Alone.

I sat alone, under the gray-black clouds of the night's shroud.

Except for the now cold corpse of the old colt clutched between my hooves, nopony was there. Only silent, hoarse sobs could escape my parched lips and throat, and my eyes burned from tears that I couldn't cry.

Why couldn't I cry?

The old sheriff laid there, motionless in my gray hooves, stained in his blood, as though he were only sleeping; as though the ragged hole torn through his chest was only a scratch.

His eyes were still held open by some unknown force, staring off blankly into the clouded night sky. Their usual old, but still bright green eyes were glazed over with a thin, milky film.

I'd seen death before. Everypony has, but this was different. He wasn't just some faceless caravan guard or some forgotten raider. Somewhere in my mind, something was nagging at me; telling me to pull him down to the mortuary before he started to bloat and reek, but I still sat there.

What was his name?

I had known the old buck for almost all my life, but I had never known his name. Nopony did. Law, we called him. That's who he was to us; what he was to us. No matter what happened, there was always Law in Megawat. Whenever anything threatened the town, it was his steady aim and glinting pistols, his dusty coat and smooth worn badge, that stood between us and the chaos of the wastes. It's just the way things were.

But then, it wasn't anymore, was it?

And nopony knew his name.

I shifted uncomfortably, bracing myself against the cold, bitingly lonely winds. Something shifted underneath him, glinting just barely from underneath his dark form. I focused, lighting up my horn to feel around the hard packed sand underneath him.

Sheathed in the faint blue aura of my telekinesis, an old griffin style revolver floated out from underneath his limp form. Almost the length of a foreleg, and braced with strange metal contraptions, I rolled out the chamber of Jury, like I had so many times before.

So many years before then, he taught me to shoot. When I was good enough, he had even let me practice with this massive sidearm. Though it was the smallest of his guns, the recoil of every 5.56 millimeter round fired by this monstrosity came as a shock for me. The faintest smile spread on my face as I remembered the first time he showed me this.

Ugly. I had called it ugly. It was an antique before the war had even started, and whoever had been the first to modify it had gone through great pains to make sure it still had it's finely carved cherry grip. The centuries had worn smooth whatever etchings had been on the grip, but the dark wood still remained, its fluid grain standing out against the various metals used to reformat the chamber, barrel, and counter-springs to fit the larger rounds.

I choked out a ragged laugh, but it whimpered into a weak sob. The backs of my eyes burned as I fought to keep them open against the tear bleeding its way out. There were my tears.

I levitated the hoof cannon into my saddle pack, sliding the straps on my shoulders to compensate for the weight. It was only luck that he even had this left. The raiders that killed him only this and the old pre-war trench coat he wore, taking Jury's brothers, Judge and Executioner with them.

I backed off, gently lifting and folding the large trench coat into my saddlebags before letting his cold body fall into the aura of my telekinetic field.

I'd make sure he wasn't forgotten.

“Y'all ain't unda'standin' me,” Slingshot said, “Ah said there's raiders hidden outside o' town.”

I rolled my eyes. I had known Slingshot since he was a little foal, and he was always spinning lies like that to get out of trouble. Hell, he'd once tried to blame a missing sweet roll on a dragon attack.

“Nah,” I said, wiping down the side of my revolver with a polishing rag, “Ah think that Ah understand exactly, what you're saying. It wasn't you that stole Bric-a-brac's toy dino, it was the raiders.”

“Ex-actly, Ah mean, wait, what?” He shook his head, “No, Ah stole that. No no no no. Y'all still not getting me.”

He started rambling on again. Something about raiders attacking caravans being attacked recently, but I just ignored it. It's not like we had all that many caravans to attack out in our little corner of the desert. You had to work to get that lost. Like I said before; he was always ready to shove his hoof in his mouth whenever he got caught doing anything. I just focused on cleaning my revolver.

I rolled open the chamber to check to see if there was any residue I had missed; these old apple bucker mk. III revolvers were late war, so were generally found in pretty good condition, but they were basically foals toys. If you didn't keep an eye on them, they'd fall apart as soon as you fill the chamber.

Not exactly a reliable gun, which meant I had to keep very, very good care of it. I was never exactly the most reliable shooter in the first place.

I didn't mind it, though. I've spent many a day just polishing and maintaining guns, whether my own, Law's, or anypony else that had a few caps to spare. Shotguns, assault rifles, revolvers. . . they all had their own unique feel, and I loved all of them.

Revolvers had a sort of sweet simplicity to them, though. None of the fancy, delicate gas chambers of assault rifles or the tube loaders of shotguns. Just a couple springs, a hammer, a chamber, and a bullet. It really was amazing how a tiny little spark, a little powder, and three-hundred fifty-seven hundredths of an inch of steel could make such a loud boom, and such a big impact.

I admit, I do get a little carried away sometimes. Technically, I was supposed to be studying the charter right then. Technically, I was supposed to be studying the charter any time I was in the office. Even when it was just baby sitting Slingshot for another minor theft.

It's not like I hadn't already memorized every page of that massive, dusty tome. Shit, I had learned to read from the damned thing, and had already finished reading all four-thousand two-hundred eighty-seven pages at least four years ago. Memorizing them and being able to cite them was multitudes harder, and more than a little pain in the flanks, but that's what you get for being a deputy of Law.

I finished inspecting the chamber and levitated in six bullets, spinning the chamber shut. I tested it's balance, waving it back and forth in my light blue aura, making sure the hammer was down to prevent an accidental misfire.

“. . . Ah mean, Ah was gonna' leave, but with pretty little mares like you in town?”

I snapped the revolver back towards him, glaring at him through my one open eye. The hammer clicked back, causing his jaws to snap shut. That was better.

“You're not gonna' finish that sentence, right?” I waved the barrel of the revolver up and down. He nodded along with it, keeping his eyes fixed on the loaded gun. “That's what Ah thought,” I said, smirking to myself as I let down the hammer slowly.

Not that I heard much from that line other than little.

Okay, so maybe I'm a little touchy about my height. I mean, I know I'm not exactly the tallest of mares, but that doesn't mean I like having it pointed out. I lowered my revolver into its holster, letting the weight settle before I shifted it comfortably behind my shoulder on my back. It's bad enough standing almost a head shorter than most mares; I didn't want to be tripping over my own holster.

I trotted over to check the lock on his cell before going out on 'patrol.' Out there, patrol usually meant a short ten to twenty minute stroll around town, hoping that nopony decided to waste my time with stupid bickerings about “unfair prices” or whatever. I swear, I've told them time and time again that there's no rule about overcharging. Unfortunately there's no law against wasting the deputy's time either.

“Hmm” I twisted my mouth looking at the old rusted lock on the similarly aged gate that kept in Slingshot. He was a strong pony to be sure, probably a little more than a head taller than me, and very, very well built. . . but even he couldn't break through the centuries old steel frame. The lock, though, was a whole other issue, and I didn't want him slipping out again while I was on duty.

“You're lettin me out?” He said, his face puzzled, but his eyes widened in excitement.

“Enope,” I smirked as my horn sparked. I closed my eyes, letting my magic feel its way through the cold bars of steel. He groaned as he realized what I was doing. I searched through the empty steel grips sitting in the tumbler, feeling for the faintest semblance of warmth in the cold, barren metal gears. . . There it was! I reached in with my magic, straining the backs of my closed eyes as I twisted the tiny spark back into place.

With a gratifying click, I could feel the tumbler shift and realign itself tighter than it was before. Everything had a spirit inside of it; a purpose of sorts. The lock was old, but it was still meant to hold things in. Just a little convincing, and it'd be bobby pin proof. Of course, I needed to remind myself to change it back before Law got back so his key would still work.

“There,” I said, smiling mischievously. “Y'all stay put now,” I joked as I walked out the old scarred wooden door, “Ah'll be right back.”

I walked back from southern end of the town, shifting the stetson on my head to better block the gray sands blowing in from the outside of town. The stitched in gap in the front left a perfect space for my horn, which was a little strange, considering the old leather hat was made for earth ponies. The extra space made it comfortable, but unfortunately it meant that sometimes dust got through. It was a shame that the winds tore through the town so fast during the afternoons; ponies in Megawat worked hard to keep the town well kept, but the clawing winds and the muddy rainwater always seemed to make the houses dirty as fast as they were cleaned.

Thankfully, it was a relatively clear day. Hell, you could almost see the sun in the thinner parts of the cloud cover. Most of the farms near the edge of town grew mostly irradiated weeds, and they were sustained mostly just on water more than the soil, but food was food, and nopony in town ever starved as far as I knew.

Down the street next to the bar was Bric-a-brac's stall. Her house was a ways down the road to the east, nearly out of town, but she always set up next to the bar every morning. Something about marketing or marketeering or market shopping or something like that. Her wares never really interested me much; she sold mostly pre-war snow globes or paper weights. Pretty, but nothing I could really put to use.

“Hey, Bric-a-brac,” I called from behind her as I trotted towards he stall.

“Oh, my.” She turned, flashing a winning smile, “Ah didn't see ya' comin', 'Trigger. And to what do Ah owe the pleasure of your company?”

I couldn't help but smile. She was the only pony that I'd met that was ever so genuinely courteous. Most ponies that happy were either sarcastic, or lying through their teeth. Not to mention usually hiding a gun somewhere. I knew her too long to know she was anything but deceitful. Overenthusiastic, maybe, but never deceitful.

“Just Slingshot.” She pursed her lips, probably stifling a grimace. “Ah know, Ah know,” I explained, “Just a quick follow up. Mostly a formality, and to make sure he didn't steal anything else.”

“Well, Ah did an inventory just this mornin', and nothin' else seems to be missing,” She said, floating out an old clipboard and flipping through its pages. “Ah did, though,” She started to smile, “find something you might be interested in.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” I asked, “You're sure you . . .”

“Oh, believe me,” She insisted, cutting me off, practically dragging me back towards her house, “It's the most beautiful gun. Ah have no idea what kind it is, but oh,”

She gasped dramatically, “It would really go with your mane.”

I groaned, rolling my eyes, but still managed to keep up with her. How the pink mare managed to drag me so roughly was beyond me. Maybe she didn't know a mini-gun from a pea-shooter, but it could have been something good. Besides, what color of gun could possibly go with raggedy a blue mane like mine?

My hooves dragged a little in the gravel road, kicking up dust as I scrambled to keep up with her longer strides as she let go. Damn my short little legs.

She got over to the house and nearly started bouncing with glee, shifting from side to side on her hooves. I was not in as good humor by the time I reached her; panting softly though clenched teeth. I like guns, but I do not enjoy being dragged around.

She smiled at me, swinging the door open wildly, grinning at me. This was all a little strange, but then Bric-a-brac was always a little strange. One or two marbles short, some ponies used to say. She meant well, though, so I gave her a smile back, at least the best I could manage while catching my breath.

“Now Ah'm sure Ah left it somewhere around here,” She wandered inside. I could hear the racketing clamor of assorted objects being thrown about. Just how much stuff could she have in there? “Go ahead and come in, Ah might take a while to find it.”

I stepped around cautiously, not wanting to accidentally walk face first into something haphazardly thrown.

I looked inside and saw. . . Holy Shit! I should have been preparing for what was in there. Shelves screwed neatly into the walls at perfectly regular intervals covered nearly every wall. On every shelf there sat some sort of knick-knack or doodad: from miniatures, to bobble heads, to children's toys or snow globes, and little toy rockets. . . I used to wonder how she ever made any profit when she sold only little things like this, but there were so many things there she could probably sell them at ten caps apiece and still make hundreds. The scary part was that there was likely more stuffed in boxes somewhere. Where did she get all this?

“Umm,” I looked around, slightly lost. All the walls were the same crumbling pink wallpaper behind the baubles, and I didn't want to move for fear of stepping on the few that sat on the ground next to the musty, faded couch. “Hello?” I peeked around the corner.

There were only more shelves though, though there was the frightening addition of an old buffalo plushy. The sewn on button eyes seemed to stare at me as I unintentionally locked eyes with it. They seemed to shift to as I moved my head back and forth, following me . . .

“Hey.”

I jumped, turning around startled, whipping my pistol out of its holster, pulling back its hammer as it flew.

The blue pupils of Bric-a-brac's eyes shrank and crossed, focusing in on the barrel of my revolver pointed between them. “Uhh. . .”

“Sorry,” I lowered the hammer, scratching the back of my head awkwardly with the handle of the revolver. “Ah was just, uh. Kinda,” I stammered, pointing at the buffalo plushy, “Scary doll.”

She watched the gun carefully as I levitated it back into my holster.

“Ah found it,” She said meekly. She shook out her shoulders as she walked, probably trying to get her bearings after staring down the barrel of my revolver. I've been there before; not an easy thing to come back from.

“It was uhh,” She said, loking around as she moved, “Ahh thought it was . . .”

“What was that?!” She snapped around. I stretched my neck out for a moment, straining my ears to hear something. Nothing. A blank. I had seen this before, mostly in bystanders to a shootout.

“Listen, Bric-a, Ah didn't mean to “

THWACK!!

The handle of my revolver came down hard on my brow, sending thundering waves down my spine and throwing me to the side. I tumbled hard into the shelves, each shelf biting and chafing against my fur as I fell down to the floor. Something fell heavily on my head, but my vision was already blurred by the stinging blood dripping down into my right eye. A big raider pony inspected my pistol as he walked slowly towards the cowering Bric-a-brac . . .

Before lashing it out against her head as well, throwing her back. She fell into the couch, shoving it behind her roughly as she fell limp and unconscious. I tried to scream, but my own voice sounded distant through my muted and dulled ears. I tried to pull myself up, but something heavy landed sharply on my left shoulder, driving me back into the wall.

I winced, but kept my eyes open, still trying to pull myself up through the small pile of merchandise pinning me down.

The large pony stepped towards me, brandishing my gun, testing its weight in his own deep russet magic aura. His mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear much more than incoherent mumbles. He lowered the gun at my head, pulling back the hammer.

His lips moved once, turning to a smug smirk as he pulled the trigger. I saw the hammer fall, and tried to move out of the way. The bullet tore through my mane, blowing off my hat and slamming into the side of my face. Fire burned along my temple and lanced down over my ear, rending flesh and smashing the back of my head into the wall.

I could see his brown, unwashed and blurry face laughing as the dull pain in the back of my head spread to behind my eyes. I tried to keep my eyes open, but my lids felt like iron weights, and they drifted shut; moments after watching him holster my gun in his red sash and walk out the splintered door.

My eyes creaked open, fighting gravity to stay open long enough to focus through the blur. My ear throbbed, pulsing with my heartbeat, pounding like a drum on the inside of my skull. . .

A heartbeat. I was still alive. Good.

I shot up a hoof, probably a little too clumsily, almost smacking the side of my face. Maybe it did, I don't know; cheek to jaw the entire right side of my face was numb. I pulled my hoof back, examining the blood. There was a lot, but it had dried to a sticky goo, sprinkled with dry brown flakes.

That was good. That meant I had stopped bleeding for the most part.

I tried to stand, shoving off two or three books in order to roll my back down off the wall. The world shook and spun as I pressed myself up, as my right ear twisted down like a vice on my jaw. I wobbled down and slammed my thankfully dulled right side into the wall. I yanked hard against the invisible rope on my right pulling me down, clenching my ears against the growing ringing in my right ear long enough to get a good look around.

The couch was overturned and more thrashed than it had been before, and Bric-a's various collectibles were left smashed on the floor. I staggered forward, stepping cautiously. I needed to check to see if Bric-a was okay before getting out.

My right hoof slid down in something cold, slipping as it shot down beneath me and pulled my head forward into a the glass shards that had become sprinkled around. I slammed my eyelids tight against the distant pinpricks of the small daggers biting into my chin as the ground rushed up for a little kiss. I opened my eyes slowly, letting the blur sharpen more into focus.

Bric-a-brac lay there in front of me, under the couch. A small puddle of blood seeped out from under her hoof, mingling with the water of broken snow globes.

“Fuck,” I uttered, in part to see if I could hear my own voice. I still couldn't hear much past the ringing in my ear, but I could hear it, muted as it was. I focused on my horn, shoving the slippery pool away just enough for me to plant a hoof on the ground in front of me. Not bothering to waste precious time, I unceremoniously lifted and shoved myself up into the heavy couch, taking advantage of my numbness as I collided with the already splintered wood with a heavy thump.

For a moment I strained my hind legs, pressing my meager weight into the couch. It slumped over, rolling off of Bric-a's own limp form. I knelt down in exasperation, trying to catch my breath. Panting, I looked back at her; a thin bloody split ran down from the base of her horn to just above her eye, and her chest rose and fell shakily.

Good. At least she was still breathing. I turned her on her side gently, levitating a cushion from the battered couch under her head as I tried not to damage any snapped ribs. At least now she wouldn't choke on her own blood. Beyond that, though, she would need somebody that knew more than wrapping bandages and stitching sutures.

I picked myself up, wincing as my legs seemed to groan in protest. The chilling cold of the wind came in through the door and bit into my returning nerves. The cold stung and tugged at my ears as I perked them up to hear; nothing, but at least the ringing was gone.

Other than the distant howling of the winds, there was nothing. I sprinted outside, stopping as I turned my head back and forth, trying to see them in the quickly receding dark. Again, nothing. But I turned and set off as fast as my aching body could manage to the center of town anyway. My sore left side screamed fire through my bruises, but I needed to warn Law. Unless the raiders got deeper into town . . .

BOOM

POP POP POP

BLAM BLAM

“Fuck!” I said again, loud enough to hear myself this time. I yanked my sore legs into an attempt at a gallop, rushing forward with an odd shuffling gait.

BLAM

I flinched at the sound, but kept myself going as straight as I could. I really needed to hurry, before shit got any more wrong than it already was. My horn lit up as I reached for my revolver, but I was rewarded only by the small click of the holster snap.

Dammit.

I slowed to a halt as I neared the corner.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” I shouted, wincing at the volume of my own voice. Hopefully I could at least distract them.

The gunfight seemed to pause only for a second. Two rough looking raiders were already fleeing, with him, the one that was inside Bric-a-brac's house, levitating my gun in his deep red magic aura. Law was holding them off, standing dead center of the junction between the main roads. Judge, Jury, and Executioner levitated in a near perfect semi-circle around him, each one leveled at the remaining raiders . . .

Law twitched for a moment, shooting a worried glance in my direction.

The blue daemon laughed as his horn flared.

I screamed a warning, but Law turned back too late, and the raider's gun—my gun—sparked as the hammer dropped. Before he could fire back, three-hundred fifty-seven hundredths of an inch rocketed through the air, tearing a deadly flare through the sky as it pierced through his chest.

“NO!” My haggard scream rent the air.

My heartbeat rang in my ears again, but this time it shook my whole body. I sprinted towards Law's falling body, as the raider's horn lit up, grasping everything that Law had to tug it towards him. Everything that made Law who he was, wrenched from his grasp and flew out of the city. His badge, his guns, his hat . . .

I fell towards him, diving to catch him, but it was too late. He lay there, choking up a crimson froth as he spasmed still in my forelegs. I tried to say something, anything, but my voice caught in my throat. All that came out where ragged screams between my dry sobs.

Just down the road, just out of range of where the raiders were, the shepherds and farmers came, bearing their guns and their spears. Too late. Much too late. The winds stung my dry eyes as I shouted in vain for help.

But they only stood there, watching, as the warmth drained from his body with the last of his breath.

Footnote: Welcome to the Wasteland

Hairtrigger

S 4
P 8
E 4
C 5
I 5
A 7
L 8

Traits:

Small Frame

Fast Shot

Tag skills:

Repair

Firearms

Speech