I Don’t Fear Death

For the first time in days, Pinkie Pie settled. Her room in the Assassins Guild HQ was large but bare. She didn’t decorate it. The only thing that gave it any sort of personality was the spot where she hung her axe on the wall and the corkboard with the names of everypony she had ever killed. There were at least 100 names. It was a stark reminder of her gruesome job, and she did it well. Out of her colleagues, she was by far the best killer.

She lay down on her bed and began to shut her eyes. She didn’t sleep often, and this was precisely why. When she did, the awful memory played once again.

“Twilight!!” Pinkie screamed as the purple alicorn fell over. “Twilight! Please, be okay!” she said, her voice trembling. Twilight coughed up blood. “P-Pinkie… I’m sorry…” she whispered. Pinkie wept hard. She looked up at the ponies who had done this. Their faces were… blurred. “Help!” Pinkie called out in desperation. Twilight’s breathing was labored. “P-Pinkie… I love you so much…” she said, and then drew her last breath. Pinkie screamed in horror. “NO!!!” she bellowed, tears free-falling towards her dead friend’s body. Her mind suddenly flashed to a ghastly version of Twilight. Her eyes were dark, and she was crying blood. “You failed me, Pinkie Pie,” Twilight’s distorted voice hissed, unnaturally cold and deep.

Pinkie woke up in a sweat. Her breathing was heavy. She sat up quickly, gripping the edge of the bed as if it could anchor her to the present. A knock came at her door, followed by a timid voice. “Uh, are you alright in there, Desert Ghost?” Salamander asked nervously.

Pinkie tried to wipe her tears away, but her hooves trembled too much. She gave up and reached for her gas mask, snapping it over her face. “What,” she said, her voice hoarse as she struggled to keep it steady.

Salamander hesitated, clearly intimidated by her tone and appearance. “It’s just, uhm, Rolling Thunder wanted me to check on you.”

Pinkie’s eyes narrowed beneath the mask. “Tell him I’m fine, and I can take care of myself.” Her words were clipped and cold. Salamander flinched but nodded quickly before scurrying downstairs.

Alone again, Pinkie let out a shuddering sigh. She leaned back against the wall, her eyes falling on the corkboard of names. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what it would feel like to add her own to the list.

When Pinkie finally made her way downstairs, Wilted Rose was seated at a makeshift desk, writing her report on Colonel Crusher. Rolling Thunder stood by the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled faintly appetizing. The room was quiet save for the scratch of Wilted’s quill and the bubbling of the stew.

“Oh, you’re up, Desert Ghost,” Rolling Thunder said, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smile. He stirred the pot one more time before turning to her fully. “Get some rest?”

“I’m ready for another job,” Pinkie replied curtly, ignoring his question entirely.

Rolling Thunder’s brow furrowed in concern. “But you were just out? You need to pace yourself, Ghost. Pushing too hard is a mistake even the best of us can’t afford to make.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Pinkie snapped. Her tone was sharper than she intended, but she didn’t care enough to soften it. “Give me a name, and I’ll get it done.”

Wilted Rose looked up from her report, her expression a mix of surprise and exasperation. “You’re seriously going out again? Do you even sleep?”

Pinkie shot her a glare but said nothing.

“I think you’re overworking yourself, Ghost,” Rolling Thunder said, his voice firm but still tinged with worry. “You’re one of our best killers, and we can’t have you burning out. Take a day. Rest. Regroup. The jobs will still be here tomorrow.”

The room felt tense as Pinkie mulled over his words. She hated being told what to do, but she also knew that Rolling Thunder wasn’t wrong. Still, the thought of staying idle, of being alone with her thoughts and memories, made her skin crawl.

Finally, she let out a long sigh. “Fine. I’ll stay for a bit. But not long,” she said, her voice dripping with reluctance.

Rolling Thunder nodded, clearly relieved. “Good. Dinner will be ready soon. Why don’t you join us?”

Pinkie didn’t respond, instead turning and heading toward the corner of the room where she could sit alone. She sank into an old chair, her eyes drifting to the window where the grey, smoke-filled sky loomed over the city. Even in her moments of rest, there was no peace.

The meal was a quiet affair. Wilted Rose and Salamander chatted softly, their voices a faint hum in the background. Rolling Thunder occasionally chimed in, but Pinkie stayed silent, picking at her food with little interest. Her mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of her nightmare and the strange magic that had surged through her axe during their last mission.

When the meal ended, Rolling Thunder approached her with a file. “I know you said you’d rest, but when you’re ready, we’ve got something lined up. No rush.”

Pinkie took the file without a word, glancing at the name on the front. Her eyes narrowed. Another high-ranking member of the Royal Militia. She closed the folder and tucked it under her foreleg.

“Thanks,” she said simply, her voice muffled by the gas mask.

As the others began to clean up, Pinkie slipped away, heading back to her room. She placed the file on her desk and sat down, her eyes falling once again on the corkboard of names. She traced her hoof over a few of them, her mind drifting to the faces and lives they represented. Each one was a mark of her skill, a testament to her efficiency. But they were also a reminder of the weight she carried, a weight that seemed to grow heavier with each passing day.

With a heavy sigh, Pinkie leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of activity downstairs. For now, she was still. But she knew it wouldn’t last. It never did.