Changeling Chronicles: Consequences of Canterlot

by Cyanblackstone

Chapter 6: Attacked

The trigger clicked, and Bold flinched, but no ball of lead came flying out of the muzzle. A few more clicks confirmed to the thug that the gun had jammed. “Darned subpar piece of manure,” he cursed as he smacked it a few times.
But the precious seconds of reprieve it brought his victim made all the difference.
A sudden wave of confidence struck Bold, stopping his shaking and cutting off his cold sweat.
Something deep inside murmured, ‘You can do it. I know you can,’ and suddenly, he knew it was right. He could save himself.
He may not have been particularly strong with his magic, but he was an author! How many hours had he pored over ancient books to get the details of old combat spells?
And how many times had he practiced them, again and again, until he succeeded, so he could get the details just right for the next chapter?
The real danger of guns was the element of surprise and their speed and range; if somepony happened to be at close range, be noticed, and not be able to follow up (like the thug), just about anypony with a little training or talent could deal with him.
Smirking irrationally, he slapped a bit-sized shield in the barrel of the gun.
Finally getting it unjammed, the thug aimed hastily, resting it on his cheek, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet traveled roughly an inch and a half before encountering the thick magical shield and stopped dead, trapping the rapidly expanding gases behind it. In a contest of force, the weakest part of the impromptu container blew out.
Unfortunately for the wielder, the weakest point wasn’t the very small and very thick shield; it was the breech of the pistol, which blew sideways into his face in a shower of hot metal and gas. He screamed and fell over, clawing at his shrapnel-riddled, terribly burnt face, and the other thug stood, frozen, for a second.
“You little bucker!” he screamed, rushing at Bold, knife held high. “I’ll gut ya for that!”
But Bold had regained his confidence, eyes full of arcane formulae and blind to the world outside, and even with his entirely average hornpower, he’d spent dozens of hours studying warspells for his novels.
In effect, he was the equivalent of an apprentice warmage. And even apprentice warmages were terrors on the battlefield.
Bold tossed out a diagonal wave of force, aiming to knock the knife out of the thug’s head. Instead, it whipped his head around with a crack and threw him skidding sideways, knife falling out of suddenly-slack jaws.
The difference between an apprentice warmage and an adept is the amount of control one holds over one’s spells.
“Luna’s hot flank,” he whispered, confidence draining out, replaced by horror.
The knife-wielding pony wasn’t moving, and by the way his head was looking backwards, would never be again. The other had stopped screaming, but he’d also stopped breathing.
What had he done? They were dead, because of him. Even if they’d been scum, they were dead. Even if they were planning on killing him, they were dead. Even if it had been a miscalculation, they were dead.
They. Were. Dead.
Bold vomited, barely avoiding his own hooves.
He was a murderer.
He was a murderer!
His knees gave, and he slumped to the street, shivering, all vestiges of composure slipping away.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, his head turned to the bag of morphine which now law sideways on the pavement.
He watched, unable to break away, as a syringe of morphine rolled onto the pavement. Then another.
And then the bag of pills fell out, and though Bold recoiled, his hoof reached for the bag.
No. He couldn’t. He’d sworn he wouldn’t, that he would never again.
He tried, tried so hard, to move away, to gather the morphine and leave the pills in the street where they belonged, but almost against his will, his hoof nudged the bag open, revealing the innocent capsules within.
Then, with a final effort of what was left of his will, he pulled his hoof away. No. Not today. Not now.
But then some sickly familiar noises pricked his ears. It was the sound of somepony’s body realizing it was dead—the beginning of the process that led to rigor mortis and eventually decomposition.
Goddesses, he’d researched those sounds only a month before.
And he’d caused them.
He reached for two of the pills, and shakily popped them into his mouth, coming open though he half-heartedly wished for it to clamp closed.
He swallowed.
Then it didn’t seem to matter anymore.
Nothing mattered anymore.
Except...
For one thing.

Author's Note:

So, along with this short chappie, I'm giving out a notice: I'm now accepting requests to beta read/critique any works, you, my readers, may wish!
And best of all? It's abso-freaking-lutely free of charge. I refuse to make others pay for what I enjoy doing. Just mention me, and I'll be happy.
So, if any of you want to have me read your stuff and give you some tips, send me a PM and I'll do it.

Comments

[Ms_Fruit_Bat]

Damn, Bold is a junky and a killer.
Interesting, very interesting.

[Lag Incarnate]

Remember, it's self-defense, so it's alright.

[nioniosbbbb]

Yiff cliff hangers.

[HoundofDarkness]

"his head turned to the bag of morphine which now law sideways on the pavement."

Just thought I'd point that out. Just found this story, it's quite interesting.

[Razzy]

Huh, a junkie? Interesting.