Big Macintosh's Deathblow

by Germain Firebrand

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Big Macintosh, Adventure, Gore
Length: 13373

The Apple Family has been kidnapped and its up to Big Macintosh to save them

Before Big Macintosh accepted his fate as an apple farmer he tried his hoof at some mercenary work. He moved out west and made a name for himself in the infamous Peacekeeper core. After a few years he grew tired of killing and moved back to Sweet Apple Acres to live out the rest of his life in peace. But it wasn't meant to last, Big Mac's past has caught up to him and its kidnapped the Apple Family. Now its up to to Big Macintosh to save them, donning his Peacekeeper gear for one final ride.

Published 2012-08-05 00:14:01 UTC
Last updated 2012-08-05 00:14:01 UTC

Big Macintosh's Deathblow

Macintosh’s Death Blow
By: germainfirebrand

It was hot, almost unbearably so, but the large, red stallion was used to working in the heat, so he plodded on. With the rest of the family out west on business, it was up to him to harvest the entire orchard alone. Granted, it was one of the smaller apple orchards, but it was still no small task. He had been working since five that morning and as he stored the last bushel of apples, he went to the top of the hill and surveyed his work with a fierce sense of pride.

“Eeyup!”

Big Macintosh retired with the proud weariness that came with a hard day’s work. As the sun sank and Macintosh prepared a meal for himself, his mind, as active as his mouth was not, went over a list of things he had noticed throughout the day.

Gettin’ warmer than norm’l lately, ma’by it’ll lead to bumper harvest like we had a few years ago, that would be right dandy. Saw sum beams in the barn sagin’, an it looked like it was leanin’ more right than norm’l. Have to have that engineer pony look at it; what did he call himself? Pony Stark, that was it. Need sum more of those heavy duty bushel baskets, broke three of the old ones today; glad AJ wasn’t here, she’d skin me alive.

As Big Mac ate, he ran over the account books for the farm; his sister Applejack might own Sweet Apple Acers, but Big Macintosh ran it. Everything was in order on that front so he decided to take one last look around the farm before bed, make sure everything was ship shape.
He stepped into the night and breathed in the sweet, cool, apple scented air. He had always loved the night, and now that Luna was back, he loved it even more. Celestia did a fair enough job, but you can’t beat a moon goddess for making night.
He walked around the farm with a feeling of warmth that dispelled the slight chill in the night air. He loved this place almost as much as he loved his family. It was defiantly an improvement over his last job-
He shook his head to clear those memories away. Those were dark days and he swore that they were behind him. He was am apple farmer now, and that was that.
As he finished the last of his rounds, his alert eyes, keen ears, and sharp sense of smell noted several things. One, the trees were moving, but there was no wind. Two, there was an unpleasant taint to the sweet night air. And three, he heard the sound of around thirty other beings breathing. Oh, and shadows, shadows that had nothing to do with the clouds or the light of the full moon.

He was on edge now. Old skills and habits he thought broken and forgotten came springing back to him. He finished his walk quickly, but without seeming to rush; he needed the shadows to think that he did not know they were there. He noted about a dozen shadows circling him with more in the background and in the trees. He got to his door, calmly opened it, walked in, shut it, and then went into a mad dash to lock every door and window and shut off every light. He knew he didn’t have much time, so he hurried to his secret room in the cellar.
As he descended the stairs into the basement of the house, he heard the howling; a hunting call, coming from outside. There was no doubt in his mind what he had to do, but he couldn’t help regret his decision. He opened the secret door and looked with disgust at the objects that lay inside; his black wide brimmed hat, an identity in and of its self; his black leather poncho, a garment that had seen much spilled blood, none of it his own; and finally, the vilest and most hated item here, his Peacekeeper Saddle, the object of his former livelihood and the object of his current distain. Lining the walls were all the attachments that he had developed for it, the tools of his former, grim trade. Firearms, dozens of them, all had been the instrument of someponies death at one point, and the blades, for when the job called for a more personal touch and a message needed to be sent. He hated them, every single one, but as the front door came crashing in, he knew what he had to do.
…

The front door blew in in an explosion of splinters as two coyotes slammed into it and continued into the opposite wall. More coyotes flowed in as a voice drawled from the shadows.

“Find him. Bring him to me … alive.”
…

Three of the coyotes search the pitch black basement. None of them brought a light, partly because coyotes can see well enough in the dark, but mostly because coyotes were as dumb as a post.

The first to break the silence was a tall, thin, male with rather large ears. “Why does the boss want us to find this guy, anyways? What’s so special about him?”

The second one, a coyote with one single protruding fang, lisped back, “I don’t know why bossh wantsh him, but I do know who he ish."

The third, a very short male with almost yellow fur interrupted him. “Stop yappin’. Boss want’s him, that’s all we need to know. Now shut your traps an’ start lookin’!”

The first two glared at the third but said nothing. They went to look left while the short one went toward the back. He snarled in frustration at not being able to see, “Wish those two had brought a light-”

“What’s the matter,” rumbled a voice from the darkness, “Afraid of the dark?”

The small coyote stopped dead in his tracks, looked up slowly and was frozen in terror as he met two giant green eyes burning with a cold, killing fury. The coyote screamed once before Macintosh crushed him underneath his hooves. He dragged the lifeless corpse into the darkness, and waited.
…

“So we’re really goin’ after Big Macintosh? Boss must be hittin’ the cider hard,” the thin one said.

“Jusht don’t let the bossh hear you shay that,” the snaggle toothed one said. “You remember what happened to Rony.” They both shivered, remembering the albino coyote’s fate.

“I can’t believe that we’re goin’ after the greatest Peacekeeper-Pony in the west.” The thin one shook with fear, “We’re goin’ to die, and don’t tell me we won’t, you and I both know what he did in New Manedrid City; the sand is still red from all the blood.” He started to panic, “We gota’ go man, we gota’-”

“Hey, chill out,” Snaggle-Tooth said. “Remember. We have hish-”

“AAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

“What in the hell wash that?”

“Come on.”

The two coyotes headed toward the back. “Cromby, are you there? Come on man this isn’t-waa!” Cromby’s body sailed through the air and hit them while cold green eyes looked out from the darkness. Big Mac stepped out from the shadows and looked down at them. “Y-you killed him! You’ll pay for that,” Snaggle-Tooth yelled.

Macintosh stepped back into the shadows, growling, “Try it.”
…

“He’s not upstairs, Boss,” one cried from the second floor.

“Not here either,” the ground floor search leader said.

“Keep lookin’. We will find him,” the Boss growled. “I will find you Macintosh.” He sauntered toward the basement door and knocked, asking, “You boy’s found anythin’ yet?

The response to his question came in the form of the three searchers bodies crashing up through the basement door.

When the dust settled, the Boss chuckled darkly. “He always was the theatric one. Get him.”

Macintosh knew he didn’t have much time; he revealed his hand a little too soon. He attached a heavy lance and a mini-gun to his saddle and five inch razor spurs to his hooves. Just in time too; seven coyotes came crashing into the room, drawn there by the light of lantern. He spun, poncho swirling dramatically and turned the first four into red dust with the mini-gun on full. The last three tried to stop but could not. Macintosh charged them, hoof razors severing limbs as he whirled and bucked at the coyotes. Five more came at him and were crushed into red ruin by his hooves. Macintosh’s blood lust was up; he would kill them down to the last. One foolishly tried to charge him alone and Big Macintosh smiled; he charged back, with the coyote now trying desperately to get away. It didn’t stand a chance; Macintosh’s lance plunged into his back and tore out through his chest. The impact made the coyote lean backwards, and the last thing he saw was Macintosh’s face, full of murder and dripping with his comrade’s blood.
…

The Boss, having heard the massacre down below, sighed and shook his head. He walked over and called down, “Macintosh? You still down there? Listen, just come up, all I am here to do is deliver a message. There doesn’t need to be more killing.” Just one pony needs to die, he thought to himself.

No response came, and the Boss thought that he would have to send more coyotes down, but, at last, he heard the thud of hooves climbing stairs. Big Mac stood at the top of the stairs and looked death at the coyotes surrounding him. A pony that Macintosh could not see through the darkness whistled and said, “Well, buck, Macintosh, you look good. This farm life must be treatin’ you well. See you still have your toys.”

Big Macintosh snarled back, “How do you know me?”

“Aw, Big Mac. Don’t tell me you’ve forgot your old partner.” The pony stepped out into the light, and Macintosh met a face he thought long dead and forgotten.

“Dusty Black,” Macintosh growled, “You traitorous sack of shit, I thought I killed you.”

“Thought being the operative word there,” Dusty drawled, “I’m like a bad rash, just can’t get rid of me.”

Big Mac would have cut the talk there and just killed him, but he had questions, and Dusty had answers. “How did you find me?” Big Macintosh’s voice was thick with killing rage.

“My benefactor,” Dusty said. “A former client. Your last,” Dusty said with an arched eyebrow.

Macintosh’s eyes widened in a combination of shock and fear. “That snake is-is still- alive?”

“And kicking, figuratively speaking of course,” Dusty said. “How would a snake kick? Anyway, yes, Diamondback Twain is alive, and he’s got your number.”

“He’ll never get me,” Macintosh yelled. “I’m too far away; I will never go back, ever,” Big Mac said with a stamp of his hoof.

“Oh really,” Dusty said, and then stepped forward and whispered, “I wonder what your sister would say about that?” Big Macintosh lashed out, hoping to catch him with one of his hoof razors but only succeeded in sending him flying. He went to finish him off but was set upon by the remaining coyotes. They drove him to the ground and pinned him; His gun and lance came off in the struggle.

“You lay one hoof on my family and I will end you," Macintosh bellowed, struggling against the coyotes piled on top of him.

Dusty picked himself up, saying, “It’s a little late for that, Macintosh. Why do you think they were called out west?” He finished dusting himself off and walked toward the struggling red stallion. “Twain sent me here to kill you the first chance I got, and if I do, he’s going to give me your sister.” Dusty smiled cruelly, “She has such strong legs, I’ll bet she can put up a good fight before I play.” Dusty grinned wider at the fearful recognition in Big Macintosh’s face. “You know how I like to play,” he glanced at the leader of the coyote pack, “I trust you can handle this?” The coyote, almost as large a wolf and with pitch black fur, nodded in acknowledgement. Dusty looked back to Macintosh’s struggling form, “Well, it looks like I get to do some, what do you call it on the farm Macintosh, Apple bucking, that’s it.” Dusty turned to leave, calling back, “See you in hell Macintosh.”

Dusty left the house laughing while the rest of the coyotes scrambled for a chance to be the one to kill Big Macintosh.
…

“Spike, get me my Alchemist’s Reference Guide and make sure the Ponynomicon gets put up properly; we don’t wasn’t a repeat of last time.” Twilight’s library was, as always, the most efficient thing in Ponyville. Her system was flawless, when Spike remembered her system that is.

“Sure thing Twi.” Spike was always glad to help Twilight, even if she was a little rude to him sometimes.
A loud knock at the door startled them both; Twilight recovered first, “I wonder who that could be? It’s a rather late for visitors.” Twilight opened the door and was twice as surprised to find Big Macintosh standing outside, his features obscured by the darkness of the night. He never stopped by the library much, so she didn’t see him except in passing by in town. “Oh, hello Big Macintosh. Please, come in.”

“Thank you, Miss Twilight but I won’t be staying long.” Macintosh stepped into the light and Twilight saw that he looked haggard and rough; his normally tidy mane and tail were a mess. She also saw that his red coat was a darker crimson color; it was then that Twilight realized that Macintosh was drenched in blood, and she had the sickening feeling that none of it was his own.

“Big Macintosh, what happened, are you alright?” Twilight was concerned; this didn’t look anything like the gentle, quite apple farmer she knew.

“Yes, something has happened and no, I’m not alright but that’s not important now. What is important is that you teleport me to New Manedrid City, now.”

“O…k. But, why, what’s happened, what’s going on?” Twilight was puzzled and getting more than a little scared; she didn’t like the look in Big Macintosh’s eyes.

“Twilight, please. You have to send me there now, it’s important.” Macintosh was short on temper and nerves, and he was getting desperate. Macintosh had always been a gentlestallion, but if Twilight didn’t help him than he was going to snap. But it didn’t seem as if Twilight wanted to cooperate.

“No, Macintosh Apple. You can’t make me use my magic, and I won’t use it until you tell me exactly what’s going on.” Big Mac could have killed her; he probably would have to if she wasn’t his only hope of saving his family. Twilight saw the razor-edged rage in his eyes and took a step away from him in fear. She didn’t know how she had missed them, but she just now saw the weapons attached to Macintosh’s saddle, weapons that were dark and wet with blood; maybe telling him no wasn’t the smartest idea she’d ever had.

But Macintosh didn’t kill her; he simply hung his head to try to hide the tears in his eyes and said in a raspy, strained voice, “They’ve got Applejack. They’ve got Applejack and Applebloom and Granny Smith and if you don’t send me to New Manedrid City then they’ll die, do you hear me, DIE.” Big Mac looked up and Twilight looked into his eyes, eyes filled with tears and fear and rage and she was sorry that she even thought about saying no. Applejack was her friend and Big Macintosh was trying to help her, he deserved every bit of help she could give him.

“I’m coming with you,” Twilight said, ready to help her friends with her dying breath.

Macintosh shook his head. “No, they’ll kill you too, and I won’t have that on my conscience. Besides, you still have your job to do, and you can’t leave it.” Macintosh smiled at her shocked and slightly fearful look. “Yes Twilight, I know your secret; that’s why I came to you. I knew that if anypony could help me, it would be you. Now please, send me away.”
Twilight just stared at him, and for just a moment, her true form overlapped the unicorn one; a form of fire, her furry hide changed to one of scales and her single horn was seen to be two. She smiled at him and with a blast of teleportation magic, sent him away, along with a small gift of her own.
…

Big Macintosh touched down about a mile outside the city; excellent forethought on Twilights part, don’t want the town to know he got here by magic. Macintosh would wait until first light and then make his way into town. He took a moment to look around and to see if he could find a proper campsite for the night. He looked around with surprise evident on his face; not only had Twilight put him within traveling distance of the city, but she had also put him in an ideal campsite and healed him. “Thank you Twilight, thank you so much,” he said, hoping that she heard him. As he set to work making camp, he saw one final gift from Twilight, a gift that he never expected.

It had the handle of a sword but the head of an axe with a square guard surrounding the handle from blade to pommel; it reminded him of an old fashioned key. The head was in the shape of his Cutie Mark, a large green apple half, and the rest was as red as his coat. Next to it was a note,

:I give you this in thanks. Thanks for the friend you will save, and thanks for the secret you have kept. May your enemies fear its very mention:.
He found his throat closing up; he never expected this much help from her. After the camp was set, all he had to do was wait, so he grabbed the sword and began to practice. Let it be noted that the sword was fitted perfectly for Big Macintosh; he gripped it in his teeth, felt its perfect balance and swung. At that moment, the sword sent a wave of magic, slashing everything in its path, Big Mac smiled grimly; Twain wouldn’t know what hit him.
…

The slit pupil eyes were the only thing Dusty could see in the darkness, and they did not look happy.

“Ssssso? You jussst left him? With the coyotesssss?”

“Well…yeah. There were still twenty of them, there’s no way he made it out alive.” Dusty didn’t see what the big deal was; Macintosh was dead and Twain and Dusty were alive. What more could he want?

“Hissssss. Fool, one doesssss not sssssimply leave Big Macintosh without making sssssure that he issssss dead. Now I musssst sssend a bird to make sure they did not perissssh at his hoovessss.”

“Don’t bother; he’s deader than a door nail. Just give me my money and my prize and we can both get on with our plans.”

“No. Becaussssse of your incompetence, we both might still be in danger.” Twain didn’t know why he kept Dusty; he was arrogant, cocky, and naïve. Twain would be better off leading by himself, except that Twain refused to leave his stronghold.

“Even if he was alive, he would never get here in time. The only reason I got here so fast was that air contraption that we got off those two unicorns.” Dusty had never seen Twain frightened before and he made note of it; if it came down to it, Dusty could use that fear.

“Pray that you are right, for if not, you will be as dead asssss your claimsssss. Be gone from my presence.”
Dusty snorted, but left without a word. Best just to let him work; after all, he had Dusty’s prize. Waiting would just make the moment sweeter.
…

Macintosh set off at dawn with the sword strapped to his back. He ditched the lance but kept the gun hidden on the saddle; he would need it later. It would not take long to make it into town and then, Macintosh would begin the search for his family. But before that, he needed to set up base, find a safe house, do the usual rounds before a job. Gods, I sound like I’m workin’ again. Just save the family, then you’re done. But Macintosh hesitated; he had said that same thing ten years ago, and yet here he was. He wasn’t sure if he could keep that promise, and Macintosh never made a promise if he couldn’t keep. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize he was in town until he was in town.

It was large by western city standards; it had two banks, two post offices, and four general goods stores. Built entirely of wood, it had the look of every city and town around, so much so that it was sometimes hard to tell one town from another; but not this city, Macintosh would never forget the red dirt and sand of this town. He spotted an old haunt of his, a rundown saloon with a tough reputation, and wondered if they still remembered him; silly question, they would not forget him for a long time, maybe not ever, he had a reputation of his own at this saloon.

He walked through the old fashioned saloon split door and stood inside looking at the other patrons. The bar was dead quiet, fearful recognition on some of the older patrons faces as they saw who was standing there and caution in the ones who didn’t. Macintosh stood still for a moment longer and then broke the spell by sauntering over to the bar. The bar returned to life, but not by much, the music resumed at the very least. Big Mac approached the bar and the barman. “Cider,” Macintosh ordered, with a small salute to Big Mac, the bar pony got him a tall shot glass and poured about a hoof height in it. Macintosh raised an eyebrow at the glass and took another look at the pony serving him. It was the same old soldier who had been here when Macintosh was still working, the pony met Mac’s eyes and gave a small nod; he knew what it meant for Big Macintosh to be back in town. Macintosh nodded back and drank the cider in one swig. The pony raised an eyebrow at Big Macintosh, refilled it, and left the bottle; he was a good old boy, just like Macintosh remembered. Macintosh turned around and leaned against the bar, looking into the crowd; he saw several of the others keeping an eye on him. He was looking for one pony in particular, one pony that was in the know around here; as he looked, he noted a different musician coming out from the back to relieve the piano player. He couldn’t see the musician but he could tell it was a mare; he turned his attention back to the room, still looking. It was when the first clear notes of a cello started that Big Macintosh looked harder at the musician. When he recognized who it was, he smiled; he had his contact.
…

Big Mac hide himself in a dark corner and waited; if any pony knew he was here, they didn’t say anything. Truth be told, the only pony that probably knew he was here was the bar pony, but he knew Macintosh, so he said nothing, only left a bottle in easy reach. She must be the lead musician because several ponies called her by name; although what she was doing here he had no idea. Eventually, she retired to the back, and Macintosh followed. He passed several stage girls without them saying a word; must happen often. When Macintosh got to her dressing room, he knew it was her’s because of the name plate, he opened the door to find her with her back to him putting her cello away. She must get visitors often after a show because she didn’t even turn. Then she spoke up in a very lovely and rather out of place English accent.

“I’m sorry, but the performance is over. Return tomorrow night and you can hear me then.” She still hadn’t turned, so didn’t see who was in the room with her.

“Miss Octavia C. Sharp, what is a nice mare like you doing in a rough and tumble town like this?” Macintosh asked. She whirled around, her eyes full of surprise.

“Big Macintosh! Oh, it’s so good to see someone from Ponyville again.” She ran over and hugged him.

He hugged back. “When they told me you left for a new venue, I didn’t think you would have picked here.” He had always liked her; her playing was beautiful and so was she.

She released him, “What are you doing here? I thought the farm was a full time job?” She had always admired his work ethic and when she lived in Ponyville she had been one of his most faithful customers.
“It is, but I’m here for something else.”

Something about his diction told her that this had nothing to do with Sweet Apple Acers. She grew serious, “I take it that this Work has something to do with sword on your back.” She stepped back a pace; in her time here, she had heard the stories of “Blood-Red” Macintosh but had never believed them. She had seen James ‘Big’ Macintosh Apple, the kindest, gentlest, most soft spoken pony in Ponyville; not to mention one of the few unattached stallions in Ponyville. There were stories of why he was called ‘Big’ Macintosh but the privileged few who did knew did not want to share. He had always been a gentlestallion and the fillies just loved that about him; he had quickly gotten around in the ranks of the mares

“Yes, it does, but I don’t want to bore you with the details. Do you know if I can rent a room here? I need someplace to stay.”

She chewed her lip; while it would be a Celestia send if Big Macintosh would stay at the saloon she worked in, it also troubled her that there might be some truth to those ‘Peacekeeper-Pony’ tales. She didn’t know if she wanted her perfect dream or a darker reality. “… Yes. Tell the Old Haymaker that Tavi gave you a room.”

“Thank you.” He walked off to get the key to his room, leaving her alone, hoping that she didn’t make a terrible mistake.
…

Old Haymaker never seemed to respond with anything but facial expressions and he didn’t break that habit when Macintosh asked for the room; he just handed him the key and pointed upstairs. Macintosh was pleased; he had his safe house, doubly safe since it was occupied by two trusted friends; now all he needed was information. That was easier said than done in this town, every pony wants be one step ahead of every other pony. However, Macintosh had other contacts; if he was still alive, than Macintosh would find him in the one place that seemed to attract all of the scum in the city, The Broken Hooves Tavern.

Big Mac might was not known by his face, but by his hat and poncho; it wasn’t good if people saw your face in this bar. The bar patrons didn’t even blink when he walked in; the unspoken rule at the Broken Hooves was that every pony was entitled to his own privacy, you didn’t mess with any pony, no pony messed with you. The bar was mostly empty, Macintosh liked to arrive early to pick the easiest place to watch from and not be noticed. As it turned out, this bar had a table in an alcove that was shrouded in shadows right under the enclosed stair case. Macintosh settled in and waited, the other patrons of the bar didn’t say a word to him or about him; some things never change. His contact arrived about midnight, and it was evident that he had this was not his first stop. When he got settled in and drinking, Macintosh slipped out to wait again.
…

Drop-tail was well known around the slums of New Manedrid, partly because of his tendency for getting drunk, but mostly because of his involvement with the local lizard gang. He was a snitch, an informant, a lookout, and as yellow and slippery as butter; first sign that he might be in trouble and he was underground for weeks and nothing could get him out. He didn’t often get in trouble though; he was rather high up in the ranks of the Black-Bands, knowledge that he flaunted every chance he got. The ponies didn’t mess with him; for fear that the Black-Bands would descend on them. Tonight, he was roaring drunk and lording his position over all the patrons of The Broken Hooves, he didn’t start any fights though; any fighters took their problems outside or they would learn that Broken Hooves was more than just a name; after one fight on the opening night, the message was clear as day. When no pony rose to his taunts, he got bored and left, spouting curses that would make a decent mare faint. He always took the side entrance into the alley; he might be drunk, but he wasn’t stupid. He never walked through the same door twice, he might be followed, and the leader of the Black-Bands would repudiate him in an instant if he compromised the security of their stronghold. He staggered into the dark ally and made his meandering way back to the hideout. He was constantly looking for anything that might be following him, but saw nothing. Then, when he was half way down the alley, he was ambushed. Some pony tackled him, sending him into the wall; he was grabbed and lifted up and slammed onto the ground. He squirmed and writhed but to no avail; whoever had him was strong and he knew what he was doing. He had one last play left, to drop his tail and hope that his assailant was distracted by it long enough for him to escape; he dropped his tail but it was of no use, whoever had him knew about his tail ploy.

“Hello Drop-tail, ya miss me?”

Drop-tail hissed in fear, “NONONONONO! Drop-tail sorry, sosososo sorry! No hurt Drop-tail.” His yellow reputation preceded him.

“Now Drop-tail, you haven’t forgot about your good friend Big Mac have you?” The mention of his name sent Drop-tail into more hysterics.

“No, please, no. Drop-tail sorry, don’t hurt Drop-tail.” Macintosh would have laughed if this wasn’t so important; he could always scare the whey out of anything and he knew it.

“Now Drop-tail, Macintosh won’t hurt you, he just needs you to take him to Mama Gila. Can Drop-tail do this for Big Macintosh?” It was always best to speak in third-person with Drop-tail; on account of he was a dumb as a bag of apples. “Big Mac needs to see Mama Gila, very important.”

“Why Mac pony want see Mama? Mama dead, no see her.” Now Big Mac knew he was lying.

“Mama Gila is about as dead as I am, I mean Macintosh is.” This was getting tiring; Macintosh was going to have to get forceful. He drew one of his many knives and held it in front of Drop-tail’s eye. “Now, Drop-tail will take Macintosh to Mama Gila, or Big Macintosh will tickle Drop-tail’s eye balls with this knife.” Drop-tail shut is mouth immediately. As soon as some pony brought harming Drop-tail into the conversation, Drop-tail got serious.

“Ok, ok, ok, just don’t hurt Drop-tail. Drop-tail have family, have wife and kids.”

“Now I know that’s a lie. Just lead me there you yellow-bellied git.”
…

After spending the rest of the night following Drop-tail on a wild goose chase around the city, Macintosh was tired; but he couldn’t blame him for not wanting to be followed. He was small, and he depended of the gang for protection; he wouldn’t last a day without their protection. Just when Macintosh thought he would have to threaten Drop-tail again, they arrived at a man-hole cover; Drop-tail activated the secret catch that opened it and led Big Mac down into the sewers. They stank like death, but Macintosh pushed on; he needed information and Mama Gila was the only one who could give it to him. After another hour, the two of them arrived at a new door; Drop-tail gave a series of knocks which opened a small slit in the door. He then had a very animated conversation in his own sibilant language. After what seemed like an eternity, the slit shut and Macintosh heard the sound of locks being opened. Drop-tail turned to Macintosh nervously, “Macintosh pony must stay quiet until he with Mama, understand?” Drop-tail relaxed visibly at Macintosh’s nod. The door opened and then came another wild goose chase, now with the added danger of dodging lizards. There were thousands of them and Big Macintosh wondered how they kept themselves hidden. Eventually, they came to a new door, guarded by a gigantic Water Monitor.
He hissed at them, “What do you want, Drop-tail?”

Drop-tail cringed with fear, “Here to see Mama, Mama expecting us,” he gestured to himself and Macintosh.
The Water Monitor looked at Macintosh, “Right, and I’m a dragon.” Just then, one of the tubes that came out of the celling started to rattle. The large lizard put his ear to it and listened. His face was a rather comic example of startlement; eventually, without looking at the two of them, he opened the door. Drop-tail stuck his tongue out at him, which earned him a jaw snap that almost bit his tongue in half; Macintosh just smirked. When they were inside, the Water Monitor slammed the door shut so hard that he shook dust from the ceiling.

They were escorted by another lizard toward a giant cistern spanned by one metal bridge. In the center, suspended from the celling was a large chamber; it reminded Macintosh of a diving pod. The lizard that led them there pushed a button next to the door and a camera swiveled around to look at them all. It looked at Macintosh longest and he stared back back; when it was satisfied, it turned back to its original position and the door opened, releasing a dense cloud of smoke. Drop-tail and the guide lizard stood coughing and Big Mac went inside, not even blinking. Drop-tail followed inside as soon as his lunges cleared; when the smoke cleared, Macintosh found himself in a room filled with computer monitors. They must have been connected to the cameras in the hideout because he could see images of lizards they had passed on their way here. Dominating the center was a giant command chair and occupying it was a grotesquely fat Gila Monster, the same Gila Monster that Macintosh came to see.

She took another puff on her hookah pipe, held the smoke, then blew it into Macintosh’s face, he didn’t even blink. She spoke in a heavily southern accent, “Well, well, well, my Macinbaby has come back, how you been, sugar?”
Macintosh smiled, “Just fine, marm. See you’re still killing yourself.” She let out a wheezy laugh that turned into a coughing fit. When she finally calmed down, she answered him.

“Oh, you know I love my vices; and I know you love yours, otherwise you wouldn't be here to see me. What can I do for you, baby?”

“Dusty,” Macintosh answered. All the good humor left Mama Gila’s face. Her face was lost in wrinkles as she frowned.

“That punk? You’re here for him? Mac baby, I thought this was serious. Just kill him, no one will miss him.” Mama waved a fat clawed hand at him. “I can’t believe that you would waste my time with such a trivial matter as-”

“And Twain,” Macintosh added. Mama gave him a fearful look. She knew Twain; this was not good.

“And you came to ME! Macintosh, you know how lizards and snakes feel about each other. If he knew I helped you, he would destroy me.” She pushed a button on the chairs console, “Guards, get this thing out of my command room.”
Macintosh bucked the two guards in the room, shattering their skulls, Big Mac then drew his sword; the lizards, not being very bright, didn’t disarm him when he first came in. He leaped across the room and held the edge against Mama’s throat. “You WILL help me, or I will tear this entire complex apart,” Big mac growled around the sword handle.

Mama chuckled, “What do you think that will do? I got scales, Mac baby, you can’t cut me.” She laughed again.

Just then, four lizards burst into the room; Macintosh turned, swung the sword, and its magic cut them all to ribbons; literally to ribbons, there wasn’t a piece bigger than Macintosh’s hoof. Macintosh looked back at Mama’s terrified face, walked over and said menacingly, “Now, are you going to help me, or am I going to make myself a new coat? That orange would look rather good on me.”

Mama was silent for a moment, her face still full of fear. “I don’t know where Twain is,” she cringed at Mac’s growl, “BUT, but, I do know where you can find Dusty.” Macintosh took a step back so that she would feel less threatened, “He goes to this club every now and then for some filly foolin’; and you know the kind I mean. Real underground, place doesn’t even have a name-”

“Where?”
…

Dusty thought that making himself scarce in Twain’s hideout was the best course of action for the time being. Twain’s birds came back with that news that they hadn’t found Big Macintosh’s body; instead, they found the torn up remains of the coyote team sent to kill him. It was rather gruesome; each one had their skulls caved in, several were missing limbs, and blood had caked every surface. However, the most gruesome sight was of the leader; he was a cocky son of a bitch and thought that he would taunt Big Mac before he killed him. Big Macintosh crucified him in the basement, skinned him, alive it seems by the amount of blood, tore his lower jaw off, then eviscerated him and burned his organs before tearing his eyes out. Needless to say, Twain was scared, and since Twain was scared, he was angry, at Dusty. Dusty wouldn’t go back for a while, Twain would call him when he needed him; or not.

Dusty needed a pick-me-up, and there was only one way he could feel better. His tastes were well known in the rougher parts of towns, but there was only one place that accommodated his kind, so that was where he was headed.
As he entered the run-down whore house, he was greeted by his usual title. “Ha, there he is, there’s the Breaker. Where you been man, we had some new ones come in last week and oneofum’ just SCREAMED Breaker.”

“Show me.” It wasn’t often that they got one of his favorites in, but when they did, he made it worth their while. They were the only two there, as per normal; a far as Dusty knew, this place only had four full time customers. They walked to the back and arrived at an iron door. The pony in charge of the place opened the door, revealing a young Pegasus pony, bound, gagged and very scared. She was perfect, they even got him his favorite color, light red. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen; the younger the better for Dusty. “She’s perfect; how much do I owe you?” Dusty turned to give the pony his money and thanks, but right as he turned, a hoof smashed into his face, knocking him unconscious.
…

Dusty woke up with one demon of a headache, but as he tried to touch this head, he found that he couldn’t move his arms, or legs for that matter. He struggled for a moment and then looked around; he was in the torture room of the club, of that much he was certain, he recognized the walls. He found that he was strapped to the metal table that he had used so many times in the past for his own sick pleasures. Dusty started to panic; he should not be on table, that was for the fillies he bought. He heard movement to his left but couldn’t see who was making it. He didn’t bother asking for help or asking who was there; it was probably the same pony who put him here in the first place.

The pony stepped out of the shadows, wheeling a cart that contained a burning brazier and a tesla coil, and Dusty felt his heart grow cold; he would not be walking out of this room alive. Big Macintosh ignored him as he pushed the cart into place and then walked back into the shadows; Dusty struggled against the bonds holding him, knowing that they would not break, but hoping that they might. Big Macintosh walked back with a different cart, this one filled with knives and saws and all sorts of things designed to bring pain. Dusty was whimpering in fear now; only when everything was arranged to Macintosh’s liking did Big Mac look down at Dusty.

“Took me a while to get this place cleaned up, but I thought it would be rather poetic for this room to be your tomb; after all, it’s evident that you have some good memories of this place.” Macintosh said all of this in a low, neutral tone, and his face was completely emotionless.

Dusty gulped, “N-now Big Mac, y-y-you w-wouldn’t k-k-k-kill your old p-p-partner would you,” he said with a weak smile that vanished as continued looking at Macintosh. “Would you?”
Macintosh’s face didn’t move a hair. “Now, here’s how this is gona’ work,” Macintosh said in a low tone, his voice full of murder and vengeance. “You are going to tell me where my family is, and where Twain is. If you do, I might cut my fun a little short. Deal?”

Dusty started babbling, “On the north side of town there’s a mural of three ponies building a house, in the alley to the right, there’s a secret door hidden on the left side. You gotta’ push the brick that looks like its been cracked in half to open it. The door will open and it’s a straight shot all the way to Twains hideout.” Dusty was weeping with fear and Macintosh enjoyed those tears. “I don’t know where your family his, Twain didn’t want to give them to me until he knew you were dead but then you weren’t dead so I didn’t get them and their still locked up somewhere in there and I told you all I know now will you please let me go?” He has sobbing by the end of his speech; he didn’t want to die. He had some hope when Big Macintosh smiled, and then lost his grip on sanity.

“Nnope.”

Big Macintosh was glad that the room was sound proof; he didn’t was any pony to hear Dusty’s screams. Macintosh was not pleased with what he found in the cells of this place or what he had to clean up in this room. Macintosh set out to pay Dusty back for all of the wrongs Dusty had caused both him and the fillies he bought. What Big Macintosh did to the coyote leader paled in comparison to what happened in that room.
…

In the week that Big Mac had been here, he and Octavia hadn’t seen or talked to each other past their first meeting. Octavia tried to find him during the day when she was off, but he was never in; so she tried waiting up for him. She waited for him all night, night after night; Haymaker never said anything about this, just made a pot of coffee and kept it hot for her before he went to bed. She wanted to see him again, but she always fell asleep before he got back; and every morning, she was tucked in her own bed, with no memory of how she had gotten there. It was maddening; so tonight, she resolved to not all asleep. She got a special herb from the plant healer in town; she said it would make her alert for as long as she needed to be, but that after that, she would be twice as exhausted. Octavia didn’t care, she longed to see Big Macintosh, to talk to him; after her performance, she ate the herb and went out to mingle with her audience. They cheered for her, clapped their hooves and offered her drinks, which she turned down. She was never much of a drinker, preferring a light wine over the strong cider they served here; Haymaker knew this and always had her favorite tea ready for her. The herb did its job; it was already the normal time that she fell asleep and she felt like she could run a marathon. Eventually, the bar quieted down, and Octavia was left with her own thoughts; mostly about Macintosh. She had never felt this way before about any pony; the last had been the piano player in her old quartet, Frederic Horseshoepin. Just the thought of her and Big Mac sent her into a fantasy land that she never wanted to leave. She doubted that she could tell him this though; while he wouldn’t be cruel to her, he might still make it plain that he didn’t like her like that. How could he; she ran away from Ponyville, from her friends, like some amateur soloist giving his first performance ever, and starting out in the Royal Theater of the Sun and Moon. All because of one secret that just so happened to get leaked at the wrong time; when she got the first black-mail call, she knew she couldn’t stay. She packed up her things an ran, ran to a place where no pony knew her name, and she thought that that was the end of it; then Big Macintosh showed up, and she thought, maybe there is hope her.

The bar closed and Old Haymaker sent every pony home; he gave her a nod in farewell and went to his room for the night. She nodded back, got another cup of tea and waited, and waited, and waited; she hoped the herb would not wear off before Macintosh got here, but that fear was banished as soon as it appeared. Macintosh walked in, and Octavia looked at him in horror; he was covered in blood. It was in his mane, his tail; even his teeth had blood in them. He looked tired but satisfied; he didn’t see her at first. When he did, he was startled and ashamed, “Octavia! What are you doing up?” He didn’t want her to see him like this and he tried to rush past her, but she stopped him before he could make it to the stairs; she was faster than she looked.

“Macintosh!? What did you do? Why is there so much blood? Where were you? What happened to you? Is this yours? Are you-”

Big Mac covered her mouth with a hoof. “Yes, I’m fine, no it’s not my blood, and as to where I was, well, I had Work.
She stared at him for a while, he couldn’t meet her gaze; then, she sighed, and said, “Grab a shower and then come back and sit down. If we are going to be staying under the same roof then I want some answers.”

“Now Octavia, you don’t want to know about -”

She silenced him with a hoof, “Yes, I do want to know. We both have secrets and it’s time we knew about them. Now go get cleaned up.” He stared at the floor, then nodded and went to the back to use the shower; Octavia never took her eyes off him. When he was gone, she reached behind the bar, grabbed a bottle of cider, and took a swig; it was the worst thing she had ever tasted, but she needed it to steady her. Then she got two glasses and sat down at a table; Big Macintosh came back, clean of blood and dripping wet, mane soaked and sticking to his body. Octavia forced herself to look away with an almost visible effort; damn he looked good. She pointed to the chair opposite her, he sat and accepted the glass she pushed toward him; he downed it in one gulp, poured another, this one twice what the other one had been, and downed it with one gulp, all without a blink, grimace, or flinch. “Now,” she said, “Tell me why you’re really here? And none of that ‘I’m on Work’ shit, I want the truth.”

He stared at the table for so long that Octavia thought she would have to hit him with the bottle; but just as she was about to reach for it, he began. “I’m sure that since you’ve lived here for a while, you’ve heard the stories about me; well, they’re all true.” He saw her start; she never wanted to believe, but hearing him say that depressed her. “I was a Peacekeeper, and the best at it. A Peacekeeper was a combination of a bodyguard, bully-boy, mercenary and assassin, all rolled up into one very dangerous pony. There were never more than three in each town, we all made sure of that; it was never good to have too many known killers in one town. He were hired by almost everyone; gangs, politicians, drug dealers, we didn’t care so long as the money was good. Well, I was posted here, in this very town; the Peacekeepers never traveled much, didn’t do to not be in reach when there was work. One day, I got a call that someone had a job for me and my partner, one that could set us up for life; I had been thinkin’ ‘bout retiring for a while, and this job would let me do it. I never really liked what I did, wasn’t proud of it, but I knew that if I left it to some pony less ethical then more ponies would be hurt than needed.” He got another drink, and then saw that she was drinking the same thing as he was. “Maybe you should get something less strong to drink; its hell for ponies that aren’t used to it.” She shook her head and took a drink, this time she flinched. Big Mac shrugged and continued. “Well, we met our client, a rattle snake; that should have told me that the job was no good and that I should walk away, but I didn’t care. I wanted out; so the job was an assassination, nothing new there, and Diamondback Twain wanted a message sent, nothing new there either; for some reason, the clients liked ponies who knew torture and weren’t afraid of it. He gave us the time, the place and the first half of our pay; we always got half before the job and half after, that way, if the job was a bust, we got some money. Me and my partner went our separate ways until the deadline and we both prepared; same routine every time. Well, the appointed time arrived and I showed up at the building specified by our employer, expecting to meet my partner inside. One problem; there was no pony in the entire complex. Well, needless to say, I got real nervous real quick; I kept looking around for the target and my partner, but neither of them showed up. Now, this place had a huge store room, and I might have missed something, so I went back; my partner, cowardly sack of shit that he was, snuck up behind me and shot me in the back, eight times. Turned out that Twain had been takin’ out Peacekeepers all throughout the west, and I was the last one left. I. Was. Pissed. I bucked him across the room, breaking his ribs and his legs in the process; then I proceeded to tear the building down around his ears. Turns out that the client had a plan for just such an occasion and had goons standing by to take care of me. I painted this entire town with blood, their blood Then I moved back home to Ponyville, put up my saddle and worked on the farm; I thought that was the end of ‘Blood-Red’ Macintosh, deadliest pony in the west. Then one day, the partner I thought I killed came back and told me that Twain had my family and wanted my head; I was never too clear as to why he wanted the Peacekeepers gone, but he did and that was all that mattered to me. My partner tried to kill me a second time, and with about as much success; so here I am, looking to save my family and maybe, just maybe, put up my saddle for good.” Neither one of them said anything after Macintosh finished, they just sat there and drank. After a while, Macintosh broke the silence, “Now, you said that you have secrets; I just told you a story that I haven’t even told my family, so spill.” She took another drink and then began.

“It all started with a master archer who called himself Dirge, because his bow was the last thing a pony heard before they got put in the ground. Well, he acted similar to your Peacekeepers, assassin mostly, and did the odd burglary to keep things interesting. He amassed a large fortune and eventually moved to Canterlot to live like a king. He didn’t kill much after that, switched over to stealing just to stay in practice.” She took another drink, and Macintosh raised an eyebrow at her; she didn’t notice. “He fell in love, and had a daughter; he gave her the world, made sure that she was not in want of anything. When she came of age, he told her that he wanted to train her; teach her to fight in case any of his enemies wanted to get at him through her. She learned all he had to teach her, learned it all much faster than he thought she would. Then, one day, she came home to find her house afire, and found out that her father and mother were still inside when the blaze started; they didn’t survive.” She kept drinking, and, while Macintosh knew what would happen to her if she continued to drink, he didn’t stop her; it looked like she needed it to tell the story. “She found the secret training room that they had spent so much time in and took up her father’s bow. It took her a while, but she finally tracked down the ponies who had killed her father and mother; a gang that he had a long standing feud with. She went in, alone, and slaughtered each and every one of them; they deserved it,” Octavia’s tone was getting angry, and she was becoming more animated from both the story and the drink. By this point, Big Macintosh had figured out most of the story, but didn’t say anything; he just let her drink and talk. “She got the leader, and, before she killed him, made him tell her why they had killed her father. Imagine her shock when they told her that he father was a murdering, master thief; she killed him and then went off to think. It all made sense now; the training, the money, the security, all of it stemmed from his work. She thought long and hard about it, and then decided to try her hand at it; it was in her blood after all.” By this point, Octavia was drunk; it was actually kind of cute. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes were half closed, and she was waving her arms around like a conductor. “She stuck with the music theme and called herself Parish-song, professional cellist by day, burglaring assassin by night. She added quite a bit to her father’s fortune and eventually retired to Ponyville, forming a quartet with some of the ponies there. And everything was perfect, absolutely perfect, until one day, she got a call in the middle of the night; the voice on the other line told her that he would reveal her secret to the ponies of Ponyville if she didn’t vanish.” Octavia grew sad, “She didn’t want her friends to know what she had done; she knew they would hate her for it.” At this point, she stopped saying ‘she’ and switched to ‘I’, as Macintosh thought she would; drink made ponies forgetful. “I packed up my things, all my things, and moved to a place where she knew she would never be found. Until you showed up; my big, strong, Macintosh, here to save me. I knew that I had a friend again, some pony I could tell my secret to; and now, here we are. Me wondering why my gentle Macintosh was covered in blood, and you wondering why I was in such a tough city.”

Macintosh watched her sway back and forth for a moment, “All this time, there was another pony with the same dark past as me; wish I had known sooner, would have saved me a lot of cider.”

Octavia stood up and weaved her way towards him, “But we’re here now Big Macintosh, we are here together.” She sat on his lap, “Now, neither of us has to be alone in the darkness.”

Big Mac became uncomfortable, “Uh, Miss Octavia, you’re drunk, why don’t I put you to bed.” She silenced him with a hoof over his mouth.

“Shhh, don’t talk.” She wanted this, and quite frankly, so did Big Macintosh; he was finding it hard to control his urges and remain a gentlestallion. She leaned over to kiss him …

And then the herb wore off.
…

Octavia did not wake up on her own the next morning; Old Haymaker had to come in and get her up. He came in, tore open the curtains, which also tore her skull open from the light; good Celestia she hurt, even more than after a bad night as Parish-song. Haymaker didn’t say a word, just left her a glass of something next to the bed along with some toast. She wasn’t remotely hungry, but she was thirsty; she grabbed the glass, took one drink, and almost threw up; it was the most disgusting thing she had ever tasted; like raw eggs and peppers. However, it distracted her from the pounding in her skull, she choked it down; when that torture was over, she actually felt hungry and ate the toast. She was by no means cured, but she felt much better than when she woke up. The bar was empty when she staggered in and she wondered how long she had slept; Haymaker was behind the bar, reading the newspaper and didn’t pay her any attention as she stumbled up stairs. She remembered what had happened last night right as she got to the top, and she almost fell down in shock. What did I do? Oh Celestia, I feel like a fool, getting drunk and saying those things to Big Macintosh. She felt horrible at how unladylike she had acted last night; she looked into Macintosh’s room to see if he was there, and was disappointed when she saw that he wasn’t. She may have been drunk, but she said exactly what she was feeling, what she had been feeling since Big Macintosh had arrived. Octavia knew that she wouldn’t see him again, maybe not ever again, and she was sad; sad that she couldn’t be with him, sad that they couldn’t comfort each other about the past, pissed off that the herb had caused her black out right then, when she was in Big Macintosh’s arms. She walked downstairs in a fog of depression and went to her room to prepare for her performance that night; feelings were expressed, secrets shared, but she still had a job to do. She resigned herself to the fact that Big Macintosh was gone, and he might never come back, never come back for her.
…

Twain was scared stiff. He knew his days were numbered when his goons found what was left of Dusty’s body. Twain knew that Dusty had talked; personally, if it had been Twain, he would have talked too. Twain gave the order for his snakes to sweep the city, looking for any sign of Big Macintosh. Twain knew that Macintosh would come soon, probably tonight. “Double the guardssss,” he yelled, “Make sure the prissssonerssss are secured and the oubliette is opened. It beginssssss.”
…

Big Mac was disappointed when Octavia passed out but not surprised; she had had a lot to drink. He chuckled and put her to bed like every other night, then went to his own. The one thing that Macintosh wondered about the next morning was how fast she fell asleep; it was like a switch was flipped. Big Macintosh pushed thoughts of what might have been out of his mind; tonight was the night and Macintosh needed to get ready for the final battle. He still had his old emergency supplies stashed all over town, and he systematically went to each one and got one thing he might need; mostly, it was ammo for his mini-gun, but he did grab another lance. Those, some smaller knives and his Apple Sword were all he needed to storm the Canterlot Palace, let alone one snake nest. He still had time to kill before it got dark, so he decided to head back to the bar for one last drink, and to hear Octavia play one last time before he went off. When he got there, Haymaker simply gave him a bottle of cider and turned back to his other customers; trust Old Haymaker to know the cure for what ails you. Big Mac took the bottle and went to his dark corner to wait until Octavia played. He thought about a great many things while he waited; about Applebloom and her friends constantly trying to get their Cutie Marks; about Applejacks obsession over her hat; about Granny Smith’s Zap Apple jam, if they lost that then they would go out of business for sure; and lastly, he thought of Octavia and her past. Somehow, it comforted him to know that he wasn’t the only pony with a grim past, and not the only one to push past it and try living a normal life; neither of them ever expected that of the other. To Macintosh, she was just a very pretty, very musically gifted pony who loved his apples; and to her, he was a giant, muscular hunk of a stallion who didn’t have much to say.

As if his thoughts had summoned her, Octavia took the stage, he could tell from here that she had been crying; somehow, he knew that he was the reason for her tears. She walked out into the spot light and said, “This performance is dedicated to a very dear friend, one that I may never see again.” And with that, she played the most beautiful master-work of music he had ever heard; it literally sounded like there were two cellos playing, the melody flowed perfectly into the counter melody. Octavia played the whole thing with her head bowed, not looking at the crowd; the ponies in the audience, every single one of them, were so moved that there were tears being shed either by trickles or full blown waterworks. When she was finished, Macintosh saw a single tear land on her cello; it was too much for him, he started crying to. He cried for what he could never have; he left, and right as he did, Octavia looked up and saw him.

Her mind started working overtime as her heart fluttered; he heard he play, he came back. Then there was no doubt in her mind of what she had to do. She rushed past the ponies trying to congratulate her and went to her; she could give him one more performance
…

It was a long walk to Twain’s hideout and Macintosh walked it in silence. He noted the few people still up and out in the darkness, but they didn’t see him; his poncho made him blend into the shadows perfectly. It didn’t escape his notice that there were a lot of snakes out too, and that put everyone on edge; if snakes were working in numbers, then some pony had done something very upsetting. Now it would take Big Mac even longer to reach the mural; dodging snakes in the dark did not make for fast travel. He cut thought alleys, around buildings, and backtracked to make sure he wasn’t caught; he was under the impression that if one group found him, then every snake in the city would know where he was. As he was backtracking, one sight made him stop for a moment; it was a search party, but they were all dead, killed by arrows the eyes. Big Macintosh looked up and down the alley and then looked up at the roofs of the buildings surrounding the alley; what he saw was a black clad pony leaning on a bow, making no effort to hide itself. The figure nodded in recognition and Big Mac nodded back and headed off; this was going to be easier than he thought. He was able to keep a much straighter course because of his rooftop lookout; the bow-pony took out any patrols that got in Macintosh’s way, and Macintosh led the pony to the mural. Macintosh didn’t know if he would get help once they were at the mural, but it was nice to have some help.
They reached the main plaza in front of the mural and found it swarming with snakes. Macintosh stayed in the shadows, looking, planning; just then, the bow-pony dropped down next to him, and Big Macintosh had ha plan. He looked at the pony crouching next to him, “Ready for one more dance?” At the pony’s nod, Macintosh continued, “Good, drive them into the center of the plaza, then leave the rest to me.” The pony nodded again and scrambled back to the roof tops; all Macintosh had to do was wait, and not for long. Suddenly, confusion broke out in the plaza as snakes started dropping left and right, each one with a single arrow in its eye; the snakes tried to scatter, but were pushed back together by a rain of arrows. They eventually figured out that if they stayed in the center, then they wouldn’t get shot at; they stopped moving all together, and Big Macintosh made his move.

He stepped out of the shadows where the snakes could see him; they hissed upon seeing him but didn’t move for fear of the arrows. Macintosh calmly reached back, grabbed his sword, flipped in the air and spun, sending a whirlwind of magic blades to clear the plaza in an instant and splattering snake everywhere. Macintosh put the sword up and walked to the mural; the bow-pony hopped down and stood next to him. Without looking at the pony, Macintosh asked, “Well, what do you think?”

Octavia took of her hood and giggled at him, “Oh Big Mac, this is the most fun I’ve had in years; we simply must do this again sometime.”

“Let’s just see about staying alive. Are you ready?” Her answer was to noch another arrow in her bow, and smile. He smiled back at her, “Then let’s go save my family.” He pushed the correct brick and the two of them descended into the snake nest.
…

It was abysmally dark, Macintosh couldn’t see his hoof in front of his face; he feared that they might have to turn back until Octavia produced a torch. He gave her a puzzled look and she shrugged

“What? You never know when you might need a light.”

Macintosh shrugged but didn’t say anything; couldn’t argue with solid logic. She attached it to his saddle and they continued in silence; dead silence, not another sound except for their hooves echoing on the stone floor. Big Macintosh in the lead and Octavia following with her bow drawn; she was quite adept at walking on two legs, probably from playing the cello. After a while, Octavia broke the silence, “Not very good security, is it. You would think that with the two of us here, the place would be crawling with snakes.”

Macintosh answered without looking back, “Maybe all the snakes that were here are out looking for me-”
Just then, the corridor burst into light and a klaxon alarm sounded throughout the stronghold; Macintosh shook off the torch, “So much for there being no one here.”

“I have an idea!” Octavia stowed the torch away and hopped into Big Macintosh’s saddle, she handed him his sword which he gripped in his teeth, “There, now, CHARGE!” Big Mac reared as the hallway filled with snakes and charged; Octavia firing arrows into the swarming mass of snakes, killing several with single arrows. Big Macintosh’s lance crashed into the writhing mass as his mini-gun made chum out of the snakes, the blasts lighting the tunnel as the lights in the snakes eyes died by the dozens. Octavia stopped firing arrows and just let Big Macintosh go, she leaned back and got as comfortable as she could in the moving saddle; he was enjoying himself and she didn’t want to ruin the moment for him. As the end of the corridor came in sight, Macintosh swung his sword, taking care of any leftover snakes in a whirlwind of magic death; they spilled out into another hallway that split off in two directions. Another group of snakes came slithering at them.

Octavia hopped out of the saddle as Big Macintosh yelled, “Keep one alive, we need to find where they’re keepin’ my family.” She quickly identified the most likely snake to do the talking and went to work; with a series of flips and spins that would make a Russian Spetznaz jealous, she fired one arrow for each snake, killing all but the one she needed. With her final spin, she landed behind the snake and wound the string of her bow around the snake’s neck. He squirmed until Macintosh stood over him. “Where. Is. My. FAMILY?” His bellow shook dust out of the celling and made the snake’s eyes to derp for a moment.

Octavia decided to chime in, “My partner is crazy, he could kill at any moment.” That decided the snake, he pointed to the left tunnel and Macintosh ran off, leaving Octavia to deal with him; “Thanks,” she whispered, then tugged at the bow sharply, breaking his neck. She tore off after him, mercilessly killing any snakes that he missed as he went by; he wasn’t hard to track, now that she wasn’t sitting on his back, he was using that sword of his with unbridled joy. She eventually caught up to him at the edge of a massive pit, and on the other side of the pit was a cage containing the terrified Apple family.

“AJ, Applebloom, Granny Smith, it’s me! I’m here to save you,” he shouted across the pit.

Applejack answered him, “Big Macintosh? Is that really you? Oh, thank Celestia and Luna; I thought we were done for.” She was crying with joy at seeing her older brother, Applebloom was positively beaming at him through the bars, Granny Smith … probably didn’t know what was going on, but was still glad to see her grandson.

“Now, don’t worry, me and Octavia will get you out,” he said, then whispered, “Somehow.” The two of them looked for a lever or a rope or a bridge while Applejack continued talking.

“Octavia? What’s that fancy filly doin’ here? You didn’t force her into this, did you?”

Octavia waved at the three of them, “Good to see you Applejack, and no, me coming with Big Macintosh was all my idea. AHA!” She hit the bridge release and the Apple’s ran over crying to Big Macintosh. Big Mac broke down sobbing with them, babbling about how he was sorry that they had to get mixed up in this, about how he would never let anyone hurt them ever again, and told them that he was sorry that he had ever gotten into this business. It was endearing for Octavia to see them and know that they loved each other so much. As she brushed a tear out of her eyes, a small voice piped up from below her.

“Miss Octavia? Why are you wearing those funny clothes?”

She smiled down at Applebloom, “I needed them to help your brother; but after this, I plan on burning them.”

“I hate to interrupt this little moment, but we gota’ skedadle,” Granny said.

“No,” Big Macintosh let his sister go, “Not yet. Got one lost piece of business to take care of.” Big Macintosh headed for the tunnel entrance, “when you get to the end of this tunnel, go right, that will lead you to a staircase and the way out. Octavia, make sure they get there okay.”

She shook her head. “They can get back just fine on their own; I am coming with you.” She started to follow him, but was stopped by his rage filled glance back.

“Lead them to the exit,” He growled and started off again.

She watched him go. Applebloom spoke up again, “Miss Octavia, what’s my brother goin’ to do? I’m scared.” Octavia shook her head, still starring after Big Macintosh.

“It is not you who should be afraid, little one. Come on; let’s get you all out of here.”
…

The right hand tunnel did not fork off again, and Macintosh did not meet any other resistance as he walked down it; apparently he and Octavia had killed all the guards. Macintosh came to the main chamber and came face to face with his greatest enemy.

“Well, Macintosssssssssssh Apple, you finally made it here,” Twain called from across the room. He was a gigantic Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake, the largest in the world if the stories were to be believed. “Too bad that you will die.”

“Only one of us is goin’ to die, Twain, and it sure as hell ain’t goin’ to be me.” Without further ado, Macintosh blasted the mini-gun on. Twain managed to dodge the massive hail of gun fire, but only barely; he was marked in dozens of places and he had lost his rattle. He slithered toward Big Macintosh, still dodging the bullets; Twain struck at Macintosh and Big Mac dodged, turned and bucked his jaw so hard he dislocated it. This didn’t stop Twain for long; snakes could dislocate their jaws at will, so Twain simply relocated it and struck again. This time, Macintosh was too slow; one of Twains fangs clipped the mini-gun and tore it off. Twain then thrashed with his tail, sending Big Macintosh flying and knocking the lance off him and sending spinning; it stuck over by the door.

Twain laughed evilly, “You fool! Now you will die, jusssssst like the otherssssss.” He reared back to strike a Macintosh’s neck-

“Not if I can help it!” Two arrows sailed through the air, one burring itself into Twain’s neck, the other slamming into his eye. Twain emitted a screaming hiss of pain, causing both Big Macintosh and Octavia to cover their ears; Twain looked with his one good eye at Octavia lying on the ground, covering her head and rushed to attack her, picking her up in his tail, he slammed her into the floor, all four walls and the celling, cracking the stone that they were made of. He threw her down, “Foolsssss, do you think that your petty weaponssssss will stop me?”

“No. But this one might.” Twain turned around to find Big Macintosh standing near the door and holding his sword. “BURN TWAIN!!!” He swung the sword in a dizzying arc, weaving a deadly pattern with the magic of the sword; a score of slashes opened up on Twain’s head, he was cut neatly in half, organs falling out of him and flying around the room as he thrashed in pain. Big Macintosh didn’t stop until he had worked out all of his rage for Twain and his fear for his family. The room was painted red with Twain’s blood; when he was finished, Big Macintosh set the sword on his back and ran over to Octavia.

“Tavi, Taiv, speak to me. You gotta’ be okay, you just gotta’ be! Please don’t go Octavia, stay with me.” He was sobbing and holding her face. “Please, I love you, Octavia. Don’t leave me.” He sat there sobbing, holding her head in his lap; he was so busy crying that he failed to see her eyes flutter open.

“I … love … you too,” she whispered to him.

His eyes shot open and he looked down. “Octavia!”

“Yes, it’s me, now can you stop crying and help me up.” He lifted her onto her feat as gently as he could and she managed to stay up. Then she leaned into him, and they kissed. It was the most passionate kiss in the world, in the universe; Luna and Celestia couldn’t have created anything more beautiful than that kiss. After an eternity of bliss, they broke apart and stared into each other’s eyes; each saw the future in the other’s eyes, and they would be together, forever.

Just as they turned to leave, a sibilant voice arose behind them, full of pain, “You … foolsssss. Did … you really … think you could … kill …me?” Macintosh calmly walked over to Twains body; he apparently had enough organs and blood left in him to let him live. Macintosh starred at him for a while. “I … will heal … and when I … do-”

Big Macintosh reached down and tore his fangs out, then impaled them into his skull, piercing the brain and pinning Twain’s head to the floor.

Octavia walked over to him and put her arm around his shoulders. “A fitting end.”

Macintosh nodded; it was finally over, they could go home.
…

They went to retrieve Big Macintosh’s family where Octavia had left them, in Old Haymakers bar; they walked in to find Applebloom curled up asleep on Applejacks’ lap, Applejack with a glass of cider in her hands, and Granny Smith and Haymaker making eyes at each other. That last one surprised both Macintosh and Octavia; they thought The Haymaker to be beyond feeling. Applejack saw them first, rushing up and spilling Applebloom out onto the floor. “Is it done?” She looked scared, like she didn’t want to stay any longer than she had to.

Macintosh nodded once, “It’s all over, let’s go home every pony.”

“Am commin’ to,” cried a gravelly voice. Macintosh’s jaw dropped when Haymaker hopped over the bar and kissed Granny; this was getting weird.

But he shook his head to clear it and said, “The more the merrier.” And they all turned to start the long journey back to Ponyville.

“Oh, AJ, we’re goin’ to have to find someplace to stay until I can clean up the house. It ain’t exactly fit for ponies to live in right now.”

“That’s fine,” she said, “Just so long as we’re all together.”