Fallen Star
Toss, turn. Toss, turn. Toss. Turn.
Braeburn groaned and rubbed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. Deuce, full of more cobbler and cider than the stallion could handle, lay fast asleep in the guest room. Aunt and cousin were lost to Equestria, snoring contentedly in the bedroom next to his. Braeburn sought but did not find sleep, watching the moon rise through his window.
His thoughts drifted back to Deuce’s teasing comment after the saloon brawl. “Youze betta treat dat mare right, Brae.” Of course he did. He always had, from the moment Citrus and Libra showed up at his door, almost eight years ago. He’d kept their secrets, kept them safe, kept them loved.
Love…
A soft thud of four hooves hitting the floorboards pricked Braeburn’s ears alert. He fumbled in the darkness, quickly locating a box of matches with one hoof and grabbing his Stetson with the other. He lit the lamp on his nightstand. A dim, flickering flame illuminated the room. Braeburn tensed a bit, sliding one forehoof under his pillow, where his revolver awaited in its holster.
At his door came a gentle rapping of hoof against oak and a mare’s voice. “Braeburn? Are you awake?”
“C-Citrus?”
Cautiously, Citrus Blossom opened the door and shut it behind her. She trotted over to the stallion’s bed, her eyes half-opened and weighed with weariness. “I hope I didn’t wake you. I’m sorry if I did,” she said, keeping her voice low.
Braeburn shook his muzzle and relaxed. “No, cuz, Ah was already awake.”
He swung his hindhooves off the bed and gestured for her to sit beside him. She did so without a word, absentmindedly running a forehoof through her mane. Her long, flowing mane, her mane that matched her eyes, which glowed in the moonlight pouring in through his window.
“Oh, that’s good.” Citrus tapped her hindhooves together on the floor and sighed. “I tried to sleep, but I kept having nightmares.”
“Nightmares, huh?” Braeburn removed his Stetson and gripped it tightly, turning it in circles in his grasp. “’Bout what?”
“See, that’s the thing. I don’t really know. All I knew was that it was dark, and cold.” She turned to face him, a tense smile on her muzzle. “Did I ever tell you what happened when Babs and I went to Canterlot a few years ago?”
Braeburn snorted and slammed his hat on his head. “What? That them Canterlot numbskulls blew off one o’ the mo' beautiful mares in Appleloosa? Yeah, Ah remember that.”
Breaking her gaze, Citrus looked to the floor, then back to Braeburn, then back again. “Thank you, Brae, but I know you don’t mean that.”
“’Course Ah mean that!” he snapped back, startling both of them. “Ah… Ah mean,” he muttered, flustered, speaking softer this time, “Ah’m not one fer lies, Citrus. Heh. Ah’m an honest Deputy.”
“Hmm.” Citrus scooted closer to him on the bed, tilting her head as if observing a particularly interesting specimen for the first time. “I’m not sure… Doesn’t absolute power corrupt absolutely, Braeburn?” she mused. “And, besides… they were right, anyway.”
“Naw! Don’t you believe that fer a damn second.” Pulling her into a hug, Braeburn whispered, “Are ya sure that’s what this is all ‘bout? Canterlot?”
Wrapping her forehooves around him, Citrus Blossom buried her muzzle in his chest and replied, muffled, “N-no, I-I’m sc-scared that—“
~
Up, up, up the cliffs they galloped, hooves sliding and sinking into the sands. Unfamiliar steps they were, and unfamiliar ponies, too, unaccustomed to the ruthless blanket of white-and-beige that spurred their movements. The thirteen Earth ponies here found a new and strange power, a surge of energy that rocketed them through camp and into the tiny settlement. For many of them, this was the first night they’d ran on something other than concrete, and it gave them life.
“SPLIT UP!” Switch bellowed, her voice echoing against the cliff-faces and empty buildings.
On her signal, four set off towards the north end of Appleloosa, towards the salt-bar. Four more went towards the western corner, where the saloon awaited. She and four of her fellows were eastward bound, choosing a course for the Sheriff’s Office.
All was ripe for the pillaging.
Switch made haste, leading three stallions and another mare. The sands grew easier to traverse with each step, and the leader of the company discovered a rush of adrenaline that lit her entire being aflame.
All around them, the town was silent, quiet. Other than Switch's edicts, none of the thirteen made a sound. The entire company was prepped for battle, dressed in black from muzzle to tail, indistinguishable from shadows.
Seemingly, a few seconds passed between the cliffs and the porch of the Sheriff’s Office. A grizzled stallion was fast asleep in a rocking chair, but not for long.
While one of the stallions kicked in the door to the station—a few bucks of his iron hooves easily breaching the entry—Switch leapt on the sleeping stallion, crashing him down to the ground.
“What in tarnation?!”
WHACK! Switch beat the stallion once, twice, three times on the snout with the barrel of her pistol. He began to howl in agony, silenced by a forehoof shoved into his mouth.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” she hissed, spraying him with spittle. He struggled, flailing his hooves, kicking her between her flanks. Useless against a mare—and this one in particular—Switch laughed and brought the barrel of her gun upon his snout once more.
Sheriff Silverstar whimpered, blood gushing from his nose, and fumbled for his own weapon. Switch connected with his searching forehoof, hard, setting his neurons afire. The mare had all but broken his forelimb. Wasting no time, Switch grabbed his revolver and pressed it against his forehead.
“Where are youze Deputies?!”
“Mmprh mrr mmph!”
Removing her forehoof from his mouth, Switch repeated, “Where are youze Deputies?! Spill it, fucka, o’ I’ll blow youze brains out!”
“Ah ain’t tellin’ ya!”
“Wrong answer!” The mare stomped where it counted and shoved the barrel of her pistol into the stallion’s gaping maw. He screeched around the metal, seeing stars from somewhere more sinister than the wondrous skies above him.
Leaning in close, letting him see the pure, unbridled rage in her pupils, Switch commanded, “Last time: tell me where youze deputies are, o’ I’ll kill youze. Right now.”
From within the office came a shout. “Switch! Switch!”
“What is it?!” Switch kept her eyes glued to the bleeding, bruised, still-struggling Sheriff beneath her. Laughing, she slammed his head into the porch, watching his pupils spin around inside his eye sockets.
“Dey got the locations o’ the two Deputies' houses marked on a map inside heeya!” the same stallion replied, waving a piece of parchment. “It’s the stars on the map!”
Beaming, she called out, “So, I don’t need dis snivelin’ wreck out heeya?”
“Nope! Nopony else inside heeya, so go ‘head an’ waste him.”
“Wit’ pleasure.”
Switch shoved the barrel deeper down the stallion’s throat, laughing all the way. Sheriff Silverstar made one last attempt to save himself, wrapping both forehooves around the pistol and shoving it up. The seasoned gang-pony, however, saw right through his ruse, and pulled the trigger before he could even make it budge.
Above, the skies shone a bit brighter for a second, a silenced shot ringing through the night.
~
Before Citrus Blossom could reveal her true and deepest fear, she was interrupted by the sound of wood splitting and a series of hooves charging into the living room.
Braeburn immediately fished his revolver from beneath his pillow and jumped from the bed, shoving Citrus towards the wall. “Stay here!”
She sat on her haunches, frozen, watching the stallion scamper to the door to his room, revolver in forehoof, armed and ready.
From beyond the oak, Braeburn heard muffled shouts and commands. Four ponies. One heading towards the guest room, one towards his aunt and cousin’s room, and one towards his.
He couldn’t delay a second longer.
Swinging the door open with his unarmed hoof, Braeburn took quick aim. Right in front of him, his balaclava torn off, stood the same stallion from the saloon—the one who’d been pinned by the others. Immediately, Braeburn squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
The stallion collapsed to the floor, a perfect hole between his eyes. Seven shots remained.
“AUNTIE! LOCK YER DOOR!”
Leaping over the body, Braeburn took cover near a bookshelf and swept the scene. He was in the living room now. A stallion stood by the door and spun towards him, rifle raised. Saved by the split-second, Braeburn fired again, sending hot lead straight into the stallion’s neck.
From the guest room came a loud bellow and an even louder BANG! Unsure which sound belonged to Deuce and which belonged to the intruder, Braeburn had no choice but to kick off his hooves, speeding towards his aunt’s bedroom.
“AUNTIE!”
~
The saloon went first, both wood and spirits making fine kindling. First, the team of four smashed the contents within, paying special attention to the Applejack Daniel’s, apple cider, and apple juice. For reasons unbeknownst to the thugs, the Master had commanded all things apple be destroyed, first.
The other liquors were gathered and dumped throughout the saloon: on the counters, stools, and walls, both inside and out. Within a few minutes, the wood reeked of alcohol, prime for ignition.
Once his brothers were safely outside the bar, the pyrotechnic of the bunch positioned the broken-down back door of the saloon in the threshold and lit it aflame with a single match. The door had been thoroughly soaked in alcohol. A small, flickering ember soon became a ball of flame, and then another, and then another, setting off a chain reaction of tempest and torrent, the walls and ceiling bursting into tongues of fire.
“Go! Go! Go! Go!” called the pyrotechnic, panicking. The fire accelerated faster than he expected. He took off towards the cliff-faces, the corner of his eye focused on the burning saloon. He was shocked and horrified to see one of his brothers caught up in the flames near the door, burning, screaming, howling to the empty heavens.
He swallowed his sorrow and pressed on. Another loss. Another night.
The remaining three were about halfway to the cliffs overlooking the orchards when the devils came.
~
Mere feet from the door to Libra Scales’ room, the remaining stallion turned and pumped his shotgun, focusing it on the blur rushing towards him. The stallion smirked and squeezed off a few quick rounds.
BOOM! BOOM!
One soared over Braeburn’s Stetson, missing both hat and mane by a tiny degree. The other grazed the Deputy in the shoulder, wounding him as it met its destination in the floorboards. Groaning in pain and gritting his teeth, he rolled under the coffee table and stretched out his forehooves, returning fire.
BANG! BANG!
“AHHHHHHH!” The stallion dropped his shotgun and fell to his stomach, setting off the trigger as the weapon clattered to the floor. The shot ricocheted and whizzed from wall to ceiling to wall, finishing in its master’s side. He screamed again.
Bleeding, running off pure adrenaline, Braeburn stumbled to his hooves and rushed to the door. The injured stallion reached for his weapon, his motion ended by a quick bullet to the forehead. Four shots now.
No regard for carpentry, Braeburn kicked in the door. “AUNTIE!”
“BRAEBURN!” Libra Scales rushed to meet him, a knife in her forehooves, her entire body trembling from a fetid concoction of primal fear and white-hot rage. “What’s happening?! Where’s Citrus?! Where’s—“
“She’s—“
A mare’s scream from the next room sent them both galloping again.
~
“Freeze right there!”
Pickaxe and his two cronies raised their revolvers, pointing squarely at the gang of three. “Drop yer weapons! Drop ‘em, now!” he commanded, his forehooves shaking, unskilled and unsteady.
The three exchanged gazes. Thoroughly encased and disguised in black, their eyes spoke what their muzzles could not. Together, the three King’s Knights raised their weapons and fired.
Pickaxe, caught off-guard, took an immediate bullet to the stomach. He fell to the sand, staining it crimson, his vision fading. With rapidly-draining strength, he shouted, “Fuck you!” and brought his revolver up, emptying the chamber into his attacker.
The two other Appleloosians met bullet for bullet, and soon the scene was a haze of gunsmoke and dust and sand and lead. The towns-ponies were awakened now, the armed rushing into town square towards the sound of the chaos, the unarmed locking their doors and praying to whatever Higher Powers they reckoned would listen.
When the haze cleared, three Knights laid on the ground, freed from their endless, maddening toil.
Three Appleloosian trouble-makers laid down as well for the last time, the rowdiest among them whispering, “Ah was right, Celestia-damned city folk...”
Pickaxe took his last breath, his last thought being of starlight.
~
Citrus pressed her back into the wall, standing up on her hindhooves. “Keep away from me! Keep away from me!!” she shrieked, fumbling in the dim light of the lamp for something, anything. A hammer. A rope. A knife. A gun.
The mare trotted towards her, slowly, deliberately. The pistol in her grasp was steady, perfectly aimed, perfectly wielded. “Such a pretty mare,” Switch hissed, her molars reflecting the steady light of the lamp’s flame. “All alone. Dey left youze all alone, pretty mare. Maybe me an’ ma coltfriends should have some fun wit’ youze.”
“G-g-get a-away!”
“Youze would make a fine mare fo’ King’s Ransom,” muttered the intruder, taunting her further. She was halfway to the bed now, her weapon locked on the distraught mare. She was feeling particularly playful tonight; if she had the time, she would do far more than just kill this one, and all those within the despicable deputy’s house.
“Youze know what King’s Ransom is? Fo’ stallions, it’s death. Fo’ mares, it’s a fate far worse. Unless youze a slut. Which I bet youze are, aren’t youze?”
Citrus Blossom gulped, her forehooves finding nothing hanging on the wall or on the shelf above Braeburn’s bed or on top of the dresser beside it or anywhere between. The pistol was trained on her, and she knew the mare would shoot to kill. Terror strangled her, rendering her muscles and her muzzle useless.
Citrus knew that no amount of rippling muscle or bucking hindhooves could save her now. All those seasons in the orchards, working until her hooves ached and her mane was wild and she smelled like a stallion—all of that was for naught.
She was unarmed, and would pay the price for her foalish mistake.
One last time, she warned her empty threat. “Get away from me.”
Switch chuckled and said, “I don’t think so, sweetheart,” then reached for the trigger.
~
Four King’s Knights had barely struck a match when the Appleloosians, at least twenty of them, came galloping. Pistols, revolvers, shotguns, rifles, knives, pickaxes, pitchforks, and hooves rose to meet them. The four would-be arsonists raised their weapons in futile opposition.
The battle was quick, but the end did not come. The Knights howled and screamed and begged and pleaded and forgot their orders. They lost all dignity, all semblance of courage or self-control, as the towns-ponies pinned them, tied their hooves, kicked and punched and stomped them. Appleloosa itself was a slumbering dragon, now awakened, raging, bloodthirsty and wild.
They were disarmed, beaten, spat on, tormented. The night raged on, beautiful and silent, the moon bright and illuminating all their debauchery. To their horror, the King’s Knights soon discovered nooses around their necks, and sets of hooves flinging them onto strong stallion’s backs.
As they approached the highest point in town—the clock-tower, and an Equestrian flag hanging from a pole near the top—the remaining Knights thought of their brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, their gangs, and, vaguely, their true families.
Then, they thought of the Master, and his promises of wealth and security and safety and sanity and justice in an unjust world.
The Appleloosians hung them up, one by one, onto the now-barren flagpole. And, each time, a Knight realized his tattoo burned more than ever, far after its healing.
~
“CITRUS, GET DOWN!”
Switch snapped her neck around. There, Braeburn depleted another round of his revolver. The bullet whipped around the approaching mare and stuck firmly in his mattress. Citrus Blossom jumped onto the bed and covered her head with her forehooves, unable to cry, unable to speak anymore, unable to do anything but shiver and watch with inexplicable fascination.
From beyond the threshold came another scream, and a scramble, and Braeburn knew that Deuce had made the bellow of agony. Not his attacker. His attacker and Libra were wrestling now, shouting and screaming and biting and thrashing, and he had to act fast.
Three rounds. Braeburn rolled into a corner, leaned up on his hindhooves, and fired again.
BANG!
Lead embedded in the floor as the intruder leapt to the side. Two.
BANG!
Switch jumped again, just in time.
The lamp shattered, blanketing the room in darkness. One.
Dark. The bedroom was dark, except for the glow of their eyes and the fire in the distance beyond his window and the moon even farther away, sickeningly away, where the goddesses watched and did not care, where the Most High did not smile or intervene.
“Youze a bad shot!” Switch taunted, popping off a quick round of her own.
BOOM!
Braeburn dodged, leaping from his corner to the threshold. One more bullet. “Yer worse!”
His shoulder throbbed, his body ached, but he jumped again, missing another, and another, until he was dancing, dancing in his bedroom, from corner to threshold to corner until—
Until Switch’s trigger fired no more. Empty.
Unfazed, she lunged at the stallion, knocking him off his hindhooves in mid-jump. Switch pinned Braeburn to the floor, thrashing against him, locking her hindhooves around his flanks. She pulled his head up by his mane and slammed his head into the wall.
WHACK!
Stars in front of his eyes. So beautiful.
WHACK!
A million of them. A thousand. A thousand points of light.
WHACK!
How he loved them. How he loved it all. His town. His family. His everything.
His…
Switch drew his muzzle back, bleeding and bruised. She could sense the life fading from him, the way his breathing slowed, the way his flailing ceased. She was close. Oh, how she should’ve brought a knife! Slinger loved knives. Slinger would love her.
“Time ta die,” Switch whispered, and pulled Braeburn's head back.
Suddenly, there was a THUD! of forehooves striking against the floorboards. Those forehooves, as they came down, caught Switch in the side.
Switch rolled and gasped, agony in her torso, certain she’d shattered ribs. The meek mare was on top of her, pinning her to the ground.
Citrus pummeled Switch, no tears, no screams. She went mute, focused only on their attacker, on making her stop, stop, stop. Though a true farm-pony by now, she was not as strong as a gang-pony, and Switch soon flipped their positions. Now, Switch was on top of Citrus, a demonic grin on her face and fire in her eyes.
Switch brought her forehooves down around the mare’s neck and began to squeeze. Citrus, too, saw the stars, how beautiful they were.
Braeburn shook out of his daze, dizzy still, and grabbed his revolver. He flopped down on his belly and aimed at the intruder's neck. Last shot in the chamber.
BANG!
Switch drew her forehooves back, her pupils dilating. Once lead kissed her vertebrae, she slumped down on top of Citrus Blossom, and went to Tartarus to await her love.
Citrus, gasping for breath, managed to shove the mare’s body off herself before she collapsed, muzzle-down, into the floor.
Libra Scales, too, emerged from her battle, kicking a stallion’s body out from under her. In her forehooves was the knife she’d hidden in her nightstand—a simple kitchen knife. The stainless steel blade would be forever stained crimson.
She tossed it to the floor, letting it clatter, and crawled over to her daughter.
Braeburn, clutching at his shoulder, crawled on his belly, dragging himself across the blood-stained floorboards of their cabin. He held his empty revolver in his other forehoof. He crawled over to Citrus and Libra, and waited.
And waited.
In the distance, Braeburn could hear the jeers and whoops, the shouts of triumph and rage from town square, and he knew he was not alone. Hell had not just come to him.
Hell had come to them all.
“Deuce?” Braeburn asked at last, his words barely audible over his pained breathing.
Silence.
Libra Scales pulled her daughter up off the floor and into her forehooves. Citrus, although mostly unharmed—unmarred, except for a few dark, purple bruises around her neck—began to sob.
Libra and Braeburn held her close for a few minutes, or maybe a few hours.
Finally, Citrus brought her face out from her forehooves and sniffed, looking at Braeburn. “You’re bleeding.”
Braeburn examined the wound on his shoulder. It was about the size of a bit, nowhere near deep enough to need stitches. “Ah’m lucky. It’s jus’ a flesh wound. Ah’ll bandage up in a minute. Are ya okay?”
“Thanks to you, I am,” Citrus answered, a few remaining tears streaming down her cheeks. She pulled Braeburn closer to her, hugging him tight. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
“Yer the one that saved me,” Braeburn whispered back as he squeezed her tight.
Libra Scales threw her forehooves around daughter and nephew, held them close, and allowed herself to cry for the first time that night.
After a few minutes, they pulled away, sitting on their haunches in a strange, sickening silence.
Then, without warning, Citrus Blossom grabbed Braeburn by the muzzle and kissed him.
“C-Citrus?!” Braeburn pulled away from her, blushing a deep crimson.
Citrus blushed in return, her cream-colored muzzle bright red. “S-sorry.”
Libra Scales, on any other night, would’ve objected, or at least asked a few questions. Tonight, she could only smile.
Braeburn paused, and, then, kissed her back.
In the distance, the flames began to fade, and five new stars rose in the night sky.