“Right. Six assault rifles, each with scopes, three battle-saddles each with auto-loaders and a crate of 5.56, six-hundred rounds. That amounts to five thousand caps.

“Correct.”

“Hey, can I see your shotguns?”

“And on top of that: six 10mms and two hundred rounds. Now I’ll be truthful with you; I bargained these out of trader from Filly, so I can’t be certain of their quality. I take it that’s not an issue?”

“That’s fine. I’ll take them anyway.”

“Didja get some shotguns from Filly?”

“Well, that’s that. Bring your caravan ‘round the shop tomorrow and I’ll load everything up. Is there anything else I you need?”

“Hm, I heard the local Steel Rangers were kicking up a fuss recently. I wouldn’t mind some explosives to scare them off.”

“Pfft. Shotguns are way scarier.”

“What type of shot-I mean, explosives? I’ve got both frag apples and plasma ‘nades but I don’t usually stock matrix disruptors. I might have a crate of satchel charges out back. They’re not very practical, but the bang’d make ‘em stain their power suits.”

“Are there shotguns out back too?”

“I was hoping for a Balefire egg honestly.”

“You’re better off asking the Steel Rangers themselves. No-pony for miles around stocks those. Besides, I thought you were just trying to scare them off, not start a war.”

“Fair enough. I’ll take the crate of satchel charges then.”

“I’ll take the crate of shotguns.”

“Sure, one crate of shotguns coming ri-… Would you shut your beak and wait for your goddess-damned turn!”

“Hmph! Rude. Is that how you treat all your customers?”

“How ‘bout I treat you to some buckshot. Free of charge!”

“I see you have an appointment with another customer. We can finish this transaction later.”

“Wait! I don’t even know him! We’re still good for the deal right!?” But it was too late; my buyer had trotted off leaving me with this interruptive customer. He was a griffon; a slim one with sandy fur, bronze and brown feathers. I wasn’t any expert when it came to cat-birds but this one looked like a late teenager. “You bugger off.”

The griffon merely harrumphed, sat down on his feline rump, crossed his golden talons across his chest and donned an expression of pure, almost aristocratic indignation. “Not until you sell me a shotgun.”

I starred and stammered at the griffon. “You snotty little brat! I’ll… I’ll…!” Okay, calm down. He’s just a colt… chick… whatever you call teenage griffons. I’ll play him off with some little dismissive comments of my own. “I don’t sell weapons to young’uns.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m no young’un anymore, gramps. It’s my birthday today and I’m gonna start my Talon mercenary training,” said the griffon, sticking his beak up into the air. “And I want to train with a shotgun, so sell me one.”

“Talon mercenary training huh?” I leaked contempt like my fresh sparkle cola seeped condensation. “And to whose squad do you belong to?”

“Indiana’s of course!” he spouted placing his talons on his hips and boldly puffing out his chest. “She only takes the best and that includes me!”

“Never heard of her.” Or have I? Was she that bird making foals’ play of Fillydelphia? Maybe that behemoth of a griffon keeping the Badlands Border safe for traders? Or perhaps she led the Talons sweeping raiders off the streets of Manehatten? I gotta start writing them down, so hard to keep track of all these squads and their politics.

The griffon snorted with what sounded like amusement. “Well maybe I should bring her down here then.”

As much I was starting to violently hate this kid, I had to urge caution on myself. The Talons were either families or tight-knit squads and the last thing I needed – as an independent gun-runner – was for this brat to whine to this Indiana, either his squad mate or an influential family member. A couple of choice words here and there and I’d be out of business or goddesses forbid if she actually did come down here. “Alright… son. Welcome to Nickel’s Gun-porium.” The satirical tone of voice I used flew over his feathered head. “You want some fine shotguns to start your mercenary career with? Have a gander at top row. All from quality makers, including yours truly.”

He dropped the prideful twat act and nearly leapt onto the counter with a flutter of enthusiasm I expected from someone his age. “That one!” He barely scanned the row once before pointing excitedly at the furthest right. “I want that one!”

I couldn’t help but spare a small chuckle. “The super shotgun? Son, that beast’ll rip and tear your bird-arms from their sockets and good luck paying a doc the caps to sew them back on. I ain’t seen a finer made firearm in my gun-running career, so I ain’t dropping the price below a reasonable five digit offer.” This weren’t the first time I’d recited that lecture to an eager customer, and after all these years I was now reluctant to let the gun go. After a few seconds of fond remembrance, I turned back to my counter to see the griffon still with a dumb smile on his beak. “That is to say it’s a little outside of your price range.”

“How about that one?” he said pointing to the stocky riot shotgun next to it.

“Yeah, I don’t think so-”

“That one then.”

“No, listen-”

“The pump-action one! Indiana uses one of those!”

“Just listen t-”

“That one has two barrels! Twice as much dam–”

“How many caps do you have!?” I shouted before he could get another word in. “Shotguns are expensive! Guns are expensive! You tell me how many caps you have and I’ll show you which ones you can afford!” He recoiled, almost looking hurt by my outburst.

“I have…” He pulled out a small pouch of caps and peered into it, muttering to himself before tossing it on the counter. “I have this much.”

I rolled it over in my hooves, weighed it with my magic and then dropped them on a set of scales. “You’ve got about three hundred caps in there, give or take. With that you can afford…” I focused my levitation magic on two shotguns to the far left of the top row and brought them down to the counter. “… either the caravan shotgun; two shots, 20 gauge, three hundred caps or the single shotgun; a reliable weapon, 20 gauge and priced at an affordable one hundred and fifty caps.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh! The Caravan shotgun! Two shots! Twice as powerful!” His talons darted out like a strike of yellow lightning, but my magic was faster and I was just able to yank it out of his reach. With those reflexes he probably could make a formidable Talon.

“Hold on son. That’s three hundred caps for just the gun. No ammunition. No attachments. No maintenance. Nuthin’ else.”

He and I looked at each other for a long time. “So?”

This time I nearly mounted the counter “So? SO?!” Stuff it, you’re in for a little lecture sonny. “So how you gonna train with no shells?! Just point the gun and make some noises?!”

“N-No…” he mumbled, twiddling his talons. “I’d never…”

“Aiming ain’t worth nuthin’ when you don’t know how to handle recoil! What about reloading? Fumble your shells and you’re raider food! No buts! No exceptions!” I flung the caravan shotgun over my head with a quick telekinetic flip. It fastened back into its designated spot on the rack. “The single shotgun is still a decent weapon. It’ll make you appreciate your shots and teach you in the importance of maintenance ‘cause if this jams, you’re screwed sonny.” He tumbled over backwards as I practically threw the single shotgun at him. “And here’s your ammunition; fourteen 20ga shells I scraped out of the last tin. Altogether; that’s one-hundred and sixty-four caps.”

“Oof!” I may have hit him in the head with the box of shells. “Jeez… don’t be so bossy.”

“You’ll thank me later.” I halved his caps and then added in the cost of the shells. There was still some leftover so I figured I might get rid of some more starter stock I had. “So, you’ve got your shotgun and some shells. On top of that you’ll need backup and some armour.”

“Can I have a revolver?”

“Sure you don’t want a nice, reliable knife?” I floated over a serrated combat knife. Designed for ponies but the grip would fit a griffon’s grasp. “It’ll cut through a Ranger’s steel like me to my prices.”

My magic angled it so he could see his reflection in the polished blade. I saw the want in his wide, twinkling tangerine eyes but, to my surprise, I also saw hesitation. Eventually he pulled his gaze away and looked to his own talons which he had been absent-mindedly tapping together. Their gleam showed that he – or somepony/griffon – cared for them. “But I already have these…”

“Good. Now you’re using your noggin.” I stuck the combat knife back into the block and levitated out a small revolver from a display case behind the counter. Its polished tone matched my coat perfectly. “This here’s a Nickel original,” I said, spinning the revolver around slowly with my magic. “While it won’t blow holes through a manticore, this .22 revolver is easily concealable and always reliable. With eighteen rounds that’s fifty-six caps.” He grabbed it and instantly started pulling the trigger; a sort of mad glee erupted over him as the revolver cycled and clicked. “Hey. Hey! Don’t they teach you basic trigger discipline? Ton-I mean talon! Keep your talon off the trigger or you’ll shoot somepony you don’t want to!”

“Pfft! Like that’d happen,” said the idiot while whipping around and quick drawing the .22 revolver at imaginary shadows. I could see a lot of training needing to go into this one. “Oh relax. I know how the handle guns. I’ve watched a ton of movies on them.”

I was brimming with confidence. “Well, if you’re going to act like a foal with a pointy stick, the least I could do is sell you some body armour for when you do hurt yourself.” I floated over a set of dark leather armour from one of the display mannequins. “With what you’ve got left, this is the best I can offer. It’ll soften the bite of a bullet but it don’t say much about the wearer.”

“That’s fine. I can do all the talking,” he said, slipping into the loose armour.

“Whatever.” Altogether it was a small transaction. Just a couple of weapons, some shells, bullets and a set of armour previously owned by moths. Yet, as I watched the griffon strike a series of stupid looking poses, I felt a small pittance of satisfaction… or maybe dread. Goddesses have mercy; I’ve sold body armour and weapons to an idiot.

The bells at the front of my store chimed and in stepped the silhouette of another griffon. Goddesses, this kid wasn’t joking earlier. For a few brief moments I actually tensed up but it all melted way when I recognized the elongated golden crest and a pair of vibrant tangerine eyes. “My, aren’t we looking snazzy!” she said, striding up to the counter.

“Glinnis! My favourite courier!” I greeted, clopping my hooves together. “Is this Gillet? Your boy? It’s been years! I hardly recognize him.”

“He doesn’t get out much. Spends so much time in that stuffy Stable watching those movies. Again and again. All day long.”

“It’s called training, mum!” he countered, dodging to the side and almost tripping with the loose leather armour. “But now I can train by doing!”

“After, you finish all your chores, Gilly.”

Today I saw a griffon scrunch his beak. Truly a rare sight. “Stop calling me that in front of the ponies, mum. They can’t know classified stuff like that.”

In a golden and beige blur, Glinnis darted back to Gillet’s side and ruffled the feathers atop his head. “You’re still my son and I reserve the right to call you what I want, when I want, Gilly.” Her hold was strong and Gillet was near powerless until she relented. Though she wasn’t a Talon, Glinnis could damn well move and fight like one. “Now wait outside. I have to wrap a few things up before we can head home.”

In attempt to regain some respect, Gillet slipped out of his mother’s grip and tried to strike another pose. It lost its impact when he tripped and tumbled into the very mannequin I had taken the armour off. Gillet finally left the store after picking it back up and uttering a small thank you under his breath.

“I trust you were fair with your prices?” Glinnis asked as she casually admired what other stock I had.

“I was. I was,” I replied just as loftily. “Little bugger kept mouthing off about bringing Talon squads down on me. This Indiana griffon too.”

“Talon Squads? Indiana? And you believed him?” Glinnis spared me a mirthful chuckle as she placed a small sack of caps on the bench. “I didn’t think he’d pull it off. Now I owe him my dessert for the rest of the week.”

“Yeah… well… if there’s anything he did thoroughly convinced me of; is that he’s got a long way to go yet.” I leaned back in my chair and sipped from my Sparkle Cola. From underneath the counter I levitated out a box of .45 ACP. “He won’t be able to talk his way out of everything. Better you teach him that ‘fore he tries reasoning with a hellhound or a pack of hungry raiders.”

“I will. There’s no need to worry.” I wasn’t worried… well, not that worried.

Glinnis took the ammunition, idly checking a few rounds before dropping the box into her packs. I levitated the sack and emptied the caps into the register before floating it back to her. The exchange was silent; it was something we had done every month since she and Gillet moved into the abandoned Stable east of here.

Sometimes I wondered if she actually had to use those bullets. Glinnis was still a mystery to me; she was well-travelled enough for the good DJ to mention her by name or simply as Courier – which I assumed was her – once or twice. Surely a simple postage packager wouldn’t attract the attention of powerful ponies and griffon or something even greater?

Then again, talent was undeniably valuable in the wasteland. A decent merc could always find work. Gun-runners like myself always had buyers, but Glinnis? She had a wide assortment of skills; some she learnt travelling and others just plain natural. She could find well-paying work at the drop of a cap as a bodyguard, a guide or even a successful Talon. Yet she lived the life of a simple courier; travelling abroad, tempting raiders, bandits and even the Pegasi Enclave if some of her wilder stories were to be believed.

To what purpose? Simply a mother caring for her son. Dare I say in this day and age, that was almost inspiring. It made me feel guilty for a moment; I’d given wasteland ponies guns to defend themselves, but I’d never give’n it life.

“Again, I really appreciate it, Nickel. I’m certain Gillet does as well. He just gets caught up in the moment and forgets to mention it.”

“Ah, it’s nothing Glinnis.” I said, taking an abrupt but keen interest on the weathered grain of my bench top. “Take care now.”

“You too.”

My brow furrowed just slightly as she turned to leave. “Hold up, Glinnis. It’s the brat-I mean Gillet’s birthday right? I might have something else for him.” I felt around underneath my counter with my magic, searching for a small accessory I tried to toss out the other day. They didn’t sit right on my head and nopony sane short of a drugged up raider would wear something that tacky.

“Oh, you don’t have to. He’s happy enough with the things you sold him.”

“Nah. I can see this stuff means a lot to him. He’s an alright kid. You’re lucky to have him.” Eventually I found them, sitting behind a trash can. “Here. Dunno if they’re genuine or not. Probably a pair of dodgy knockoffs made in some pre-war zebra sweatshop.”

Glinnis eyed the pair of plastic sunglasses, her expression light and amused. “I’m sure he’ll love them. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“Oh… how ‘bout you and I get together for a couple of beers some time? My treat.” I put forward as neutrally as possible.

“Beer? How do you feel about wine?” Glinnis leant on the counter, idly running her talons along an indent on the bench top. “I did some excavating at home last month and found a fridge stocked with the stuff. I’m not expert, but it all looks pre-war and well-aged.” She looked up at me lidded brows and an irresistible smirk. “How about you and I test them over a movie? Not one of Gillet’s. There’s a few romantic ones I’ve never gotten a chance to watch before.”

I stood stupidly still for a moment. Was I hearing this correctly? Vintage wine, movies and a night with Glinnis? This was too good to be true. There had to be some sort of catch. “What about Gillet?”

“I’ll take care of Gillet. You won’t have to worry about him.”

At that I smiled. “I’d love to then. This week-”

CRACK!

A gunshot just on my storefront. I tensed, reactively grabbing the grip of my revolver with my magic. Glinnis spun on the spot, talons and claws sinking into the wooden planks, ready to pounce or fly if need be.

“Oh goddesses! He’s got a gun! Nickel sold him a gun!” screamed the owner of the general store next door. “Everypony run!”

“MUM! MEETCHA BACK HOME ‘KAY,” shouted Gillet over the clip-clop of hooves and panicked cries.

For a moment, we were speechless. Glinnis softened upon hearing her sons and voice and turned back to me. We shared a silent stare, conveying identical thoughts before smiling at the situation.

What perfect timing.

Glinnis chuckled softly. If I were in her spot, I would have sworn. A lot. “I’ll catch up with you another time, Nickel. Bye for now.”

“Sure. Seeya.” Glinnis left, chasing after the whims of her son. Truly she was a greater griffon… parent, than I ever would be.