ID No: 138.42

"One hoof in front of the other."

It's a mantra I've carried with me my entire life. It embodies both the idea of always moving forward, as well as the fact that you're too busy staring at your own hooves to notice all the trouble going on around you. I took another sip from my glass of Wild Pegasus and muttered my mantra once more under my breath, just as a stallion's body flew across the room behind me. Lucky for him, he crash landed on a lovely soft bed of broken bricks and mortar. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I watch the ongoing fight through the mirrored wall in front of me. My eyes remained half-lidded, uninterested, as I took another sip.

The battered stallion drew a short concealed blade from his barding, and struggled to his hooves. He clutched the knife between his teeth, ready to strike at his attacker, only to be knocked back down again by the flying body of his partner.

I continued to view the scene as the two raiders' opponent stepped confidently toward them. He was a young stallion, only barely out of his teenage years, with a full set of barding which, I hate to admit, actually looked quite impressive. His horn glowed as he brought forward two identical pistols, which he proudly proclaimed to be "Fairness" and "Righteousness".

Cocky bastard.

With a flick of his blonde, longish mane, he briskly noticed a brush of dust on his shoulder. His face distorted into a look of indignant disgust, as he sensitively brushed it off from his barding. I snorted, turning my gaze back to my glass and taking another sip.

As I drank, I heard the young stallion laugh at his opponents trying to get back on their hooves. "Are you serious?" he exclaimed, and laughed in their faces. "I never understand you raiders. Even as I, obviously about to kill you, stand above your beaten bodies, you still try and stand up!" He shook his head slowly, smiling to himself. "I mean... sure! I can understand you wanting to beat me up, but in the end this all starts to feel, I don't know... the same."

The stallion sighed, and began to turn away, walking back to the entrance of the bar. As he did, his floating weapons remained stationary, hovering silently in front of the two raiders. "Bang, bang...!" shouted the stallion from across the room. His guns echoed their responses, following the same 'bang bang' pattern as their owner had predicted, shattering the skulls of the raiders before them.

The two glowing guns returned to their owner, dodging the small crowd between the two bodies and the stallion who defeated them. Almost without a thought, the stallion slid them back into their holsters as he turned towards the crowd, smiling self-confidently.

"Worry not!" he announced to the crowd. "These two raiders were bad ponies. I have taken care of them with any need of your assistance." The crowd whispered among themselves, a verbal cocktail of suspicion and growing animosity. "I followed these two into your fair establishment. I accused them of the crime I had personally seen them commit. I gave them a chance to go peacefully.

"I regret to admit, however, that they were not willing to go quietly." He paused dramatically, waiting for silence. I sighed heavily from my lonely corner away from the crowd.

After a moment, the stallion continued, "As I have said, I have taken the liberty of bringing these two criminals to justice. Your fair establishment is now safe, thanks to my efforts." He chuckled to himself and put up a hoof. "No, no. No need to thank me. This is what I do. I am a protector. I am a saviour. Do you all know who I am? Well, I suppose you must do, but allow me to be perfectly clear."

He's wearing that fucking smile again. Sweet Celestia, I'm starting to hate this buck. He started pacing back and forth, head held high. "I am your Hope. I am your Justice. I am...!"

He even had the nerve to hold a dramatic pause.

"...Shining Beacon."

And then he smiled to everypony.

And then he turned around.

And sweet Celestia, can he strut any more proudly?

Ugh... I just need to finish my drink and get out of here. It's one hoof in front of the other, buddy. Gotta move on.

Once the stallion had left, the crowd broke up, returning to their business. Two bucks trotted over and dragged the two bodies out of the bar. I heard a few conversations arising from the crowd as the ponies passed by.

"Was that guy for real?" asked one mare. "I don't know," replied her friend, "but he's probably too far up his own ass to know it." A stallion from the booth behind me muttered, "That kid's going to get himself murdered with an attitude like that." while a young mare from the table next to me argued with her friend, "How can you be so cynical? Shining Beacon is exactly the kind of hero this town needs!"

I finished my drink, stood up and snorted at her hopefulness. "Don't be such a fucking foal." She stared back at me, insulted by my intrusion. I slammed my empty glass onto her table, and trotted out of the bar.

ID No: 743.43

Things usually get busy this time of year. I never fully understood it. Something about caravan cycles, travel routes, weather and merchant theory. I don't know. I never understood it.

I lifted the bottle of Sparkle Cola to my lips. Now that was something I understood. I let out a satisfied sigh as the sugary drink tickled my throat. I put the empty bottle back on the wooden bench, and glanced protectively at my Steel Ranger helmet at my side. I'd taken it off so I could enjoy a drink, but that didn't stop me from worrying about it getting stolen.

I turned my gaze back to the main entrance of the settlement. This entire town was nameless, as far as I knew. Just a little something something that a few tired wanderers threw together a few years ago after a long lifetime of giving one big massive fuck. I felt somewhat attached to this place, after passing through and garrisoning here many times with my platoon at the Steel Rangers. Soon after, what started off as a makeshift bunch of shelters built up into the thriving community that it is today.

Well, I say 'thriving', but it's a hard word to use when the ponies that are 'thriving' the most are the ones holding knives to throats in exchange for pitiful possessions.

Like I said, a lot of caravans make their way through here this time of year. This place is like the cork of a wine bottle, where the glass walls are the river and mountainside that come together in a bottleneck. Everyone who passes through does so through us. Of course, we're not as prosperous as our guests expect. Our merchants don't stay. We lie between two towns, smack in the center of a large and empty waste. Nopony wants to stick around here more than they have to. So, many hungry travellers arrive desperately disappointed when we don't have anything to trade them. This drives them to thievery, kicking off one of those vicious cycles.

But every cycle has movement. And where there is movement, there is potential. That's where I thrive. As an ex-Steel Ranger, I don't get much respect, but I do get a wide berth. It's perfect for situations where, say, someone would want protection from a certain town full of thieves and beggars.

And so I wait here for the next caravan full of desperate ponies, a group willing to give nearly everything they have, in exchange for protection against having it all taken away. If you ask me, that's an opportunity for some serious profit margin.

Seeing a caravan roll up in the distance, I lifted my helmet back onto my head. Its magnetized rim snapped it to my neckpiece, initiating a series of small actuators which whirred and clicked until the helmet was screwed securely in place. Armed with a formidable MAJ-21 sniper rifle, I turned the corner and trotted up the wooden stairs to the top of the town's wall. Laying down near a makeshift crenellation, I nestled my rifle's barrel between two disjointed pieces of sheet metal to keep it steady.

I took a moment. I breathed in. I was secure in the fact that nopony saw me come up here. I marvelled at the greenish fog that bathed the wastes before me. I cursed the humidity. I ran my hoof up the side of my gun, relishing its shape. I nuzzled the sheet metal before me, feeling its lukewarm temperature from the lukewarm day. I turned my eye back to my scope. As my eye adjusted, I lined it up with the caravan, searching for guards. I saw one stallion trotting at the caravan's side, a poorly maintained assault rifle on his back. He looked far too tired and unaware to be a guard, but there was no one else around him. Surely, everypony had at least one guard. Must be him.

I held my breath. The sites steadied. I fired. He dropped. The caravan stopped, and a young mare ran out. I brought my head away from my scope, unwedged the barrel from the sheet metal, and trotted back downstairs. I walked through the small room at the base of the stairway, and exited through the open door. I walked along the shops and roughly thrown together homes toward the town gate. Nopony could be seen on the streets. It was still early in the morning, but that wasn't the cause of the emptiness. Everypony who was awake at this time was either rummaging through yesterday's trash, or had taken positions in the tight alleyways between buildings, clutching their knives in shaking muzzles.

I walked along slowly towards the gate, confident that nopony would be stupid enough to try and pull that same shit on me. Next to the guards' post, there was a beat up locker with a twig holding it closed. I carefully slid that stick out, and opened it up. Inside were my possessions: an empty pistol, and empty assault rifle, and a ring of dud grenades. I took them all out, and attached them to my armor. I gazed into the smashed up mirror in the corner, admiring my formidable appearance, slid the twig back into the locker door and walked back to the guard post.

The caravan soon pulled through the gate, a crying mare holding the reins with the stallion's bloody body on her lap. He was missing a head. An intact one, at least. I'm pretty sure I blew half of it across the wastes, some two hundred yards back.

"Welcome to the town of thieves.", I proclaimed bravely. "I see you are without a guard. Perhaps I could be of assistance." Behind grieving tears, the mare nodded to me. I held out my hoof. Behind my visor, I smiled.

ID No: 888.68

In Old Wild West Theory, the sheriff is just. He is kind. He is lawful, and he is brave.

However, in New Wild West theory, The Sheriff can do whatever the fuck pleases him.

Hey there. I'm The Sheriff. I run this town, and everyone does what I say. I walk through the streets, and ponies see me, and they don't stick around. That's because I'm The Sheriff. No doubt they're running because they have something to hide. Ah well, it looks like my deputy will have to take care of that one once we finish up our current case. Well, better get back to it.

I picked up the pace as the leash tightened. Looks like this guy's found something he likes. As he started running, I pulled back on the leash to keep him in check. Heck, I can't keep up if I let him drag me around everywhere he wants to go. Last I checked, I was the sheriff, not him. But he was probably onto something, so I let him lead the way. Slowly, I told him.

We trotted along and he turned right at the corner. Just in time, I saw the perp turn the corner into one of the shanty buildings. My Deputy tugged again on the leash as he lunged down the street. This time I let him. As we reached the building the perp had gone into, my Deputy reared up and smashed the door from its flimsy hinges. As the dust settled, we stood looking blankly at an empty room. I sighed disappointedly. Another one gets away. My Deputy didn't take it so well, as it smashed its hooves on the ground in frustration. I guess he would be pretty hungry. This is the third time this week that a perp's gotten away.

Or is it? Every time my Deputy shook the ground, a square of the floor shook more than the rest. Clearing the trash laying on top of it, I discovered a hidden hatch. So that's where the perp went! I wonder if that's what happened to the other two runners. Hm...

With renewed vigor, my Deputy nuzzled the hatch open and leapt down it. I followed him, leash tightening once more as he tossed me down the hatch right with him.

I crashed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, the Deputy dragging me along the dirt floor by his leash. Shaking away the flying pegasi around my head, I quickly regained my footing and pulled back on the leash. My Deputy tugged back abruptly, his maw only inches away from the face of the scared perp. She was backed up into the corner, eyes wide with fear as she stared in horror at my Deputy. Tying his leash to a wooden strut, I sighed and looked to the mare.

She was pretty. Very pretty. As if that had been her crime! I giggled at the thought. This seemed to put her at unease.

"What do you want from me? Why were you chasing me--?" she asked fearfully. Her head was hung low and she looked up at me. Her hair, messy from running, drooped over her beautiful scared eyes. Sweet Celestia, she was pretty. Very pretty.

I took off my gloves. I paced the floor in front of her, all the while making sure there were no more secret escape routes out of this dirty basement. Loosening the Deputy's leash a little bit, he was able to reach the perp close enough for some spittle to fall on her pretty face. So very pretty. She winced, though.

I trotted up the stairs, and poked my head out of the top of the hatch. Looking right and left, I knew we were alone. I closed the hatch.

"Why are you doing this?! I have done nothing wrong or against the law!" she exclaimed, tears in her eyes. Pretty eyes. They always act like they don't understand. She began crying in her lap. Always liars. Her whimpering stopped as the Deputy growled with inequine rage, and horror filled her eyes. So pretty.

I took out my knife, and held it to her throat. Her fear intensified. "What have I--?" she began quietly, but I held a hoof to her mouth. Her pretty mouth. "Nothing." I hissed. The Deputy growled, and spittle flew on her face and mouth. I kissed her greedily, and she tried to pull back. I didn't let her, as I cuffed her hooves. I ran a hoof through her mane, dirty from mud and sweat. Fear sweat. I smelled it, and it reminded me of home. She whimpered behind my kiss as my tongue explored her mouth. The Deputy tugged on the leash, the wooden strut straining.

I grabbed her, and lay her down. She twisted and wriggled, but she didn't scream. She knew no one would hear her. The Sheriff did what he wanted. The Sheriff ran his hoof down her chest, across her stomach, and toward her legs... I couldn't help but giggle.

I took the knife and rammed it through her arm. She howled in pain and tears filled her eyes once more. I turned my muzzle toward the knife, and licked the wound. I twisted the knife, and her cries grew more tearful. I licked the tears off of her pretty face.

So pretty...

The wooden strut snapped and the Deputy broke free. In a moment, he was on top of her, ripping her apart. She screamed louder then, more than from anything I had done to her. The deputy spasmed on top of her with monstrous energy. She was ripped apart. She screamed and whimpered, and I watched.

The Sheriff does whatever the fuck pleases him.

ID No: 63.40

Tears filled my eyes as I stared down at the body of my mother, her eyes closing forever in the deepest sleep she'll ever find. Those tears broke, and fell upon her peaceful face. She mocked me with her smile. How could she be so calm right now? What gave her the right? I'd relied on her my whole life, and now that she left me she thinks everything will be okay enough to smile about?

"Don't leave me like this, dammit!" I screamed at her. I shook my head to shake away the truth. I clenched my eyes to shut out the reality. But when they shot back open, reality lay right there in front of me, bleeding slowly, unfazed by my attempts to deny it.

My mother was a unicorn. She had been teaching me how to use magic to fix weapons, when something wrong had happened. I had dropped the screwdriver. As I tried to pick it up, my magical grasped slipped, and I had somehow brushed the trigger. It was a freak accident, made doubly so by the fact that the screwdriver had toggled off the safety as it fell. The whole thing happened in a flash, a muzzle flash, and she was on the floor. A single bullet to the heart didn't give much room for denial as she just lay there, death swiftly claiming her.

And now I was alone.

ID No: 635.43

It was hard to see through the greenish fog, but such was the way when travelling through the wastes. Some days it was clearer, but on days like this you could barely see fifty feet ahead. This was not a good time to be a sniper. But I continued to hold my gun, as a measure of comfort, if nothing else. I glanced to my side, at my stallion partner, as he trotted steadily forward in his worn riot gear. With sight conditions like this, I was glad to have someone as proficient as him in close quarters combat.

ID No: 717.10

Ink is a rare, yet worthless commodity in the wasteland. Nobody can find it, yet nobody wants it either. Most of it dried up hundreds of years ago, but the well made containers, the truly well made containers, featured a seal complete enough to maintain the equine manufactured ink.

Paintbrush in mouth, I dipped into a recently procured inkwell. Pulling it from the pool of dark liquid, I let the ink drip off, as gravity pulled it back to its place of origin. Once I was satisfied with optimal saturation, I brought the paintbrush to bear on my canvas. Closing my eye, I let the music play in my head. It started off slowly, manifesting into light, careful strokes. Then the music rose, and my pace grew with it. Streaks intensified in thickness as the percussion set its pace. And just as the orchestra reached the apex of its climax, the music dropped into silence, and I pulled my brush away.

Opening my eye, I stepped back and gazed upon my music. Its beauty had transferred better than I had expected, and a single, inspired tear dropped from my one remaining eye. As an artist, the lack of symmetry on my face saddened me in a way no logic worshiper could ever understand. I yearned to feel the hot wetness of a tear falling down my left cheek, but I knew it would never be. My eye had closed up for good, and it would never open again. Still, I urged a tear to fall forth. I urged beyond reason. I urged beyond doubt.

I felt a soft splatter on my cheek. With trembling breath I blinked in surprise at the hot liquid that had fallen on my face. I looked back up at my canvas as the hide leaked the blood of its host. Sighing, wiping away the fake tear, I clutched the body and unhooked it from its meat hooks.

It's a shame I can't find any real ink around here. That dried up centuries ago. The only fresh ink here is equine-made, and is held in a remarkably tight seal. It's easy enough to obtain, however its single shade of red leaves much for the artist to desire.