Mortus Petrum

(Please to enjoy this shitty little green)

Half-assed prompt:  Anon immune to black rock of magical doom.

>"Is...is somepony there?  H-help me. Please"  the weak call comes from the tunnel ahead of you.  "Hurts..."
>the walls are black, glassy stone with an almost metallic luster. It means nothing to you, but you've since learned that this stuff--some form of obsidian--is universally deadly to nearly everything on Eqestria in its natural, unworked form.  Mortus Petrum, they call it
>Death Rock.  It eats magic like a sponge, drains it out of everything nearby.  Should a pony--or any other living thing on Equus--touch it, it blistered and burned even as it drained the inherent magic out of them.  Prolonged exposure to it killed by inches, or caused diseases that were hard to treat.
>It could be worked into artifacts and tools that nullified magic, if one knew how to work with it relatively safely and had proper shielding, but even that was highly dangerous. In nature, it was a bane on everything that lived.
>Everything but you. You're climbing carefully through an environment that's roughly as dangerous to ponies as Chernobyl's Elephant's Foot would be to you, completely immune.
>"I've almost reached Silverlight's position," you say into the headset. You're carrying protective blankets woven of insulating fibers, a pony respirator and a backboard.
>You're not a trained medic, but you've been shown what you need, and there was no time to get the right personnel with the right experience and the highly specialized equipment they'd need here in time.  Teleport magic doesn't work within twenty miles of here.  This is the one and only chance to get the filly out of her before this place killed her.
>she's small enough that you should be able to carry her out without injuring her further, and even if you DO, that's infinitely better than spending a second longer in this tunnel.
>"Acknowledged, Anon.  Proceed carefully, and watch for loose rubble."
>Your helmet's spotlight picks out the prone, bloody form of Silverlight, lying on her side on a pile of broken wood.  One of her legs is obviously broken, and she's barely breathing. >But those pale next to the blistering skin and bare patches of fur.  The only reason she's still alive is because most of her is lying on the busted wood that fell in with her, instead of the bare rock. She's facing away from you but she struggles to raise her head enough see the source of light.  Her eyes are red, swollen almost shut.
>"Whoah whoah whoa, don't move," you say.  "I'm here to help. Just stay still, we're working to get you out of here." You quickly relay exactly what you're seeing to the pony on the other end of the communications link as you get down next to her in the claustrophobic tunnel.
>"Y--you don't look like...a pony," she whispers.  "Or s-s-sound like one..."
>You're next to her on the broken, pebbly ground, unpacking your stuff next to her.  "That's because I'm not.  I'm a human.  From somewhere else."
>"How can....you be here?" she whispers.
>"Human magic," you murmur. She's got at least two busted legs, and you're pretty sure her ribs are a mess.  God knows about her spine. "I'm going to have to move you, we have to get you out of her as fast as we can, okay?" you say.  "I'm going to try to move you in one piece, so I dont' hurt you anymore than I have to.." You clean the dust off of your hands as best as you can and pull on a pair of insulated gloves from your pack to try to minimize her further exposure. "
>She doesn't reply. "I'm attempting to move her," you say into the headset.
>"For the love of Luna, be careful."
>As gently as possible, you slide the filly onto the board, trying not to jostle her anymore than you absolutely have to.  She jerks once or twice at your touch.  "I know it hurts..." you say.  "Sorry about that..."
>She doesn't reply.  You secure her in place via the straps, and then carefully afix the respirator to her muzzle, feeding her enriched, filtered oxygen. working as quickly as you can, you swaddle the tiny board and its cargo in the insulated blankets, shrouding her as best as you can against this place, with the insulated hood coming on last.
>You're relieved to see that her breathing begins to ease almost as soon as the makeshift protection is in place. "Thank you," she whispers, her swollen eyes shutting almost at once.
>"Alright, I've got her.  I'm coming out."  You hoist the board to your shoulder as gently as you can and begin the long, long journey back down the narrow, winding, rubble-filled tunnel, trying not to jostle your cargo or slip on any busted scree.
>Most pony machines were at least partially magical--and they didn't work here.  You were actually more useful here than their equivalent of a rescue robot, and more surefooted as well.
>In far less time than it had seemed to take for you to reach her to begin with, you and Silverlight emerge carefully into the daylight, and to the cheers and whoops of the paramedics, press and local rescue personnel.  Once you've cleared the tunnel and retreated to a safe distance, you put the board carefully down.
>You pull off your coveralls and gloves and place them in a heavy cask, and close it.  Two ponies with high-pressure hoses proceed to spray you from head to toe, knocking off the worst of the dust. You hold your arms out and turn around, so that they can get all sides of you.
>It's ice-cold.  Little Anon doesn't appreciate that part. Brr.
>You'll have to be decontaminated more thoroughly later, but you're safe enough for them to approach right now, and Twilight--SciTwi, you've nicknamed her--is coming with some clothes, another set of coveralls, clean and Death Rock dust-free. "Oh Anon--Oh celestia, that was INCREDIBLE," she says.  You don't say much as you dress, watching as the doctors and emergency medtechs begin work on the filly.
>"She's going to live, isn't she?" you ask Twi out of earshot.
>She looks grave.  "She might," she says softly.  "They'll have to clean her before they can address any of her injuries, but...it really depends on how much dust she inhaled and a bunch of other factors. It's going to be touch and go for a while, and there may be--lasting effects," she says.
>She looks at you.  "But thanks to you, she's at least got a chance.  Thank you for that, Anon."  She starts to hug you, but you back away--you're not completely clean yet.
>You settle for a gloved fist-bump.
>It's a good kind of day.