My Little Gunslinger
1
The Mare in Black fled across the desert and the Gunslinger followed.
She had come closer and closer to her target, but had lost track of the days and miles. Time was different now, and it flowed strangely. The land seemed itself to be alive, as if it contracted and expanded before her. The way ahead and the way behind were always shrouded in mirage.
Her throat was dry and it burned. The old canteen that rested beneath her right saddlebag was low and rattled ominously. Despite this, she was relatively unconcerned. The old ones said that water would come if the Sisters wished it, and she had found that it was true. In fact, she found some sort of solace in the parallel between throat and land. It was a wide and dry expanse and somehow she knew it had not known water in large amounts since the Old Ponies.
Apotheosis. That was the word that echoed in her mind as she ran across the desert after the Mare in Black. For some reason, it was the word that seemed to describe the vast wasteland. Unreal was perhaps another word for this untamed ground. She’d left the lands of maps and roads far behind her, back past Jericho Hill and the now dead remains of once beautiful Canterlot. No map recorded the features of such a place. It was not meant for man to be there, so why should anypony try and chart it? Was it not sacrilege to even suggest that ponies had any place in the wild deserts beyond their orchards, where the wind howled and the trees would not grow?
The Gunslinger thought but did not think deeply.
As time passed, she noted the signs of yet another campsite. She knew it to be the work of her quarry after only a cursory glance, knowing she’d find some ludicrous message scrawled in the dust that somehow had managed to not be blown away by the wind. Unfortunately. She ignored the message. Before (months? Years?) she would’ve read it in hopes of anything of value to be learned, but there was never anything but warnings and ridiculous assertions and smiling faces crudely sketched out with the friendly command to “Have a nice Day!” Frankly, they were rather insulting.
She didn’t explore the campsite, seeing no point. Every single one was the same. The ashes of the fire the Mare in Black had used, the bedroll she knew would crumble back into the constituent dust and rocks which formed it. The mare whom she had sought for so long was cunning and skilled in magic in ways that the gunslinger was not.
Not even deigning to sneer at this parlor trick, she collapsed the alchemized bed back into the ground with her own magic and continued on.
The path of the hunted mare was always straight— she never turned, never tarried. Yes, she knew she was hunted, but once before the gunslinger knew it had surprised her. Even with the sun rising as it would—if it do ya, the world had moved on— and despite the strangeness of the world, she knew that this path was as straight as it was possible to travel. In some strange way perhaps the two of them were the only ones that could still travel in such determined lines.
The smell of her campfire lingered in the gunslinger’s nose for hours. Of course such as yon bitch would burn devil-grass. No pony worth his salt would ever burn the stuff, nor look into the fire it gave evil birth too. In those dark flames they said the unfortunate would see such entrancing visions that they would be lost. It was unrefined stuff, too, and the gunslinger thought she might have done it just to aggravate the senses of her pursuer. Not as a tactic, for the Gunslingers of Canterlot were not so easily thrown off the track of the prey and the last of those was not fooled. No, it was a trick. She was just full of tricks.
The desert was lonely. Having slowed to a walk with the night approaching, the gunslinger thought rather suddenly of her old friends. There had been another desert, then. A friendlier one, if deserts could be such things. It had been so long since she had friends on the road with her. Too long, maybe. But she still had the Guns, and she had her packs. That was all she needed in the end, that and her four hooves. Friends were things that she simply didn’t need.
Was that not true?
She was not so sure. The thought troubled her, and she decided to move on from it. Move on. What an awful way of speaking, she reflected for not the first time. The world had moved on. Awful thing to say but also a true thing to say.
With inconstant haste, night came and the Gunslinger stopped. There was no reluctance in this. She did not fear that the vile one she chased would make capital out of her rest. Not because she assumed that the Mare in Black would stop as well, because she didn’t think about that at all. Yon creature was odd, and she could do what she wished, if it please ya. The Gunslinger was confident because she simply knew with unshakeable confidence that she would find what she sought and then there would be a reckoning.
She laid out her ragged bedding. The poor thing had started out life in Canterlot, and she had no idea how old it was. Next, she removed her saddlebag and put it beside the rectangular mat and took the Guns with sandalwood grip. Yes, as always, in excellent condition—she was never surprised by this in the way that only a mare of Canterlot’s Gunslingers could be. She manipulated the revolvers with her expert magical touch and the barrels came out to reveal their contents. She inspected these, approving of their state of readiness before she laid down and let the guns rest on her hooves, close enough for her to snatch one up with her mouth if magic failed her. Which it wouldn’t, of course, but a gunslinger prepares.
She slept.
The morning was unforgiving of the intrusion of life into its windswept domain. As the chase began again it punished her with heat that rose from the cracked land and weighed down like a heavy mantle on her shoulders from above. Hot wind blew through, kicking up small rocks and dust and more than once she was forced to cover her face with a hoof or her wide-brimmed Stetson.
But, as she had always been, the gunslinger was undaunted.
2
The town came into sight around midday.
The gunslinger was not filled with joy at this sight, but neither did she dread it. It simply was. In the end, this town didn’t matter. The world had moved on.
But she was perhaps cautiously optimistic. If nothing else, she could restock her dwindling stores. For all she knew, the settlement was empty, beaten down and defeated by the desert which so resented her own temporary intrusion.
As it happened to be directly ahead, she knew she’d find out soon enough. Before that happened, however, she’d be ready. Now, as they always had when the gunslinger’s instincts were singing, the big irons with the sandalwood grips felt heavy in her bags.
The novelty of discovery wore off after a time. She’d arrive at night at this rate, which was unacceptable; it would be another day until she visited this strange town and found what supplies she could glean either from the living or the dead. In the meantime, she kept it in sight and walked as she had for weeks (months? Years?)
3
Around midday, when the sun was high overhead, she came upon a kind of crater. It was an unnatural thing, an aberration in the otherwise flat desert. In a way, it reminded her a little of a thinny, save without the music or the same awful glow. The worlds were thin here.
It had hidden from her sight, though her eyes were keen. Its deepness had been a shroud before her eyes. In the center was a decrepit building, full of holes and with its paint all but gone. It had seen better days and perhaps a better world. The gunslinger had the sudden absurd idea that perhaps it had landed here, flying from its home somewhere else to crash in the middle of this dry land like a ball from a cannon. She supposed it would explain the strange crater— but that was silly. No, it was still somehow out of place, but it was no cannon or any old treadbeast-o’-war that had brought it here.
She brought up one of the guns and held it aloft before her with her magic. She could feel it, ka like a wind
(Oh Rarity, but you were right it is a wind)
And she knew that it meant investigating this almost-ruin. It was in her path, and with sudden insight of the type that only gunslingers or those with the touch had, she knew that Lulamoon, her father’s wizard, had been here. She had left the gunslinger something here, something that the mare with the hard calibers and the gunslinger’s hard eyes needed. It was not a trap—traps were insulting to even suggest to mares like Lulamoon—but it would not be totally helpful, either. For all her warnings, Lulamoon had never fired a gun at her (perhaps never fired one at all) though both of them knew that the mare she’d left behind to die in the ruins of Canterlot meant to use one on her.
“We’ll have palaver yet, magician. One last time.”
She announced this to the air, knowing Lulamoon-o’-many-names was not only absent, but also not really caring about any gunslinger's threats. But for the gunslinger they were not threats. They were promises to herself and to her friends. Perhaps to her father, as well.
So she slid down the side of crater with hawkeyed glare at that gaping hole that had once been a true doorway. If anything stirred, it died. Nothing stirred, and nothing died. Yet. This structure—it was some sort of waystation, she guessed, perhaps a sort of old world inn for desert travelers— beckoned.
The gunslinger came out of the midday sun where there were no shadows and came into the shadowed waystation.
Tiny motes of dust wavered in beams of light which entered through cracks and holes in the ceiling. The interior was dappled with sunlight and mild shadow, covered in dust, and preserved. Before her was a cobwebbed desk where once before somepony had dealt with some business o’ state, perhaps. The rest was full of chairs and a few wide, padded benches. It was a room for waiting, she could sense; a waiting room that had been waiting for use for so long.
A normal pony might’ve shrugged and lowered their gun. A normal pony would be convinced by the stillness and the feeling of quiet death about the place. The gunslinger had not been a normal pony in a long time, and so she was not convinced. If anything, she was beginning to actually worry. Perhaps she had misjudged her prey. Perhaps the Mare in Black, that clever bitch with her magic and her tricks, had truly left something deadly here. After all, she knew that the mare with the hard calibers (one of which she now held before her as she peeked behind the reception desk) would be drawn to such a place. Ka had put things in the path of the seeker of the Beam for a long time now.
Said Seeker put these thoughts aside. Ka was like a wind, yes, but it was also a river. That was what they had referred to it as, sometimes, back in Canterlot where she’d been a child. Ka was a river. What would happen would happen and there was no way to avoid it. Trying made it worse. This place was along her path, and she knew she was meant to search it. She could feel it in her sinews and the bones, how they moved almost of their own accord towards something.
The waiting room was clear. The next room, through doors which still stood, was actually a corridor that stretched out farther than was possible. This place made no sense. It should not be. Her head ached, and the Gunslinger resolved to be out of this place quickly.
“Bigger on the inside, if you kennit,” she muttered with irritation as she moved as quickly as her trained caution would allow. “Nothing in the world makes sense anymore, if you kennit. Follow the bitch in black, if you kennit.” The irritable grumbling continued as she checked the doors along the hallways briefly. They were either completely empty or filled with overturned and broken chairs and destroyed desks. Nothing inside moved.
Finally, the last door was before her, the one at the end of the hall. The door gave her a strange feeling—it was a mix of supreme dread and restless eagerness. Whether it was because of some instinct, some whispering of ka, or simply her strong desire to leave this abomination of a building… she felt something pulling her forward. The mare with the guns cracked the door open and thrust her gun through the crack with her magic, waving it back and forth, following her questing eyes.
Nothing moved. Most of the room was doused in shadow. The only light came from a hole in the center of the room’s celling where the desert sun invaded.
She stepped into the room, her heart beating fiercely in her chest. She had no idea why she felt suddenly so desperately alive. It was like her first sight of her ultimate goal, before the supernal song had become—
There was movement. Cursing, she brought the new presence into her gunsight and called out to it. “If you want to live, I’d advise you to come into yon light.” No need to fire quite yet. Logic ruled as much as mercy, here: she had limited shells, after all.
“Live? Ma’am? Do you have any water?” The voice was soft and feminine. It sounds a lot like Fyrefly, back when we were just foals. The thought was less comforting then it should have, for she began to suspect that this filly had been left here by the old court magician herself.
“Come into yon light, child. I’ll not hurt you. I just wish to see you.” She was calm, her fear of danger mostly gone. No, there would be no threat from this child, she was almost sure. Now, she simply dreaded something perhaps worse.
The foal came into the light, and the Gunslinger got her first view. The filly was orange with pink hair that was spiked and teased out—or rather, had been. It was an awful mess now. She looked sick and the gunslinger felt supreme pity. Her wings were too small for her age, her physique was reminiscent of iron bands and with a little water and food in her, the gunslinger decided she would be quite the fierce little pegasus. Yes, she was sure of it now, for in those confused and weary eyes was still caution and alertness. This little pegasus was born for battle, the mare with the hard calibers could feel it. Such things a gunslinger could tell like a scribe could rattle off dates and names.
It was this last that confused her. Why had the elusive prey left such a filly? This one would not be a burden on her. No, this filly might even be a small boon.
She said nothing at first, only lowering her gun completely and stepping forward. Yes, this filly definitely needed some water. With her magic, she brought her canteen out and offered it. The pegasus reached for this greedily, as if she was convinced it would disappear if she didn’t take it right away. She guzzled what little water the mare had while the canteen’s owner looked on with a small smile.
“Thank you, ma’am!” she said, sighing happily and offering it back. “I’m… sorry I drank it all. I thought there’d be more than there was…”
“You remind me of a friend o’ mine, from foalhood.” She could feel it in her, a welling of natural affection. She tried to fight it down, but it would not go quietly. Polite enough to apologize and impetuous enough to take what she knew she needed anyhow—and with quickness that surprised even a gunslinger. This impetuous filly was a little warrior in the making.
“I do? Who’s that? Who’re you, miss?”
Straight to the point and asking questions. Goddesses as her witness, but she liked this filly.
“Fyrefly was her name. We were ka-tet long ago. She was pink, lighter than your hair, I’d warrant, with blue hair and lightning bolt cutie mark. She was brave and fast. We got into some trouble, she and I, and she was probably the first pony in Canterlot that I could call friend.”
“You’re from Canterlot?” the filly asked. “I’m from Ponyville, it’s in the valley below! Are we near Canterlot now?”
The gunslinger shook her head and sat in the doorway. “No, you’re out of luck. Canterlot is long gone and far behind us. I’ve heard of no barony nor town o’ barony called Ponyville… you say it was in the valley? It was all New Canaan land when there was New Canaan… or Canterlot,” this she said with some sadness. She rubbed her head, feeling a headache coming on. She made an educated guess that it was from the nature of the place. The hat came down over her eyes.
“But… Canterlot is still around, miss! I was there last year to watch Rainbow Dash be in the Hearth’s Warming Eve pageant and the city was fine! What’s New Canaan? Who are you?”
“New Canaan was the barony where I was born, filly. Tell me your name, and I’ll tell you mine. I think you’re already a bit in my debt from my water.”
“Oh. Scootaloo, that’s my name! Scootaloo from Ponyville, and I’m a Cutie Mark Crusader! Now you have to tell me who you are.” The filly’s hungry eyes tried to see through the hat. The Gunslinger thought she saw something that bordered on recognition there, as if the filly had seen her before, or someone like her.
“Twilight. Twilight Sparkle, a gunslinger of Canterlot, if it do ya.”
Scootaloo simply stared. “Twilight? What are you doing here? Why are you dressed up like you’re Applejack, and why on earth are you talking like that? You’re voice sounds kinda lower…”
“Child, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Calm yourself. You say you know me?” She tipped her hat up. She was filled with surprise… yet somehow she had known it would be something like this that the black-clad one would leave. Something out of place that had a connection with her. Twilight had just expected the connection would be more along the lines of a lost item. She hadn’t expected it to know her.
“Of course I do, Twilight! I mean like, I know I’m just a kid, but I’m best friends with two of your best friend’s sisters and we go on adventures and get into trouble all over town and I asked you about your…” she fumbled a bit, confused at the empty, unknowing stare she received in return. “Do you not remember me? Twilight…?”
The gunslinger thought she sounded frightened. She also supposed it was time for them both to leave. “Well, ka drags another along with it. Will you come with me, then, Scootaloo of Ponyville?”
“I… I guess? Where are we going?” She sounded unsure, and Twilight didn’t blame her. They would have to exchange stories before too long. But for now, she wanted to get out of this place with all of its wrongness.
“Anywhere but here, Scootaloo. Yon town may be a day away with you in tow. Let’s buy water and some food… and maybe see if they have some tobacco. You can tell me about this Ponyville on the way. The road was made for stories and for riddles. I think your Ponyville may be both.”
They left the waystation between worlds behind them.