“Rose! Rose! Get my shotgun—it’s got to be that damn colt again.”
The metallic tang of a prewar relay coil filling his mouth, Picklock’s eyes went wide, his scruffy brown mane suddenly standing on end.
Buck. The jig was up.
Scrabbling forward as fast as his hooves would allow, the lanky, tan earth pony bolted toward the far side of the room. The door at the back of the room slammed open a half second later, the silhouette of a gruff stallion appearing in the threshold as the sound of a pump action shotgun racked in tandem.
“You get back here, ya no good thief!”
KA-BLAM!
Picklock tumbled forward as the top corner of an old, prewar magazine display exploded into a shower of splinters, his tail swinging between his legs as he felt them pelt his flanks.
“Owhhl schthit!”
Swearing around a mouthful of metal, Picklock darted around the dimly glowing jukebox at his right and into the next aisle, a cascade of glass and sparks erupting behind him as a second shot echoed across the store.
KA-BLAM!
Katshhhh! Tzztk! Pakt-pak!
“Celestia damn it! I said get back here!”
Ignoring the less-than-convincing words being shouted in his direction, Picklock continued to run forward full tilt, his hooves struggling to find traction on the dusty linoleum. His eyes settling on his target, he made a break for it, sweat pouring down his back and neck as he made a running leap across the last aisle.
KA-BLAM! KA-BLAM! KA-BLAM!
Katshhh! Katshhh! Katshhh!
His hind hooves thumping against the frame as he tumbled through the window, Picklock could feel three explosions of glass erupt behind him in quick succession, showering his flanks with hundreds of tiny shards. Wincing as he felt a few dig into his flank, he took off full tilt down the alleyway, the sound of angry cursing echoing out into the night from within the shop.
“Oh, Dusty, you didn’t hit the poor colt, did you?”
“Damn it, Rose! Do you think I’d still be shooting if I had? Get me my lantern! I’m goin’ after him.”
“Dusty, dear—”
Eyes widening again, Picklock could hear the heavy thump of hoofsteps inside making their way toward the back door of the shop. There was a slight unevenness to them—the old stallion had a bit of a limp—but it didn’t take a spry set of hooves to blast somepony with a shotgun from thirty hooves away.
Making a hasty u-turn, Picklock darted back out into the street, lights flickering on in the nearby houses as the sounds of the gunshots started to draw attention. He could hear a few drowsy, irritated voices and plenty of cursing—the nearby townsfoalk not so much in a panic as they were wondering who was making all the racket at this time of night.
Scrrrrrrrrrrch!
The sight of two headlamps to the West prompted Picklock to side forward on his flanks as he made another stumbling turn—the clop of hooves and heavy slap of barding announcing the arrival of the town guard. One of them could have been Roxxy, but he wasn’t taking any chances—he was still technically banned from the city limits until the end of the month.
Though the other guards might not shoot him on sight like Old Dusty would—the operative word being might—he didn’t want to risk another whooping from the mayor. His flank still smarted from where the old crone had used her magic to “discipline” him after his last hearing.
Picklock winced around the coil in his muzzle.
Her cutie mark wasn't shaped like a riding crop for no reason—that much was for sure.
“Hey! You! Who’s there? Stop!”
The sound of a younger stallion’s voice—definitely not Roxxy’s—called out from the direction of the two silhouettes, Picklock squinting into the light as he tried to make them out.
Picklock could feel his ears twitch around, his brow furrowing as he continued to stumble forward in the opposite direction.
It sounded like Almond Whistle, but it was hard to tell with the growing din in the buildings around him. Either way, like Tartarus he was going to listen to what they had to say—not with his backside on the line.
KA-BLAM! KA-BLAM!
“You get back here you sonova bitch!”
“Bucking—Mr.Dust! Please! Stop! We’ll take care of this!”
“Like Tartarus I’m leavin’ this to you greenhorns! The two of ya couldn’t catch a buckin’ brahmin if it shoved its heads up both your arses!”
Picklock could feel a small wash of relief run over him as he picked up speed, his hooves clopping against the cracked blacktop as the sound of commotion started to fade behind him. If nothing else, Dusty and the town guard getting into a pissing contest meant less eyes on him. If he could just make it another two blocks or so, he’d be back outside the city limits and home free.
“[Cough Cough] Hey! Hey, you! Stop!”
Picklock stumbled again as the sound of another voice, a mare’s voice, suddenly called out from his side, another arc of light nearly blinding him as a headlamp swung in his direction. There was a thunk as something heavy and hollow—a canteen, maybe—fell on the ground at her side, the mare half-choking on the last swig she'd taken.
Acting on instinct, Picklock immediately changed course, darting around the rubble of a half collapsed building and into the nearest sidestreet.
“Hey! [cough cough] I said [cough] stop!”
Ignoring the shout completely, Picklock continued racing forward, the pane slamming down on his brief window of relief. Although necessity had seen him develop a pretty quick set of hooves, he was no long-distance stallion—he was practically wheezing with exertion from all this running.
Darting into another side street, and then another, Picklock glanced over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the road behind him. He couldn’t see any sign of the other guard pony or their headlamp, the distant shouting from the center of town fading as well.
Dropping his head in relief, Picklock could almost feel his legs go out.
Buck, he’d been lucky. He was sure that guard had had him back—
“Hey! There you are! I said—oomph!”
“Glmmph!”
Whumph.
The sudden reappearance of the headlamp light searing his retinas, Picklock barreled headlong into the guardmare that had appeared around the corner, the two of them tumbling over one another into the street. Picklock could feel something in his jaw crack as his muzzle hit the pavement, the coil in his mouth skittering across the ground as it came free from his grip.
“Oh bucking—”
“Hey! You! No quick movements or—oh Celestia, you have got to be kidding me.”
Picklock could feel his spine go rigid, the mare beside him letting out a particularly nasty curse before rising to her hooves. Slowly doing the same, he took a moment to inhale, a weak smile appearing on his muzzle as he turned in her direction.
“Heyyyyy there, Roxxy. I didn’t realize it was youuuu. Fancy meeting you here, of all places…”
Stepping into the dim, evening light, the freckled orange unicorn replied with a flat stare, her yellow eyes noticeably irritated beneath her short cropped red mane and bangs.
“Don’t even try it, hoof-for-brains. I’m not deaf, you know.”
As if to punctuate her point, the sound of two more shotgun blasts rang out in the distance, a few inaudible shouts escaping into the night as the sounds of arguing townsfoalk echoed out from the city center.
Picklock scratched at the back of his neck with a hoof, his grin becoming more sheepish.
“Ahh…you heard that, then?”
“The whole town did, dumbass.”
“You know...it could have been any stallion out there breaking into old Dusty’s place—”
“—Pick…”
The mare closed her eyes, her blue-gray barding shifting as she pinched her brow with a hoof.
“I swear, Pick, if we weren’t foalhood friends…what are you even doing here? Didn’t Mercy say you weren’t allowed back in town ‘till next month?”
“Well…it’s not like I was coming back, coming back. I just needed to, y’know, borrow some things.”
The mare’s flat gaze returned as she glanced over Picklock’s shoulder at the tarnished coil lying on the ground.
“Riiight...”
Taking a few nervous steps backward, Picklock kicked the component behind himself with a hoof, a bead of sweat running down his brow.
“I was gonna pay him back…I just, y’know, needed some spare caps. For supplies and whatnot.”
“You couldn’t have just asked for some rations?”
“Wellll...I figured it would be easier if nopony knew I was here.”
“And how’d that work out for you?”
Picklock raised a hoof, pausing for a moment as he glanced between himself, the coil, and the mare.
“...pretty well?”
The mare facehoofed again.
“Damn it, Pick…”
Letting out a very long, drawn out sigh, the mare clopped over to her fallen headlamp, its light casting shadows across the nearby building as she lifted it back onto her head with her magic.
“Get out of here before I decide to drag you back to Mercy myself. I’ll tell the others I didn’t get a good look at who it was, alright?”
Bringing his hooves together in front of him, Picklock mimed a bow, glancing up with one eye and another sheepish grin.
“Thanks, Roxx. I owe you one.”
“It’s a lot more than one, Pick.”
“...two then? Three?”
“Try ten.”
“Are you sure? I don’t think the time before last counts.”
The mare sighed again.
“Get going, dumbass. I can feel myself regretting this already.”
Picklock replied with another weak smile.
“Thanks again, Roxx.”
Brushing off the coil with a hoof, Picklock lifted it into his saddlebag with his muzzle. Taking a few more steps, he turned, tilting his head in the mare’s direction.
“Oh, and Roxx?”
The mare rolled her eyes.
“...yes, Pick?”
The brown earth stallion grinned, rearing back onto his hind legs as he batted his green eyes and brought his hooves together in front of him.
“Love you, bestie.”
The sharp whistle of automatic laser fire filled the night air a moment later, Picklock once again darting forward as fast as his hooves would carry him. He knew Roxxy was a good enough shot not to hit him—the cutie mark on her flanks was a testament to that—but that didn’t mean she was above leaving a few scorch marks to make her point.
Despite it all, he could feel a breathless smirk light his muzzle, sweat running down his neck as he serpentined back and forth.
That much, at least, hadn’t changed since they were kids. He'd have to make it up to her one day. For now, though—
Picklock could feel his eyes widen as another bolt zipped past his flank, a few strands of his tail glowing red before falling to the street below in a pile of white ash.
—it was probably best he gave her some space.
