Shit.

Trust me, I know that sound. I've heard that signature report enough times for a lifetime. The only twelve-gauge within a thousand miles is right there in the library... within reach of several of those who would be liable to try shooting a deadly implement.

Come to think of it, I had no good reason to leave all the guns back there. Just begging for something terrible to occur.

"Right, ladies. I see you've gotten this sorted out. I have matters to attend to!"

They'll be fine. Can't say anything truly productive went on in that conference room, anyhow. I stand up, grab all my discarded gear, and dash out the door. Sans hat and coat. It's a hot enough day, and the Sun doesn't seem as harsh as it used to be.

The secretary outside doesn't seem too fazed by me anymore, though there are quite a number of civil service workers who seem quite flabbergasted by my rushing past their offices. It's a straightforward enough matter to dash out to the front door, traversing a stairwell that was clearly not designed for human legs.

And so I pop out the double entrance, into a scenic plaza, little brook babbling through the town nearby. Locals everywhere. Without particular regard, I turn to question the nearest pony I see - some brown fellow.

"Hey! How do I get to the Royal Library?"

Could have been a bit friendlier, but hey, it was a stressful situation.

"Uh, just head down that street across town and you'll see it!" he says in a state of strong confusion, pointing the way.

Seems a bit harder to gesture when you need all four/six limbs to stand in place, doesn't it?

I tersely thank him and dash off into that general direction. Should be simple enough. Pip-Boy's satellite navigation hasn't been doing so well, what with the lack of orbital transceivers in the sky. Sonar mapping systems have been working, but abrupt teleportation doesn't exactly produce that great a map.

Running through the town and surprising pedestrians, I notice some rapid change. The air of caution is greatly diminished, and it seems that a mixture of confusion and curiosity has mostly taken hold within these little ponies. Can't complain.

The light fluttering above my head alerts me. It's one of her girl friends flying alongside - Rainbow, was her name? Not a very imaginative moniker. Nothing wrong with it, just predictable. I'd assumed her mane was thanks to some insane hair-dyeing skills, but for all I know, it's natural.

"Hey! What's got you spooked?"

"Someone shot my gun. Somebody shot my gun!"

"Ooh! If you have a flying robot... does that mean it was a laser gun? The aliens in my comics always have laser guns!"

"What? No! Laser guns are inefficient and weak.! I never use them. Others wield them only because they're distracted by the shiny technology and flashy light show!"

That pretty much shuts up the conversation. Which is convenient, because we've reached our destination.

With a dash of trepidation, I slowly open the two-part door of the establishment, not knowing what to expect.

Of course.

It's the two (apparently green) guards we left behind... with my entire arsenal. It was bound to happen, in hindsight. One of them is squatting against the wall, my beloved pump-action cradled awkwardly in his hooves. The pedestal in the center of the building was formerly home to a horse's head statue. Now, all that's left is a pile of splinters.

I march in towards the terrified soldier. Resignation and annoyance are in the air.

"That belongs to me," I mutter, not malevolently, but doubtlessly terrifying his guts out.

Twelve-gauge shotgun, pump-action, composite furniture. Family heirloom. Manufactured 2188... at least according to the engravings the craftsman put on it. Dad handed it over to me, the only thing I would have to defend myself as I set out into the Wasteland. It's been so many years... I was only a child then. Perfect for blasting the wings off of creepy crawlies.

"Look. I know you were curious; wanted to see what these things could do. Can't blame you. Just expected more from highly trained 'Royal Guards.' I think I'll be keeping these with me," I tell him, taking back what belonged to me.

I turn over to the rest of my arms. Still right where I left it. Thank goodness they didn't investigate the more devastating equipment.

Machine gun. Belgian make. Mostly abandoned by the U.S. Military in the first half of the 21st century in favor of more "sophisticated" infantry weapons. Located it in a forgotten National Guard post a few weeks before my adventures in Vegas; can't count the number of times it saved my neck. Its hunger for rare and expensive ammunition makes it impractical for general use, and Wasteland dust fouls up the belt feed within hours. Not to mention the fact that the thing would be impossible to maintain if I didn't know some very talented metalworkers. But for all that stress, nothing short of a tank can survive a sustained burst of 7.62 rounds. Just aim at the target, and hold down the trigger for two or three seconds.

M14 Battle Rifle. Killed Commies back in the day, still just as effective more than three centuries after its invention. Got it doing some favors out in the Vegas airport. Came with a witty inscription, and proved hungry for Legion blood. Uses the same NATO ammunition, which is nothing but helpful to me.

Colt Army Revolver. The Peacemaker. The great equalizer. The gun that won the West. Hard to believe that they still use a pistol that's older than the telephone. Needs to be cocked for every shot, and reloading the cylinder is nigh-impossible in a firefight. Still, it does the job when I need a quick shot for self-defense. Most seasoned mercenaries acquire flashier and more modern sidearms, but there's something about this weapon that keeps me in the 19th century.

Paciencia. I found it for sale in some middle-of-nowhere general store, with no story attached to it. Bolt-action rifle, make common in the Southwest, only distinguished by the Mexican flag wrapped around the stock. From an strictly objective standpoint there's nothing remotely special about it, but it just strikes me as... lucky. It just seems to serve me better than your typical sniping weapon.

Thompson Submachine Gun. Or the Chicago Typewriter, as some Italians would rather refer to it. Stole it off a band of no-name lowlifes in fedoras. The drum magazines jam continually, the thing is cumbersome and makes a noisy clattering, and it weighs a ton. Yet there's no better delivery method for spewing lead out in the general direction of choice. Things tend to explode in a cloud of viscera when I "spray and pray."

Red Ryder BB Repeater. Look. I can't really explain. This children's toy just strikes me the right way, you know? I know it's just spewing out plastic balls with a spring, but it just feels lucky. Got caught in a corner by a deathclaw; shot it with this on a whim. You probably won't believe me, but I swear on my life that the BB caused its left eye socket to explode. Saved my hide. Plus, it has a sundial and a compass in the stock.

The Compliance Regulator. Found it in some cave hideaway out in Utah. An army vet who'd survived the War had camped out there, and some of his equipment had managed to survive the ages. Not all too clear on who designed or manufactured the thing, but I'd be damned if it weren't effective. The beams it shoots provide fast, straightforward incapacitation. Easier and safer than electric shocks or blunt impacts. I try not to think of myself as too murderous a guy, and thing helps ease up a little on my conscience.

Scoped Gauss Rifle. Shoots precisely machined 2 mm ferromagnetic flechettes. Purchased from quality weapons dealers whom I am not at the liberty to identify. Known to be accurate to 2 kilometres in ideal conditions. Cumbersome and awkwardly designed, but otherwise the perfect sniping weapon. If it were any more powerful, it'd be classified as a cannon.

LAER. A Big MT custom weapon. Alright, perhaps I wasn't wholly honest regarding my opinions on laser weaponry. The design documents I recovered weren't too clear on its workings, but it appears to work by arcing electricity via an ionizing laser. Focusing lens and electronics are extremely delicate, but when the thing does function, there's nothing that isn't reduced to blue ashes. Nifty little gadget. Pew pew pew.

Flamer with fuel tank backpack. It burns things. Fairly self explanatory.

Machete. It chops wood and limbs. I'm no good in close quarters. Best you don't see me flailing around with this.

Grenade launcher. Break-action, of a fairly similar design to those wielded in the 17th century. Shoots farther and faster than is possible by throwing grenades from your hand.

Missile launcher. Capable of shooting anti-tank and high explosive munitions, among dozens of other guided projectiles. Armored targets tend to be lacking in this day and age, but it functions passably as a portable field artillery piece. Missiles with guidance electronics tend to be a bit hard to come by, but I manage.

Red Glare. It has an official designation, but the nickname seems more appropriate, what with the Stars and Stripes I found on the first piece I recovered. An astonishing fully automatic long-range rocket launcher, intended for targeting infantry positions. You feel a serious rush of power emptying a canister across the Colorado river, sending bits of Legionnaire all over the place. I always say it's a shame they didn't build more of the things.

And finally, the Fat Man Tactical Nuclear Catapult. For when you need something to abruptly stop existing, accept no substitute. Nothing short of a naval artillery piece or thermobaric warhead can possibly outdo this thing's explosive power. I've sent entire enemy task forces running just by pulling it out. Recoil's nasty, but nothing a strong shoulder can't handle.

Now, you may be asking, how do I carry this massive armory on my back? To that, I can only say that you will be astounded by what I pack for a full-fledged war.

As I finally finish packing my bags, the other eight individuals finally make it here. Purple princess leading the pack.

"What possessed you to run off here? What did you do to my home?" Sparkles demands of me.

"It wasn't me! This is my gun. It was your guard who thought it was a good idea to try it out on your bust!"

She does not look pleased by the development. I see another unpleasant situation approaching

Perhaps I should take up Rarity on her offer.

Author's Note

Don't ask me how this chapter turned into me drooling over guns. It just happened, okay?

There are a lot of Fallout crossovers on this site. Most of them feature a character who is cynical, world-weary, and somewhat humorless. Needless to say, I am not fond of that.

With this story, I attempt to rectify that. I ask myself, "What kind of person would go on a wild murder-spree across the Mojave for no sensible reason?" And the answer I come up with is "a whimsical, fun-loving psychopath with indomitable good cheer." Think less Joel from The Last of Us, and more the protagonist of Saints Row.

Stanley Martin may not entirely fit that template, but I'm trying.