I'm Coming For You

by killingfrenzycreator

Part One: Sombrero

Crack!

Thud!

The branch, not the strongest one on the tree, finally snapped under the weight of the three ponies. Braeburn snapped to consciousness as soon as he hit the ground, and immediately untied the rope from his neck and took a great, deep breath. He brushed dust off of his vest and picked up his old brown cowpony hat to keep the sun from his face. Then, he rushed to his brothers and shook them, but...

Being they were older and heavier, they were already dead, their necks broken instantly. Braeburn's was bruised, but he would be okay.

Tearing up, Braeburn collapsed to the ground, sobbing and roaring in grief and anger. He sat, his hoof to his face, bawling, as the sun beat down on him and the dust closed in on him. He sat as his body used up what moisture was left, and he began to get dehydrated. But still he sat, clutching on to the dead bodies of his kin.

And then came the next stage. Braeburn's vision became red with a blinding fury, an anger very unlike anything he had ever felt. He wanted to kill, to hurt, to maim. The thought scared him, but even deeper inside, it sparked a yearning, a raging desire... a goal. At that moment, Braeburn swore to himself and to Apple Bucker and Bushel... that he would avenge them. However, when he stood up, his legs were wobbly, his head was spinning, and he lost his balance and collapsed to the ground. Forcing himself up, he started trudging onward, almost dragging his drying body down the trail.

It took Braeburn a few more hours to reach Appleoosa, and by that time he was thoroughly exhausted. The sun was lingering on the horizon when he finally collapsed. Dust had caked in his nostrils and he was struggling to breathe, and combined with severe sun stroke and complete exhaustion, he was on the verge of death. He had passed out and was found by the bartender.

Braeburn awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. Albeit the bed he was laying in was much more comfortable than his straw bed back home, and the colorful painting for the walls was much nicer than Braeburn's dreary grey paint, he still panicked. There was a damp rag on his forehead and the dust had been wiped from his nostrils and eyes, and there was strength in his limbs. Also, he did not feel that subtle gagging sensation as he did right after the noose was on his neck. Braeburn cringed as the memories suddenly came back to him. He sat up, a little too quickly, and his stiff back popped and created a dull ache in his lower spine. Doing his best to ignore it, Braeburn shambled out of the bed and tripped on the covers, and ended up falling on his face. The door suddenly opened, and the bartender stepped in.

"Ah! You're awake!" he exclaimed, helping Braeburn to his hooves.

"Where am I? What happened?" Braeburn croaked.

"I found you passed out in the street. Figured I'd best get you up. I was assuming you were drunk, but then I noticed signs of a heat stroke and got you inside in a jiffy. I've been giving you water and keeping you cool these last few days."

"Days!?!"

"Reckon so. You've been feverish, in and out a few times, and delusional. It appears that you've finally woken up. What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

Braeburn sighed and told the story. The bartender listened thoughtfully but added no comment till the very end.

"A shame, that. Rattlesnake Canyon, you say? They've been there for a few days. I think it's time for a proper burial."

Braeburn teared up. "Thanks. I'm ashamed of leaving them out there, but I was barely strong enough to get myself here alive. I had no choice."

"I understand completely. The name's Absinthe, by the way." Absinthe turned to leave, but Braeburn called out to him.

"Absinthe? Do you know any of the ponies who did that?" Braeburn questioned, feeling that hatred flutter inside of him once more.

"I think one of them mentioned his name was Sombrero. The short one, with the brown coat and the hat with the damaged brim. Sounded like he was from out further West, out where there isn't much law and trouble runs rampant."

"Thanks, Absinthe. Could I get a glass of water, please? My throat's a mite dry," Braeburn muttered. Absinthe nodded and left the room. Moments later, he was back with some ice water. Braeburn took it and gulped it down in one big mouthful. He nodded in thanks. Absinthe took the glass and started for the door. Suddenly, he turned sharply around.

"Don't go hunting vengeance, boy. It'll consume your entire life and leave you with nothing at the end, if you don't get yourself killed along the way. Trust me. I've seen many a colt who drowned their sorrows in my bar, who were left with empty lives after spending theirs huntin' other ponies."

"Thanks for the advice, Absinthe, but I'm afraid my life is already empty. Now please, go and find my brothers. They deserve proper respects. I think Ah'll head out to my house and recover a bit," Braeburn remarked. Absinthe nodded "When's the next train out West?"

"Tomorrow, there'll be a train headed out to the far West. Maybe you can ask around once you're down there. I think I saw em' headed that-a-ways anyway. Tomorrow mornin', eleven o'clock."

Braeburn's head hit the pillow and he closed his eyes. A few minutes after Absinthe had gone, he got up and headed out of the bedroom. He was in Absinthe's house, a small yet cozy building just across the street from the Saloon. On an oak chair lay Braeburn's hat and vest, recently cleaned. He donned both and opened the door. Normally, Braeburn would've left a few bits for Absinthe's kindness, but Sombrero and his two pals had left him with nothing. Nothing but that old Indian coin, which Braeburn had kept with him unconsciously. It was that young, grey unicorn who put it in his mouth. That young grey unicorn will die soon. And it will be Braeburn's gun that fires the shot.

Braeburn stepped outside into the warm sunlight and saw Absinthe trotting back to the house. Puzzled, Braeburn went over to meet him.

"One last thing. In my bedroom is a dark wooden dresser. In the top shelf is a pair of six shooters and a belt. I think they'll help you in your... quest," Absinthe informed him.

"Thank you so much, Absinthe. Your kindness will be repayed," Braeburn responded.

Absinthe shook his head. "I don't want any payment. Just do what you feel like you need to do."

Braeburn nodded. Absinthe turned back and resumed his journey to Rattlesnake Gorge, and Braeburn returned to the house. It took him only a moment to locate the bedroom, and Braeburn entered. He located the dresser Absinthe spoke of and opened the top drawer. Inside were two beautifully crafted six shooter revolvers. The handles were ivory, and the rest was pure, shining steel. Beside them was a black leather belt, two custom holsters, and a box of one hundred bullets. Braeburn smiled and picked up the guns. They weren't just extremely deadly... they were works of art. There were intricate swerves and swirls and decorative gems. Braeburn instantly fell in love. He put the belt on, dropped the ammo box into a small satchel, loaded both guns, put them in their holsters, and loaded bullets into the cartridge slots. The guns were positioned so that they would be very easy to get to when needed.

Braeburn left and went back to his house, to retrieve some things. An old Winchester .44 with a worn old leather scabbard and strap, a shiny, sharp Bowie knife, and a small wooden box hidden under a loose plank, containing a few bits to fall back on in a financial emergency. All these would be helpful.

Braeburn stretched his arms and legs, and started to feel tired again. He decided to rest up. Tomorrow will be a long day.

Braeburn stepped off the train and instantly felt the heat waves. It was much hotter than it was in Appleoosa.

"How can these ponies stand this?" he muttered, surveying his surroundings and taking a few steps forward. Spotting a saloon, Braeburn decided that would be the best place to find information, and headed forward. Opening the door, the first thing he noticed was the ponies. It was early afternoon, so the saloon wasn't as populated as it usually is. The ones who were there were very rough looking ponies, and every one of them wore a gun. Dual wielding was rare, so most of them only packed one gun.

Braeburn held his breath to block out the acrid stench of the building and trotted up to the bar.

"What'll it be?" a large, burly pony, obviously the bartender, asked in a gruff voice.

"Uh, I'll have a rye," Braeburn ordered.

"Say, you new in town?" the bartender inquired.

"Ayup, I am indeed," answered Braeburn, accepting the drink and tossing two bits on the bar.

"Well, what brings ya 'round t'ese parts?" The stallion's Western accent would be impossible to understand if Braeburn hadn't grown up around Westerners.

"It's a personal matter. Possibly you could help me."

"Shoot, I hardly know ya'! My services aren' free, mizzah."

"I'll give you ten bits, but only if you're able to help me."

The bartender glared, but said, "sounds reasonable 'nuff. Watcha' need? Female comp'ny? You won't find many decent mares 'round here, no siree!"

Braeburn chuckled. "Nah, nothin' o' the sort. I just need help findin' somepony, an' I heard he was from somewhere out here. A big, brown stallion, heavily scarred, grey eyes, an' a sombrero with a damaged brim. Know any pony like that?"

The saloon went silent. "Mizzah, you aren' lookin' fer Sombrero, are ya?" the bartender asked, in a harsh whisper.

"I'm afraid I am," Braeburn responded, feeling kind of shy now that he had the attention of everypony in the saloon.

"You'll git yerself shot, Ah guarantee! But if you're really huntin' trouble, then that's yer business. I ain't gonna give out info like that fer' jus' ten bits. Ah's be puttin' mah life at risk for the price o' five drinks! Whadda ya t'ink I am, stupid? No, siree!"

"Twenty bits is as high as I can go."

The bartender shook his head. "Sorry, son, but Ah ain' suicidal."

Braeburn sighed and slid his hooves off the bar. Finishing his drink, he turned to leave, then suddenly turned back to the bartender.

"Now just who is he? Why are you so scared of him?" he questioned.

"Boy, are you stupid? Sombrero's the meanest bandit in the county!" somepony shouted. Braeburn rolled his eyes and left the saloon.

"Hey," somepony said behind Braeburn. He spun around to see a dull red stallion seated outside the saloon. Braeburn trotted up to him.

"So yer lookin' fer Sombrero, eh? I can help ya find him, but first, Ah need ya to do me a wee lil' favor, aight?"

"Sure, I guess," Braeburn responded hopefully yet cautiously.

"Right, good little colt. There's somepony that's gon' get hanged tonight, and he ain' done nothin' wrong. Some members o' Sombrero's outfit are actin' as Vigilantees, and they hangin' him 'cause o' some ol' grudge 'twixt 'em. You need tah go an' stop it. Then Ah'll let ya know where Sombrero is hidin' out."

Braeburn thought it over, then made up his mind. "Alright. Where's this lynchin' takin' place at?"

The stallion gestured at a hill about a mile away. "Top o' dat hill, there's a big tree. They call it tha hangin' tree. It'll be up there, 'round midnight."

"Right," Braeburn responded suspiciously. "And how'd you find out about this?"

"Simple. I overheard some hoods talkin' in the saloon. Little alcohol an' they go ramblin' on 'bout ever'ting! Fella got arrested las' week for braggin' 'bout robbin' a stagecoach after he drowned hisself in liquor."

"Alright. I'll do what I can."

It was about ten minutes until midnight. Braeburn sat in wait behind a large boulder, right by the tree the stranger had mentioned. He was starting to get impatient when he heard the sounds of ponies walking. Peeking over the rock, he spotted three ponies. It was hard to see in the dark, but one of them definitely had a rope around his neck. Braeburn shuddered at the memory of a rope tightening against his throat, making it impossible to draw that breath that you so desperately need. He picked up the rifle and aimed carefully.

"Howdy," he yelled, making himself known.

"Who's there?" one of the gangsters yelled. Braeburn answered the question with a shot from his rifle, and the pony fell, dead. The other tried to draw, but Braeburn aimed, levered the gun, and fired before the other pony had a chance.

Braeburn felt slightly sick at the thought of taking another pony's life, but he dismissed the thought. After all, he needed to get used to dealing with the bad guys. Violence was the route he chose, and it was the route he'd take. After all, they were riding with Sombrero.

The would-be victim cringed, as if he thought he'd be shot, too. Instead, Braeburn stepped into view and trotted over to him, rifle in teeth. He slid the weapon into the scabbard, and drew his Bowie knife, then proceeded to cut the victim's bonds and remove his gag and noose.

"T-t-thank you," the pony muttered gratefully.

"Let's just get you somewhere safe. It's mighty cold out tonight," Braeburn said, and picked the pony up.

"I can take care of myself," the colt said.

"Can you now? Is that why I found you with a rope around your neck?"

"That's not fair, they took me by surprise. If I had a gun-"

"Save your breath. Say, you don't sound like you're from around here."

"I'm from Fillydelphia. I came out here to get a sense of adventure... but instead it's just people killing each other! I wanna go back East."

"Quit your complainin'. I ain't from around here myself. In fact, I arrived just this morning. I came from Appleoosa."

The pony Braeburn had just saved made no comment. Braeburn took him to town (of which he still hadn't learned the name of yet) and took him towards the Saloon.

"I got it from here," the other pony said. Braeburn shrugged and headed into the Saloon, followed by the pony he just saved. His eyes caught those of the red stallion, and he nodded.

"Can I rent a room here? Stay fer' a few nights?" Braeburn asked the bartender.

"Well, sure. I'll give ya a room fer free," he replied.

Braeburn was puzzled. "Why do I get it for free?"

"Well, cuz' yer gon' rid us o' thet vermint Sombrero. Word 'round town is you're huntin' him down. So, yer welcome ta' stay as long as you need."

"Thank you," Braeburn said, bowing his head. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmingly exhausted. "Which room is it?"

"Firs' one up the stairs," the bartender said, gesturing at a carpeted staircase. He handed Braeburn a key, and Braeburn wearily trudged up the stairs. He barely managed to unlock the door and get to the bed before he passed out.

Braeburn was awoken by a knock on his door. Opening his eyes, he looked out a stained window and saw that the sun was just rising over the horizon. Getting up, Braeburn trudged over to the door and opened it. There stood the red stallion.

"Howdy," Braeburn muttered, stepping back to let him in. "I don't believe I got your name."

"I don't really have a name. I grew up in an orphanage and ran away when I was still very young. Folks 'round here call me Quick, 'cause I'm able to draw and fire a gun faster than anypony else here."

"Well howdy, Quick. I'm Braeburn. I helped your friend."

"Ah saw thet. Thet's why Ah'm here. To tell you the whereabouts o' Sombrero. A deal's a deal, right?"

"Ayep," Braeburn muttered, putting on his belt, rifle scabbard, Bowie knife, and hat. He was eager to know where Sombrero was, but tried to appear as calm and cool as possible, despite the fact that his mind was overcome by a burning desire to repay Sombrero for the rope he had helped to give to him and his brothers.

"They've got a hideout up in Cactus County. Sidewinder Canyon's the place. There's a few stallions there, all good with their iron, so you best watch yerself. And no matter what, never tell anypony it was me who told ya' about their hideout."

"How do you know about it?" Braeburn questioned.

"Used to run wid' him. Till he lef' me fer the buzzards out in the middle of the desert. Now I wanna see the life drain from his bullet-riddled body, but I'm fine wid' lettin' you do it."

Braeburn nodded. "Thank you, Quick. You're a good stallion."

Quick scoffed. "Of the many things I may be, good isn't one of them." Noticing the puzzled look on Braeburn's face, he added, "I jus' tol' ya, I used ta' run wid' Sombrero's gang." Braeburn nodded his head in understanding.

"Good luck, now. You're gonna need it."

"Thanks, Quick. Whether I die or Sombrero dies, it really doesn't matter to me. I won't be afraid of taking lead if it means sending Sombrero to hell."

Quick left the room, leaving Braeburn alone. Today was the day.

Braeburn asked for directions to Sidewinder Canyon. After finally receiving them, he set out to repay Sombrero. To his surprise, Braeburn didn't have to go far. In fact, he had just left town when somepony stopped him.

"Hey!" shouted somepony behind him. Braeburn recognized the voice. He spun around, muscles tense, ready to act.

Sombrero sat on the ground just ten yards away, his right hoof poised by his gun. "I hear yuh've been lookin' fer me!"

Braeburn nodded. "Ayep. Today's your last, Sombrero." He said that last word with obvious distaste, and he too sat on the ground, hoof poised for the draw.

Sombrero wasn't in the mood for idle talk. His hoof moved towards the gun with lightning speed, and Braeburn had just barely touched his own gun before Sombrero's bullet came spinning towards him. Braeburn couldn't even clear leather before the bullet struck him in the thigh. Braeburn fell backwards from the force of the bullet, feeling a sharp pain in his side and a strange burning sensation going through his body. His vision was slowly darkening. Sombrero chuckled and holstered his gun, leaving the area.

Braeburn woke up in his bed. His left thigh hurt like hell, and the memory of what happened came back to him. How had he been so slow in comparison? Braeburn had heard of the quickdraw duels from out West, but he had never really practiced. He always thought it would be easy to just grab the gun, pull it out, and shoot really fast. But he hadn't even had the chance to pull his gun out before Sombrero had fired.

Fortunately for Braeburn, the round had passed through his body, miraculously missing all his organs and arteries. It ripped nothing but flesh. However, it was as sore as an ulcerated back tooth...

Then another thought came to Braeburn. How did he end up here? The last thing he remembered was the ever-growing blackness obscuring his vision. Had he woken up and crawled back? Unlikely. Whoever brought him here had cleaned and bandaged his wound. Braeburn doubted that he would've been able to get back to town by himself. So who saved him? Quick? Maybe. Or was it that other pony that he had saved from being lynched? Or maybe just a random traveler who was passing by and found him lying there. Either way, he was alive, and so was Sombrero. Braeburn had never wanted something so badly. He wouldn't even dig Sombrero a grave once he was done.

Twice now was he hospitalized because of Sombrero. Braeburn got up- much more slowly and carefully this time- and opened the door. He walked down the stairs and approached the bar. The rough looking bartender looked up from a shot glass he was cleaning with a dirty was rag.

"Back in the land ah the livin', Ah see!" he exclaimed enthusiastically as Braeburn walked up.

"What happened?" Braeburn questioned nonchalantly.

"Quick found ya' outside ah town an' brought you in right quick. If'n I was you, I'd go by an' thank him."

Braeburn got directions and went to Quick's house. The door was answered shortly after he knocked. Quick gestured for him to come in, and Braeburn stepped inside.

"What do ya need?" Quick asked politely.

"I came to thank ya for savin' me," Braeburn responded.

"That isn't all of it, is it?"

Braeburn paused a moment, then shook his head. "You're the fastest one in town, right?" Quick nodded. "Even faster than Sombrero?"

"Much faster."

"Then I need your help. I couldn't even get my gun loose afore he shot me down."

Quick waited a moment before responding. Then, finally, he said, "I'll help ya. Jus' come on down to tha hills wit' me, every day for a week or so. I'll show ya the odds an' ends to tha quick draw."

Braeburn thanked him "When does trainin' start?"

"Right now, if'n you ain't busy."

"You know I ain't busy, Quick."

"Then follow me. We've got a lotta work to do."

That week passed by. Every day, Braeburn went to the hills and practiced with Quick. He learned the best stance, how to reach for the gun, and how to fire from the hip accurately. Even after his training, Braeburn went up to those hills to practice every day for another month. Each day, he progressively got better. After two weeks, Braeburn was able to hip shoot an old tin can from fifty-five yards only a second after drawing. He monitored his own progress. He was much faster than Sombrero now, and he knew it. The time was coming soon.

Sombrero knew he was alive. Braeburn had noticed Sombrero watching him from the saloon some nights. What Sombrero didn't know was that Braeburn had been working on his gun skills. He had no idea what was coming to him. He just assumed Braeburn had given up after his near-death experience.

Finally, the day came when Braeburn decided to end what he had started one month ago. His thigh had healed, leaving only a scar to remind him of his old self. Braeburn just left town at noon one day, taking with him all his weaponry. It was now or never. Everypony who saw him leaving knew where he was going. And they weren't quite sure how it would end.

Braeburn approached Sidewinder Canyon. There was a steep dirt slope, with sunbathed rock walls growing ever higher around you. There were fallen boulders everywhere. At the bottom of the slope was a large, round basin with rocks here and there, and small dirt trails heading up to vantage points on the sides of the cliff. Braeburn saw the bandits before they saw him. He positioned himself behind a rock midway down the slope, aimed his rifle, and squeezed off his shot. The bullet found it's mark; Braeburn had aimed for the pony's neck, and had hit him right where he wanted to.

The colt he just downed let out a choking noise. The others had heard the shot, and they heard the gurgles of the pony drowning in his own blood, and knew immediately that they were under attack. The bandits scurried about, taking cover behind boulders and firing randomly in Braeburn's direction. Braeburn looked over the boulder, aimed, and hit a pony who was running for the next bit of cover. He collapsed with a yelp and didn't get back up. Another bandit looked up to fire and got his hat shot off. He dropped to the ground immediately.

Braeburn sat back down and fed the missing shells into his Winchester. He dove for the next rock, and a passing bullet grazed his arm, leaving a small scratch. It was bleeding, but not very much. Braeburn landed behind the boulder, aimed around the side, and fired. The bullet kicked up dirt right in front of a bandit who was feeling a little too much bravado. He jumped and leaped for cover. Braeburn levered the gun and shot another bandit in the chest.

Sombrero only had twelve bandits in his gang, and Braeburn had just killed three. That left nine. Braeburn was well aware of his danger but wasn't afraid of death. He kept shooting downrange until two more bandits lay dead and at least one more was wounded. Then he moved to the next bit of cover. The bandits learned to keep their heads down, and only appeared occasionally to make a shot. One jumped up to shoot at Braeburn. He didn't know that Braeburn had moved, and sat waiting for Braeburn to poke his head up again. That gave Braeburn time to aim carefully, and his would-be killer got his head blown off.

Braeburn decided he was close enough to them and holstered his rifle. Drawing one six shooter, he peeked around cover and saw a little bit of a hiding bandit's head. Braeburn squeezed off a shot, and that pony fell, deceased. After another five minutes of gunplay, only two bandits remained.

"We surrenda! Don't shoot, we'll come quiet!" One of them yelled.

"Drop your guns and step into the open!" Braeburn ordered, keeping his six shooter at the ready. One of the bandits slowly walked around a rock and stood. Suddenly, he yelled "I ain't gonna hang!" and tried to draw, but was shot by Braeburn. The other jumped up, rifle in hoof, but was also gunned down. Braeburn slowly made his way to the basin. At the bottom of the slope was a dirty white tent. Braeburn reloaded his revolver and took a deep breath, then yelled at the top of his lungs, "Sombrero! I've come for ya!"

Sombrero stepped out of the tent and took a few lazy steps forward. "So Ah see. Look, boy, I didn't kill ya before, but I sure as hell will now!"

"Like hell you will!" Braeburn was furious. He holstered his gun. "It's time to settle this, once and for all!" He sat down, hoof poised for the draw. Sombrero did the same.

And there the two sat, fifteen yards apart. Braeburn took his measure with eyes like a rattlesnake, feeling his heart rate increase in anticipation. "Your move," Braeburn said. Sombrero hesitated only a moment before reaching for his gun. The wolfish snarl on his face turned from angry to scared, as he saw Braeburn's gun clear the holster before his. Braeburn waited a moment, and Sombrero finished his draw. Then Braeburn shot. The bullet struck Sombrero's gun, sending it flying off of his hoof.

Sombrero's heart skipped a beat. He was completely at Braeburn's mercy. And from the look in his eyes, Sombrero knew he was going to die right there. Braeburn grinned and fired. The bullet hit Sombrero in the gut, knocking him off balance. Sombrero knew what that meant. He had left a pony gut shot once, and it had taken him a long time to die. And it looked very painful.

"Alright Sombrero. Your time in Equestria is up. Once the shock wears off, you'll start to feel it. These next few hours will be agonizing, and there'll be nothin' you can do to stop it," Braeburn said. Sombrero started sobbing.

"I don't deserve this!" he whined, tears streaming down his face.

"My brothers didn't deserve to hang, but you left them there with me, laughing as you did. Celestia knows how many other ponies you did that to. I'd say you do deserve this. But, I'll cut a deal with ya. You tell me the names and whereabouts of the other two ponies you were with, and I'll end it early for you. Deal?"

"I don't know them!" Sombrero said. Braeburn shrugged and turned to leave. "Wait! I'm kidding! Don't leave me here! I'll tell you!" Braeburn turned back to face him.

"The tan one was from Dodge Junction. His name was Iron Hoof, or somethin' like thet! As for the grey one... Iron n' him were real close, but I had just met 'em. I don't know anythin' about that young 'un! But I'm sure Iron can help ya!" Sombrero was starting to feel the bullet now. It was a slow, dull, sickening feeling, but it stung at the same time.

"Mighty kind o' ya," Braeburn mocked, then turned to leave.

"Wait! What are you doin'? You promised me!"

Braeburn looked back at Sombrero. The former dangerous outlaw was completely helpless. He was almost begging Braeburn to end it quickly.

"Are you feelin' it yet?" Braeburn asked, his voice cold.

"Yes! I can't possibly stand this fer hours! Please! I'm beggin' ya!"

Braeburn chuckled and punched Sombrero's bullet wound. Sombrero howled in pain.

"You're right. A deal's a deal, and I won't disgrace mah family by bein' dishonest." Braeburn cocked the revolver and put the barrel right between Sombrero's eyes... and pulled the trigger.

"One down, two to go," Braeburn muttered, holstering his gun.

Author's Note:

Lots of dialogue... I like that.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! I'll start Part 2 today but I probably won't finish it until tomorrow or even later.

Comments

[MDNGHTRDHTLN]

JUSTICE

That is all. Good chapter.

[killingfrenzycreator]

3334101 Thank you!

[Skarodrone451]

Woah. GO BRAEBURN!! I love it! Cheers!

[killingfrenzycreator]

3334183 YAY
He gets even better soon

[walk-in closet brony]

Y'know, I have this game, and you have written this word for word with the actual videogame. Not disappointed, still gave it a like, but come on man . . .