Title:           Boundless (15.1)
Author:          BoundlessAnon
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/Tt4xDzd1
First Edit:      Sunday 19th of February 2017 09:22:35 PM CDT
Last Edit:       Sunday 19th of February 2017 09:22:35 PM CDT

The radiation sickness is finally fading, with only a vague sense of nausea and the occasional cough left, and Boundless is eager to see you back on your hooves. She wakes you early in the morning, and after a quick breakfast of the vegetables Corona scrounged up, she insists that the pair of you take a walk around the admin building to stretch your legs. She's cheerful and energetic, frequently talkative and always on her hooves, despite how obvious it's becoming that her pregnancy is in its last days.
 
"Don't worry hon, it's perfectly safe," she says, throwing on her coat and buttoning it up with careful, minimum-effort telekinesis. "We've been all around the building many times." You shrug - sure, why not? She should probably be resting, but if she wants to go for a walk you're not exactly in a position to stop her. You fight back a grin at the sight of her struggling to close the bottom buttons around her barrel (which well describes the size and shape); her belly's on the verge of outgrowing her clothes. It's particularly noticeable once you get underway: the building's old and everything not made of concrete is creaky and unstable, but you get the impression that at least some of the distressed noises you hear are coming from her outfit.
 
The building is quiet and mostly uninteresting. Old offices, storerooms and corridors arranged in a semi-logical pattern, mostly filled with junk and old furniture that's long rotted past the point of usefulness. It smells like dry dust. You follow Boundless - apparently the main corridor simply loops around the ground floor, and she's walked this route a few times already. The pair of you talk about this and that as you go, and once again you find your eyes wandering - not just to the alicorn and the way she somehow manages to walk with a modicum of grace when she should probably be waddling, but also into the various rooms you pass. Maybe Corona's enthusiasm for poking her nose into things rubbed off on you a little, or maybe you're just paranoid about creepy wartime security systems. Probably a bit of both. Actually - you pause for a second at a glimpse of something shiny. Boundless stops and gives you a look of concern.
 
"Is everything alright?"
 
You nod and reassure her that you just want to check something out, taking a quick detour into what looks like a stuffy little copyroom. The floor is saturated with tatty old paper that crinkles pathetically underhoof, crumbling to dust as you tread on it. At the far end, between a useless photocopier and a rusty cabinet, is a computer terminal that hums quietly and lets out a faint green light. Off to one side, a Ponytron robot lies crumpled in a heap, its head completely stoved in and its legs bent at odd angles. Creepy, but at least it's not going to jump you or anything.
 
The console looks to be in decent shape, but when you make your way over and tap a few keys it turns out to be just as broken as most wartime tech, the screen filling with a nonsensical jumble of letters and symbols. You can select bits of the garbled mess with the arrow keys, but the terminal just makes angry noises at you when you press anything else. Patience depleted, you shrug; it was worth a look.
 
"What is it, hon? Did you find someth- oh. Oh dear." You turn to find Boundless entering the copyroom behind you. Or more accurately, trying to.
 
This little room wasn't made with big ponies in mind, and the entrance is narrower than the corridor. The problem becomes obvious straight away - Boundless has her tummy wedged in the door. She wiggles and squirms and makes little kicking and pushing motions with her hooves, making flustered little grunts and huffs, but it's obvious that she's stuck fast. A few seconds of struggling only manages to kick up a little flurry of old paper, quicken her breathing and build up a furious blush all across her face. Eventually she stops and just stares at you indignantly. A noble alicorn, a daughter of the grand and mighty Goddess, defeated by a doorframe. And now that she's blocking the door, you're both stuck.
 
Whoops.
 
Boundless huffs softly, tapping a hoof in frustration. "Ahem. Could you give me a push?" You do just that, leaning your weight against her chest and shoving as best you can, but it's not enough. You can't really get proper leverage without the risk of hurting her, but either way she's just too big and heavy for you to shift. Eventually you're forced to give up and offer an awkward apology. Boundless' frustration starts to give way to worry, her bottom lip trembling. Surely her sisters will come and check on her pretty soon, but she has to feel pretty vulnerable like that. You offer a bit of reassurance, lame as it might sound, and scratch your head.
 
It's a long shot, but you check out the tatty old cabinet at the back of the room. The shelves inside have mostly collapsed, creating a sloppy mess of useless paper and spilt ink at the bottom. But at the top, you see something that puts a smile on your face. The old toolkit won't do you much good, but there's also a half-full tin of machine oil. For maintaining the Ponytron, most likely. When you return to Boundless and show her what you've found, her ears perk up and she tilts her head. "Hon, I don't see how that's supposed to-" She pauses, then balks a little as she figures out what you're thinking.
 
You shrug and explain; there's no way either of you are going to force her free, and unless she wants her sisters to stumble across her jammed in a doorway (and probably have Auriga free her by smashing down half the wall), she's going to need to wiggle free *somehow*. As luck would have it, you've got just the thing to help. And hey - it looks like you've got a knack for getting alicorns out of tight spots.
 
Boundless' expression softens a little and she rolls her eyes, but eventually she nods and scrunches up her muzzle in consternation. "Fine. Fine. Just be quick, please." Working the lid off the tin of surprisingly strong-smelling oil, you can sympathise - there's no way this won't get embarassing.