Author's Note

Word of warning, I got, like, three hours of sleep last night, and my impatientness is making me post this so you guys don't have to keep waiting. If there are any glaring mistakes, revisions, or general problems I need to attend to, let me know and I'll revise this chapter if I have to.

Otherwise, enjoy!

Chp 2: Unconventional first sighting

Life for the buffalo, admittedly, improved since their tribe and the pony settlers fought.

Regaining sizable portions of their native land and creating a mutual peace pact where the settlers gifted them their irresistible apple deserts in exchange for some land usage, Chief Thunderhoof’s tribe flourished unlike before. Still, regardless of how well-off and prosperous most buffalo believed themselves to be, the thankless task of gathering resources remained all the same. Scouring the sandy purgatory, collecting rare fruits, bones for medicine, and kindling, four mighty buffalo found no such prize, the sun far surpassing its middle position.

Nevertheless, their complaints and gripes were yielded. Providing and sustaining the tribe was more important. Their backs ache, their knees scream in pain, fur matted with glistening sweat, vision swimming, but protest they do not.

If little, any contribution made toward the tribe's well-being and future was highly respected, living in the harsh plains of Appleloosa.

Spirits mustn’t waver, a buffalo’s courage unmovable.

BANG!

It doesn't mean they’re devoid of fear.

Blood, scattered fur, tainted sand.

Screaming.

Demonic whips snapped through the air, its origin untraceable. A second rings out. BANG! And the injured buffalo topples, motionless. Pride and anger flashed through the three still-standing forms, desiring to retrieve and aid their befallen breatharian, quickly overshadowed by primal terror, the latter ultimately emerging victorious. Regret and guilt anchoring their hearts, they flee, refusing to look back on their mistake.

Undisturbed silence. Low winds. Lonely death.

Eventually, two staggering steps approached the downed buffalo, pointed leather boots stopping inches from static, bleeding muscle. Bending his legs, a sunburnt hand snatches its prey’s tribal feathered headwear, then tosses it aside.

“Weird hat. I didn’t know those redskins played dress-up with their food.”

January 13, 1912

-Day 2

Something’s wrong, I can feel it- in the air, my bones, and how poor James’s acting lately. I can’t say I blame him; the heat’s overwhelming.

Describing what went down is impossible for me to put into words. None of it makes a lick of sense. One moment, we’re running for our lives, barely awake on our horses, the next, James is screaming and sand and desert rock surround us on every side. Weren’t we running in a forest that night? Why a desert? I would have boiled if he hadn’t taken off my coat. Bloodied, tired, and beaten, we wondered without direction, everything looking the same, buzzards hungrily circling above. James fell a lot– blood loss and dehydration. Luckily, I stashed some bandages and whiskey in my satchel and fixed him up as well as I could, much to his chagrin. I wasn’t the one who got shot in the leg. Also, Cole’s gone, or we’ve given him the slip. Honesty, my memory’s a muddled mess.

What happened? I have no idea.

The question gnaws my thoughts during our aimless exploring. Here we were, getting cooked alive under the suspicious larger-than-normal sun when- less than two days ago -James and I worried over the fire pit not lighting. Sand replaced snow, bleached bones stood in for ice, and James’s paper-white skin turned three shades darker, redder. No food other than the curated meat I carry. No water besides James’s canteen.

Is this hell? Retribution for my crimes?

Why is poor James here then?

Lord, help us.

Softly closing his hand-sized journal, the older man sluggishly wiped his sweat-drenched forehead, unforgiving heat effortlessly bypassing the charred tree corpse’s wire-thin branches. “James? You're alive, boy?” Each strenuous word felt like sandpaper rubbing past his lips, razor wire slicing his parched throat.

An equally defeated tone returned a lazy groan; James, leading both horses, stopped nearby.

“I wish I wasn’t.” He moaned, his voice wistful and empty. “Water’s ran low while I was out, and I don’t suppose you’ve seen a cactus recently.” Unseen buzzard calls mocked James’s inquiry.

Facing James, the older man’s twisting waist halted, spotting a hefty mass of fur resting at the horses’ rear hooves- fur he recognized. “I’ll be damned! Where’d you find a buffalo, boy? This sandy shit-hole certainly isn’t fit for grazing.” Mirroring James’s proud smile, ditching his sorry shade oasis, the older man circled the horses, stopping next to the unmoving buffalo carcass. “You might have the reasoning skills of a bent nail, but scoring a big sonnava gun like this using my rifle is the reason why I keep you around.” He lightheartedly laughed. Judging its size, James had caught enough food to last them two days or more- no surprise he needed two horses.

The younger lawman sheepishly scratched the back of his head, grinning. “I wasn’t nothing, sir. My Granddad’s dead-set on hunting big game and taught me how to fling lead. My first kill was a bison that’d destroyed some of my cousin’s farm on a rampage.” Patting his horse’s barrel, an American Saddlebred, and dropping each set of reigns, James stood across the buffalo, joining the older man.

“How's that?” He asked.

James raised a brow, “Huh?” He said.

The older man whipped his forehead again, “The rampaging. Why would it bother wreckin’ your cousin’s farm?”

“Ah, okay. Well, I guess that a predator spooked it and it happened to be near the farm.”- James squatted, unsheathing the hunting knife his older peer donated to him after losing it in the cave- “My granddad turned one of its horns into a powder horn. But, let’s stop talking about me and get this big guy undressed.” He said.

Forming no objections, both men went to work, repeatedly flipping, carving, and preparing their eventual meal, crimson painting their lower arms and clothes. The older man steered clear of telling lies, and most definitely would be if he said the buffalo’s spoiled insides prepared by the sun’s radiating fury reeked to high heaven. However, it’d be worth the unpleasant scent and mess when he got a ghost of a meal in his ravenous stomach. And, during this draining and grimy process, the older man reminisces on how he and Joseph hunted in their free time, his little grin brightening whenever catching a squirrel or bird.

While remembering happier days soured his mood slightly, he wasn’t the type to lose his nerves or panic if things turned pear-shaped. They’d find out where they were and get home, the older man inwardly repeated.

He needed to stay strong- for James, the hapless bastard.

Soon, the searing heat began cooling, the sun slowly crawling to the horizon. “James,” The older man called, flicking his forearms free of blood as the younger lawman glanced up, storing the recently cleaned knife. “Ya know my name, right?” He asked.

James hummed thoughtfully, then shook his head. “Sorry, sir. You say yours so rarely, I can’t recall. No offense.”

“Finn Cullen.” Chuckling, the older man smirked, holding out his hand. “You can call me Finn. ‘Seems like we're in for the long haul with this job, don't it? Getting acquainted is just good manners, after all.” James examined Finn’s offering hand with minor surprise, taking it seconds later and shaking.

“Nice to meet you, si- Mr. Cullen.” James greeted.

Later that night, eating their hard-earned feast and sleeping the dehydration off, pathless trails and identical views traveled onward. Due to its cumbering size, the buffalo’s leftovers were left for any hungry critter passing by, a shame too. If given the proper tools, patience, and time, Finn would have made a water bag out of its bladder, jerky from its meat, and tendons into bow strings. Alas, such tales fall upon men of sorrow.

So, finding ways to ignore how the sun barely moved, Finn and James exchanged personal stories and history to distract themselves. James, age 23, born April 24, 1889, grew up in upstate New York to a suited chicken scratcher who spent more time exchanging stocks than raising his motherless kid, placing the responsibility onto his grandfather. One Fletcher Ardian, semi-famed voyager, big-game hunter, and civil war veteran raised little James and convinced him to join the army, a factor the young lawman loosely recounted, including his reasons for joining the Texas Rangers. Finn didn’t push further on the matter, everybody kept secrets from others- he should know. As for Finn himself, a born, bred, and baptized Catholic nurtured by El Paso ranchers, Molly and Conor Cullen, and going on eight years of Ranger service.

It’d been two years since he first met James, and, regardless of clashing personalities, five high-value bounties were hunted, six low-profile criminals faced justice, and one prolific murderer was currently taking a dirt nap.

Finn and James’s conversation lasted well after turning in for tonight and resumed come Dawn.

“So, having my side iron pressed right against his pocket snake, Mc’ Downes’s shivering like a dog shittin’ in the rain, begging me-” Throwing his hands high, Finn assumed a mock expression of fright, “-Oh, dear God, no! I’m innocent! I did no wrong!” James’s shoulders bounced at the feigned terror, covering his mouth to stifle his laughter.

“You’re cruel, Mr. Cullen,” He remarked, “But, you sure he did anything?” The angle his older partner put Mc’ Downes in, it’s challenging imagining someone so…pathetic committing murder.

Scoffing and dropping his act, Finn rolled his eyes. “Please! Them coppers nabbed that filthy varmint red-handed, pawin' at the poor girl's corpse and all. And he had the gall to bawl for his mama while I kept watch for the state troops to haul him off. Listen here, I ain't in the habit of takin' lives unless I’m forced to, boy, but the lord tests me when I come across these vermin, actin' like they're entitled to forgiveness. It’s one part I never entirely understood in the bible- how Christ found it to forgive sinners like Mc’ Downes.” He grumbled.

James sighed, slumping his shoulders, “Maybe everybody had goodness inside them, sir, no matter how small.” He sarcastically replied,

Blood, scattered fur, tainted sand.

Undisturbed silence. Low winds. Lonely death.

And a devil’s scarred smile.

A look of bitter impassiveness crossed Finn's sunburnt features. “Whatever you say, boy.” He muttered, falling silent as he and James rode their steeds.

The summer sun shined bright, bathing Appleoosa with life-giving warmth the humble town’s folk basked, wadding the dirt-traced streets and wood-shack food markets. Mirthful remarks such as ‘Howdy!’ and ‘How’re you?’ fly through the humid air, and creatures of all kinds- (largely) earth ponies, pegasi, unicorns, and other species -couldn’t resist the town's infectious joy.

“Dag nab it!”

All except one very vexed stallion.

Sherif Silver loved his job. It’s good, honorable work any self-loving earth pony strived for, and paid handsomely despite Appleoosa’s rather low crime rate- excluding the occasional scrap or petty theft. He prided his work and the town it protected. Heck, even if one of his resident’s cousins prevented a buffalo-pony war he partially instigated, ponies still respected him, and he returned their generous sympathies in kind. Like his pa, pa’s pa, and Grandpa’s pa, Sheriff Silverstar performed his task diligently and without fail, maintaining peace and order.

However…

Gingerly blocking the air space between him and enraged Sherif’s warpath with guarding forelegs, Silverstar’s deputies cringed anxiously. “Alright, calm down sir,” Jittered the lanky, black-hatted Golden Spur, “Let’s settle down!”

“E-Eeyup!” High Ace, an unassuming earth stallion, echoed, hiding behind his co-worker.

Unceremoniously unhoofing a half-shattered chair, crashing with a startling bang, Sheriff Silverstar’s wild eyes locked onto his deputies. “Tell me something useful instead of twiddling your hooves like foals!” He roared, kicking parts of an obliterated table littering the ground. “How is it that nopony can catch this- this- AGH!” His legs buckling, Silverstar hit the floor, groaning in frustration.

Never had Appleoosa’s revered sheriff struggled this much apprehending a criminal since Trouble Shoes. Towns spanning Dodge Junction to the Bad Lands suffered devastating attacks that left homes and ponies alike destroyed, turned to ash and embers. Nopony giving the Royal Guard reports knew who organized these widespread pillages, as dissimilar species partake in the merciless slaughtering- dragons, griffions, yaks, minotaurs, ponies, and zebras. No name, no distinctive allegiance, and no clear motive. Cataclysmic ghosts who leave no trace behind, and no face known. All ponies knew was that the mysterious attackers’ ages fell somewhere close into the young adult or teenage category, adding an extra layer of revulsion to this grim cake of death and destruction.

How does this relate to Silverstar, you ask? Four nights ago, accounts and eyewitnesses related sightings of a strange and unsettling figure lurking past midnight, wearing tattered rags and sporting a mean glare. ‘Locking up a creep, easy.’ he believed. Unfortunately, Silverstar’s laidback connotations swiftly ended when he and his accompanying deputy happened to spot their purp lighting a Molotov in front of their jailhouse.

And, chasing him off, nopony later reported sightings of the cloaked arsonist. Gone like ashes in the wind.

Weeks and weeks slipped by, and Silverstars efforts were proven useless. He could’ve sent a thousand patrollers, installed Equestria’s brightest searchlights, recruited the WonderBolts themselves, and come out empty-hoofed.

Exchanging weary looks, Golden Spur inched closer to his Sherif.

“Um, obviously we’re thinking too deep into this, sir. The guy’s probably a fire-happy lunatic who skipped town or a dumb colt doing something stupid.”

His copping suggestions went unused as Silverstar shot up and shoved a torn cloth scrap in his face. Stitched to the scratched and tattered fragment proudly displayed an equine skull, its unhinged, sword-like teeth crushing a crudely remade cutie mark akin to Princess Celestia’s.

“Does this look like something a pony, or any creature in their right mind, willing owns, deputy?!” Silverstar berated, acting as if Golden Spur were his elusive arsonist. “This’s their war-bands mark, I’m sure of it! I’ve turned this town upside down for evidence and this piece of junk is all I have to show for it!” Metaphorically, and potentially literally, burning holes into the cloth, his glare soon deflated alongside his rage. “Golden Spur, High Ace, those monsters might have Appleoosa next on their list, and I can’t do a darn thing about it.”

The two downcast deputies shared Silverstar’s sour demeanor as Golden Spur removed and held his hat to his chest. “Sir, I- uh, writing Celestia a letter and getting the Royal Guard here is our best bet. We’re running out of rope, and I’m the one with a glass eye and poor depth perception.” Tapping his false left eye, Golden Spur helped Silverstar to his hooves.

“Y-You’re right,” Defeated, Appleoosa’s sheriff sighed, messaging his temple. “We ain’t got time to run around like headless chickens. I’ll write a letter and send it out. Hopefully, her majesty receives it before-.”

BOOM!

“SILVERSTAR!!”

Caught off guard, the two deputies and sheriff instantly focused on the jail house’s entrance, muffled shouts and screams awaiting their attendance, steel clashing steel, and trampling hooves shaking the earth. “COME OUT, NOW!” Boomed the faceless speaker.

Hesitantly, Golden Spur and High Ace stuck close by, Silverstar approached and cracked open the front door, peeking his head through before fully exiting, fearful eyes wider than saucers.

The first thing securing Silverstar’s alarm; smoke, burning wood, and rotten copper assaulted his senses, afar black pillars peppered with glowing orange specks towered above Appleoosa’s tallest buildings. Dropping his dumbfounded sight-seeing, gathered semi-circled, presented inches from his jailhouse’s front deck, dozens of ponies, bruised and cut, quietly cried and begged on their flanks, chins touching dirt underneath the feet/paws/hooves of poorly-dressed creatures brandishing outlandish objects and ramshack blades. Their bizarre contraptions, tubes attached to wooden, blocky frames, grazed and shoved ponies, reeking of black powder and cleaning oil. Sadistic grins, stoic frowns, and cold, heartless stares all saw past Silverstars body, relentlessly berating him with irresistible apprehension. ‘Appaloosa was under attack!’ his mind finally processed.

Anywho, it wasn’t what unnerved Silverstar the most.

Stitched upon their ratty outfits and crud armor padding, matching insignia struck him harder than a full-power buck to the head.

A sharp-toothed equine skull devouring Celestia’s sun.

“Slow to start, like always.” Snided the previously shouting voice. “You can’t imagine how long I’ve yearned to see your face twisted with pure terror and hopelessness, Sheriff.” They added, spitting his title. Amidst this gaggle of unsavory characters, Silverstar’s eyes settled on an unfamiliar earth pony wearing identical clothes, pointing one of the odd contraptions directly at him.

Silverstar barely swallowed a restrictive lump, “Who’re you?” He inattentively said, unintentionally neglecting the pony’s venom-coated words.

He scoffed, “Why bother? None of you knew I was then, and, when I’m done paying my lord’s kindness, nopony shall.” Scoffing, the snarky earth stallion went silent momentarily, grinning callously as he decreased his object's angle.

BANG!

Sheriff Silverstar's limbs froze solid for what had felt longer than innumerable, slow decades, holding his breath.

Then came the searing pain.

Face muscles pulling back, painfully stretching their expressive limits to reflect Silverstars indescribable, unbearable suffering, the ground rose to meet his stomach, lurching as he released an agonizing wail. Gaining a golf-ball-sized hole where half his right hoof used to be, Silverstar futility compressed his profusely bleeding limb, rolling side-to-side, running his screaming throat raw. He’d never experienced this level of hurt. Appleoosa’s sheriff endured punches, bucks, headbutts, cuts, broken bones, and any imaginable injury any reckless pony could encounter. While not THE toughest pony, he wasn’t a pushover either. But, dear Celestia, it stung! Like pouring flaming sea water onto an open wound infested by Equestria's most temperamental and venomous insects. Glass repeatedly poked exposed nerve ends; unadulterated magma smoldering his bone. No, it’s impossible to explain, mainly because Silverstar couldn’t comprehend a single thought.

Opposing Silverstars agony, the deputies’ abject horror, and his hostage’s gasps, the earth stallion cackled gleefully, slapping his knee. “Oh, keep doing that, sheriff, it feels soooo~ good hearing you blubbering like a foal!” Propping the explosive stick onto his shoulder, he craned his neck downward, curiously watching Silverstar writhe uncontrollably. “How’s it feel- the pain? Tell me. I’d love to know~.” He snickered.

All Silverstar replied with was a guttural scream.

“Uh? Si- MR. CULLEN! You might wanna come look at this!”

Lord have mercy, why can’t he do his business peacefully? Zipping his britches fly, Finn grumbled lowly as he emerged from a covering boulder, scratching his chin’s lengthy whiskers. “Now what, boy? If it's people trying to rescue us, it ain't- you’re hallucinating…again.” Wrestling the scarcely cactus-water-filled canteen off his person, the older lawman offered it, giving a subtle shake. With buffalo-stuffed bellies, tolerating cactus water didn’t force up whatever little muck their stomachs held- sadly, it didn’t take away the awful taste.

Peering over his shoulder, narrowing his perturbed gaze, James snorted, motioning toward the horizon beyond the cliff they rested on. “Wha-? No! This’s something else entirely.” Relinquishing Finn’s binoculars, its owner lazily regained possession and placed them closer to his squinting orbs.

Scanning far-off desert fields, Finn found nothing worth causing a fuss over. Sand, sand, more sand, vultures, sand, a windmill, fire, houses…horses? Sand.

Wait.

Clothes, colorful horses?

A…blazing town of scared, colorful, clothed horses.

“…Now I’ve seen everything.” Finn flatly stated. Yep, there’s no denying. The older lawman’s thoughts suggested unexpected head trauma, bad cactus water, or clinical insanity, but his logical side quickly took control.

Firstly, ponies, not horses- too small and chubby. Where are their equestrians, or rangers? Funny, bad well water, maybe? A town full of crazies havin’ fun with their mounts? Although, dolling, painting, and letting unsupervised ponies run ramped seemed too far-fetched for a quick laugh, plus, Finn hadn’t spotted a single saddle nor bridle anywhere. These aberrant equines lacked riders. If so, who ran this circus? Did the town’s folk abandon this place and their ponies escaped? No, excluding the fires, the buildings appeared pristine enough and regularly maintained- unless it’d happened recently, a notion Finn weakly believed. ‘Costumes? Ah, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not hallucinating (hopefully). Undiscovered animals?’ Finn persistently formulated speculation after speculation, each one more silly and outlandish than the last, biting his bottom lip.

Then, an unexpected sight demanded his attention.

Streaking upward like a speeding cannonball, Finn’s surprise heightened once he refocused and discovered…a winged pony.

Before he started forging any further inquiries, two other winged creatures gave chase, effortlessly erasing the minuscule distance the first winged pony achieved and- “Dear God.” -Wordlessly, breathless abhorrence escaped his slack-jawed mouth. Brandishing blades, the dual chasers speared the winged pony from behind, their target immediately falling limp. As they hauled the unmoving pony away, the binoculars left Finn’s stunned eyes, which settled on James.

“Can you make sense of this?” James asked.

“Boy, I can’t make heads or tails of this.” Sitting on his knees, Finn’s observations carried onward, vigorously collecting every minute detail he discovered. “But, if there's a town, you can bet your boots there's food and water aplenty. We're headed down that way.” He exclaimed.

Confounded by Finn’s sudden and brash course of action, James stammered but found his bewildered voice. “H-Huh?! No way, sir, we can’t!” Hurting his ears with his shouting, Finn threw James an annoyed glare. “Sorry. B-B- But you can’t be serious. You see…whatever those beasts are? I’m sure as hell that they aren’t normal, non-colorful horses like what we ride.” He added.

“Ponies-?”

Finn's reply shriveled and died when James’s fist hit the ground. “Aliens!” He swiftly interjected.

“...Aliens? Really?” Finn openly deadpanned.

Partially lifting his upper torso, James pointed at the burning town. “Yes! Obviously! I read this book about ‘em waging war on us, and those freaks–.” Making a finger gun, the eccentric young man imitated getting his brains blown out, imitating a ‘bleh’ noise. “I also heard aliens come in all shapes and sizes. So, for all we know, these things may look cute, but we’re ants in comparison, our guns worse than flicking matches! Do you see the horned ones? They’ll skewer you.” He explained.

“I gotta say…have you gone psychotic, boy?” Finn exasperated, tearing the binoculars away. “You’re basing this entire shit show and pudgy ponies, which you’ve just now seen, on some crappy space-man storybook? We haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, and those pony folk are clearly in a bind.” He retorted.

James scoffed, “Who cares? Of course: they’re warring factions, fighting for dominance.”

Reaching outward, taking the rear collars of James’s blue and white-stripped shirt, Finn scowled deeply. “Can’t you see? There’s a black-and-white narrative going on, and innocent folk are being harmed. As much as I hate taking advantage of people's misfortune, we’re starved of options. Both sides seem intelligent- We help the scared ones, and then ask for food. At minimum, we Rangers serve to uphold peace and justice above all else, and it doesn’t matter who or what those terrified folk are.” Finn shook his head, ending his lecture by unhanding James’s clothing and summoning his Winchester. “This isn’t a game. Now shoot.”

“Me? Why?” James outwardly pondered, rubbing his neck.

Finn nodded, allowing his younger partner ownership of his trusty boomstick, stomach laying flat on the sandy floor. “These old eyes of mine ain't worth a lick for spotting nothin', let alone pinpointin' it. But when it comes to takin' aim, you're a better shot than me any day. I'll keep my peepers peeled, and you let them bullets fly.” Putting the burning town within his binoculars' watchful vision, James adopted a one-legged kneel.

Touching stock to shoulder, James rolled his eyes. “Aye aye, captain.” Inhaling a deep breath, the younger lawman lined his sights.

The sadistic earth stallion’s glutinous grin disappeared into boredom, Silverstar’s sweat-drenched body resting like road kill as his hoof bled freely, screams replaced by labored heaving.

“Darn, the show’s over, my brother and sisters!” Disappointed, his sentiments were shared amongst the crudely dressed crowd, who mockingly groaned or spat curses. “Let’s wrap this up. The Lord will suspect our plan and take notice of our absence. Steal, destroy, and indulge whatever valuables stand inside this town’s border, then we move out!” Releasing a triumphant war cry, the sadistic stallion’s entourage joined in, raising their explosive sticks. Bound and pinned ponies began crying and yelling louder, some thrashing against their captures.

“Hold on there!”

Interrupting their blaring call, every pair of bloodthirsty eyes settled on Golden Spur and High Ace, the former directing his metal-melting glare toward the stallion who hurt his sheriff, the latter scared stiff. “Don’t think we’ll sit by and let you destroy our fair town, partner! We Appleoosians won’t go without a fig-!”

Unfortunately, Golden Spur’s fight vanished when the sadistic stallion pressed his explosive stick to his muzzle, the wire-thin stallion’s pin-prick eyes crossing.

Black powder overwhelmed his nostrils.

Retracting the complex mechanism adorning the wooden frame's left side, the sadistic stallion's scornful gaze sapped any courage Golden Spur had. “Please, save me the bravo.” He rasped, “Ponies like you? They’re all the same.” Hovering his hoof above the oversized trigger, Golden Spur feebly craned his head back, closing his eyes in dreaded anticipation.

BANG!

Hot, wheezing puffs moved Golden Spur’s chest like an out-of-control steam engine, mouth drier than the desert surrounding Appleoosa.

And yet, oblivion never met him. Humid air encompassed his body, screams and the distant crackling flames packed his folded ears, and the smell of black powder vanished.

Tentatively parting his eyelids, the panting deputy took note of how the crudely dressed invaders completely dismissed him, including the stallion threatening his life moments prior. The source bringing about their shocked silence became highly apparent when- tracing the direction they were looking at -Golden Spur’s equally disturbed disgust materialized. Sprawled out feet from the sadistic stallion, crimson ichor soaked the abutting ground below a befallen griffon’s head, their limbs motionless and explosive stick discarded.

There…wasn’t even a sound.

No pony or creature dared make a peep or move an inch, awaiting someone else to break the looming quietness.

“A-A traitor?!”

Once the sadistic stallion uttered this half-hearted exclamation, all Tarturas broke loose.

The invaders tripped over their feet, scrambling, aiming weapons at one another, hurling baseless accusations of betrayal and sabotage, mainly directed at those closest to the unmoving griffon. As luck would have it, a few pony hostages managed to escape, Golden Spur and High Ace taking the opportunity to follow their example and escort them to safety.

Leveling his explosive stick with the cloudless heavens, and firing three shots, the mini-riot calmed, switching to its origin point. “Stand down! Somepony here is foolish enough to attack us. Find them, and bring me their head!” He commanded atop the jailhouse boardwalk.

Like ants, they scattered.

James clicked his tongue, hissing profanities as he cycled the Winchesters lever handle, loading another round. “Was that the leader? Shit, I missed, didn’t I?” Despite his expert marksmanship, James’s eyes strained harder than ever, tears slightly clouding his vision. Damn sun, why is it so bright during mid-day?!

“Silver fur, light-brown head of hair, ratty clothes, and making clown-worthy theatrics?” Finn hissed on his left, frowning heavily. “Fucking animals.” The older lawman witnessed what’d occurred and their little silver horsie’s barbarous act. Only if barely, Finn knew the injured mustached pony (he refused to apply sensibility by now) was also law enforcement, judging by its outfit alone. People who injured his fellow men- or stallions -of the law were undeserving of being called scum, especially if they did it for sick enjoyment. “Adjust three degrees west, two degrees south, and maintain your steady arm.” He instructed.

“See, ya little shit? Know that these men live false lives, bound by society's chains,” Smiled a scarred-mouthed devil, holding an abused man by his hair. “This’s what happens if you let those chains comfort you, boy. Look real close now.”

Pressing a blade to the man’s throat, the scarred devil painted his vision red.

Finn’s grip tightened ever so slightly.

‘Fucking animals.’