No More Heartstrings

High above Santa Ponay, a microscopic equine settlement right on the the border with Mexicolt, the sun was blazing. It was a hot July day, though as any locals would tell you, that was irrelevant because it was always like this.

At this precise moment, Lyra Hearstrings did not know many things. She definitely knew she had a throbbing headache, likely the reason her thoughts were muddled. She knew the reason for this headache was that she had been drinking for the past three hours straight. She knew she was still in the same cheap bar. She knew she had acquired a beam katana of some sort, and that the reason for this was that some rich alicorn lady had offered her the opportunity to get even. She didn’t know what she was getting even with, but she had been told it would involve killing lots of ponies.

“Maybe I’ll enjoy the variety,” she mumbled.

Her first victim was later this afternoon, and so she did the first sensible thing she had done that day and went home, where home refers to a seedy motel.

Then she passed out for two hours.

When she came to again she sighed and headed for the bathroom. Her eyes had a slightly distant look to them, but other than that her previous binge was hardly noticeable. Her white/cyan mane was just as unkempt as before, and was complemented by a similarly-coloured shirt with an artistic (here the narrator would insert a few tactical coughs) depiction of a lyre. And the jeans, of course. Tight enough to make a scene kid, had there been one present, which wasn't the case, cry. She grinned. Maybe it was going to be a good day after all.

She pretended to care about her dental hygiene and then collapsed on her bed again, where she played with her sword in dumb fascination , watching it glow red, then turning it off again, and repeating the process. It probably wasn’t a good idea to stare at a laser directly like that, but who was she to say?

She was so captivated by this activity, in fact, that when her phone suddenly started to ring, she hurled the sword away, where it proceeded to land on the floor and singe the carpet. She swore.

Then she picked up the receiver because the ringing was starting to annoy her. She recognized the rich lady’s voice.

“Hello, Lyra?”

“Uh, hi… lady!”

“Your first ranked fight has been scheduled! Rank 11 is waiting for you at the top of Ponay Tower.”

“You want me to fight on top of a skyscraper? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”

She heard groaning on the other end.

“…just get there soon, alright?”

“Yessir!” She slammed down the phone and beamed. It was showtime.

When she reached the largely abandoned building, she opted for the elevator. Strangely enough, the panel listed 100 floors, despite there only being 20. The non-functional buttons did, however, make amusing beeping noises.

At the top of this concrete giant (which has never seemed to actually have any purpose aside from being tall), a young mare waited. Her name was Applejack. Perched atop her head was a worn hat, and holstered at her flank was a wonderfully crafted revolver which also doubled as a sword for some reason. In her mouth was a cigar which she hadn't been able to light due to the wind, but which she kept in her mouth because she thought it made her look tough.

It seems appropriate to take a moment to explain how ponies handle guns.

When the first decision to weaponize gunpowder and make it convenient to use was made, design was a large problem, since as even those who have them will eventually agree, hooves are not very useful for tasks that require any degree of flexibility.

The first firearms were mounted on the head, the trigger being vaguely squeezable rubber. Biting down on it would sometimes cause the gun to fire, which meant that members of the infantry were required to develop strong jaws.

(In those days of feudalism, unicorns were exempt from military service, which in hindsight is regarded as a very bad policy.)

The great generals of the Equestrian military looked to their foes/allies of other races- the dragons, the griffons, who of course did not have to bother with things like mouth triggers.

They especially looked at the great apes, who though considerably less intelligent than them, had ridiculously useful thumbs.

So the quest to invent a device which could function like a primate hand was on- the alternative, i.e. teaching the apes to use guns, having been deemed too dangerous.

After another few centuries of bickering about with conspicuous metal finger attachments, the Universal Appendage Simulator was revealed, revolutionizing everything.

The UAS solves the problem of not being to hold anything by, after being fitted to the hoof snugly, simply acting like hands, talons, or another few dozen pre-programmed templates (including, bafflingly, hooves), thus enabling the user to accomplish many things which would not normally be possible, like brushing their teeth.

It is technically only available to members of the Equestrian Army, but as they say, you can buy anything in Santa Ponay.

The coming duel was going to be Applejack's last. She hoped it wouldn't be too exhausting. She had some business to take care of afterwards.

The stairwell door opened and Lyra stepped out. Applejack gave a wave, adjusted her hat, spat out her cigar, drew her gun.

"Well then? We gonna do this or what? I ain't got all evenin', miss."

Lyra chuckled nervously. "Course." She used her magic to press a button on her katana twice. Now it was buzzing, which probably meant it was ready to slash things.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Anytime, sugar." Applejack gritted her teeth.

Then they charged at each other.

Applejack leaped into the air, sharp side of her gun headed in Lyra's direction. If her aim was good, it would wound or at least smack her nicely. Then it was just a matter of jumping back and pumping lead into her. Easy.

She blinked.

The memories flowed.

Out on a farm on the outskirts of town lived a brother and a sister. Though one would expect them to form a close relationship as a result of the hard work they did together, this was not the case, primarily for one reason: the brother (whose name was Big Macintosh) was, by all accepted definitions, an asshole.

As a consequence of this simple fact (and not the other way around), he beat his sister. He did this very often, very violently, and for many, occasionally conflicting, reasons.

He beat her when she looked sad. He beat her when she smiled. He beat her when she complained about him beating her. He beat her when she made mistakes, when he made mistakes, when he had been drinking, when it rained, when it was too hot...

On this particular day he had beaten her because he couldn't think of a reason to beat her.

Applejack had, for the past few weeks, been putting together a simple plan.

The plan was this: she would take the rifle Macintosh owned, put it up to his head while he slept, and blow his brains out.

Tonight she had decided to go through with it.

She had waited until the sound of an inebriated Macintosh stumbling around subsided. Then she waited another half hour, just to be sure.

She climbed up to his room and opened the door very, very slowly. The gun was hung up on the wall.

Things were going rather well, she thought.

She carefully took it down, propped it up next to the bed, and sighed.

Her hoof hovering over the trigger, she gave her brother one last look. Asleep, he looked almost docile.

She knew even if she started taking pot shots at the furniture down stairs she wouldn't wake him up. She had all the time in the world. So why was it taking her so long?

She collapsed dejectedly, eyes beginning to moisten.

Even though he hurt her every day, even though no sane person would ever love him... some stupid part of her still held on to the idea that she could change him, she could make him understand.

Tears streaming down her face, she curled up in a fetal position, deciding she needed some time to think about this.

She lost consciousness.

She was awoken again by a hoof lightly tapping against her head. She groaned, opened her eyes slightly, and saw Big Macintosh frowning back at her.

Then again, what else had she been expecting.

"You awake?"

She nodded weakly, then took a blow to the side of her head.

"Get up."

She gradually did, somehow accepting her fate. It was, after all, her fault, wasn't it?

"Move it."

She went down the stairs, her brother following behind her. He hurried her ahead to the door and opened it, then pushed her out. She landed on her side.

"Come back when you can pull the trigger." He spat at her and slammed the door shut again.

She gave the house one last look.

Then she picked up her hat and ran.

The two assassins' blades were approaching their targets as they themselves got closer to the ground. If their attacks connected just right, this could be it.

Unfortunately for Applejack, she missed completely.

Lyra's weapon, on the other hand, whirred through the air, leaving behind a bright red trail as it cleanly lopped off her opponent's head.

She hit the ground, regained her balance, and turned around to confirm that number 11 was indeed dead.

"Congratulations, Lyra!"

"Shit! What?" She looked around and saw Rich Lady approaching her. "Oh. Hi."

"You are now officially ranked 11th!"

"Great?"

Rich Lady stared at her.

It occurred to her she should probably ask Rich Lady what her actual name was.

"Hey, uh... I didn't quite catch your name last night. Evening. Morning?"

"Ah. My name-" She adjusted her mane. "Is Celestia."

As she tried to make sense of everything that had happened in the past 24 hours that night, Lyra found she couldn't, but tried anyway.

Eventually she fell asleep.