idiots a thing or two about knocking heads. See if you can get in on a match!
  
• Ugh, this place offends your newfound sense of decency. Maybe you should just leave.