Where Does Truth Come From?
Fire filled the room, raging loudly and burning everything, the tables and drapes, the curtains of the stage and even the concessions table, the wedding cake still stood tall so far though; even if it was now black and burnt on most of it's sides. Corpses covered the floor, all of them dressed fancifully, in dresses and suits.
Pick could barely breathe, the smoke and heat blinded him as well; he forced himself to take a deep breath before he leaned up, pulling the trigger of the pistol in his mouth, feeling the recoil against his teeth, shaking his entire head. He shot three times forwards at another table on it's side, on the opposite side of the room.
The bullets made their way through the wooden table, but each of them missed their true target. Pick barely had enough time to throw himself down before his opponent jumped up to their hooves, their machine gun unloading on his cover, ripping through it easily. He felt the sharp pins and pushes of bullets piercing his hide, but he ignored them, mainly thanks to the massive amount of drugs he'd consumed earlier. He wished he'd taken even more med-x than he had.
He wondered which pony he was fighting, he hadn't been able to get a good look; it might have been hired help, a raider, or one of the local gang, they were always getting around to doing the dirty work around this area.
He heard the other pony stop shooting and so he jumped up and then he leapt over his overturned table, unloading on the pony with the rest of the clip in his pistol, the first shot caught their side, a glancing hit, but the rest of the shots were all relatively square on them, five shots to the chest, and one stray to the neck as they fell to the floor.
Blood splashed out, and then pooled as the pony died on the floor, glaring up at Pick. Pick didn't recognize the asshole.
That was... Nine shots. He had three left. He rushed forwards and burst out of the room, rolling and laying on his stomach as a shotgun blast went over his head, shredding the wall behind him; he looked straight in the mare's eyes as she looked down at him in surprise and she could barely blink before he fired and tore her skull apart, brains splattered on the walls behind her. And just like that, she was gone.
Pick laid there for a second before he forced himself to stand on his hooves, lowering his head and taking a deep breath as the smoke in the burning room made it's way out into the hallway. He started forwards again, rushing into the common area of the church which was devoid of anypony except a corpse on the floor, a stallion wearing the best suit Pick had ever seen.
Pick went to the doorway, the doors had been ripped from their hinges, and he watched the killers move into their carriages, then they started driving away, he saw a group of wedding-goers in the back of the largest carriage, all of them looking frightened. Pick could barely see the bride crying her eyeballs out, hugging a child tightly.
He snorted as he watched the traitors go. He saw it coming, he just hadn't known it'd be today of all days. The wedding job was supposed to be his fast track to cash so he could get out. He let the pistol fall from his mouth to the floor with a loud clatter as he went to the groom, quickly stripping the corpse and taking his nice suit. It seemed he'd been executed in front of the bride, so none of the blood made it to his suit, it was mainly all splattered on the wall.
He sighed as he felt the fine fabrics, it held up from the war fine. Pick wouldn't be surprised actually if this was newer than that. He slowly felt his side and found the wet spots where he was bleeding, but he ignored it as he went back to obtain the shotgun from the mare he killed.
Her name might have been Crystal or something? He was pretty sure he slept with her or her sister a couple nights ago. A shocking betrayal from Crystal, or her sister. Wait... Was it her sister, or her brother? He was pretty sure there was two. He decided it wasn't that important anyway and he turned away from the corpse.
Now sporting a bloody suit, a nearly fully loaded shotgun, and a new found hatred for his old 'friends'; Pick set out of the church, following the carriage tracks. They were headed to the nearest town, Pick never bothered to learn the name, where'd they stop, eat, and then move on to Pixie Dust, the slaver town.
His home town. Pick never thought he'd dread getting to go home.
He also never thought he'd pretend to be a heart-broken groom, but now was the time. He stumbled his way to the nearby town, he was nearly certain he could make it there, but the drugs were quickly wearing out and he needed a doctor or a drug dealer. Or both. He would need to find a job, a place to stay, caps for his drugs; a plan a little longer term than he really wanted it to be.
Slowly he entered the town, looking around at the armed ponies standing around, looking out over the dry plains warily, most of them could see the huge column of flame in the distance; they knew the church was in that direction, and they didn't want to stop Pick to question him.
He knew they notice he was bleeding though, so he quickened his pace, looking for any kind of medical sign, or butterfly, something that showed help. His mouth felt dry, and his legs felt like static; but he refused to let himself stop moving.
He had a little trouble thinking the bigger words, he knew that the mentats were the first to go, but some ponies crowded around him as he walked on; following close behind, and eventually he realized his face was in the dirt and that his legs weren't working. So, he gave up, closing his eyes and relaxing since the pain-killers would at least wear off when he was asleep.
