It was a cold, lonely night, somewhere at the end of winter, when a great stallion died. With every squeeze of the trigger, a little light faded from the world, and Canterlot was left dimmer for it.

It didn’t even bother to rain.

I ran through the dark, twisted streets of southern Canterlot, losing myself in the expanse of its narrow corridors and decrepit buildings. I tried not to smile as the whole of the Canterlot guard failed to pursue me, and within minutes I was little but a memory to them. I ducked into a nearby warehouse, leaning over to catch my breath. It took me a few moments to gather myself, and I could hardly wait to say aloud what I’d been thinking the whole way back from Canterlot Castle.

“I killed Fancy Pants.”

Just saying those words and knowing that they had any meaning was still surreal to me. The look in his eyes when I squeezed the trigger was burned in my mind, those few fleeting seconds bearing more weight to me than entire weeks could manage on their own. With the flick of my magic, I’d ended the life of one of the most powerful stallions in Equestria, and I’d hardly felt a thing.

I opened my saddlebags and reached for the revolver. A little pressure on the clasp and the cylinder popped out. I counted four dimples. I’d shot him four times, enjoying each bullet as it--

“Are you alright?”

I nearly shot her on the spot.

“What?” I asked, turning to face the mare in question. She lay back on her bed of newspapers, dirty and grimy, her once amber coat now closer to a shade of brown. I could see ribs underneath her fur.

“Are you alright?” she reiterated, a frown on her face. A part of me knew that standing there with what amounted to a smoking gun meant I’d be better off silencing her, but a part of me still thought of myself as a good stallion. Rich pigs was one thing, civilians another altogether.

I saw the light dawn in her eyes as she spotted the gun I was holding. She frowned, looking at the weapon a little closer.

“Why’d you kill him?” she asked.

I didn't question why she knew I'd done it.

“He was rich.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She scowled. I could see her teeth flash, and for a moment I thought I saw one fall out of her gums.

“I thought the answer would be obvious.” I looked her up and down, and I swore I almost spotted a blush under all of the grime.

“How does his being rich make me any less poor?” she responded. “More importantly, what did killing him change?”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. What would I tell her, that I’d done it out of spite? That everything about him set my teeth on edge? That seeing him latched on to a gorgeous wife from a background not much unlike mine gave me a pit in my stomach? In retrospect, it all seemed fairly petty.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Then why’d you kill him?”

“I wanted change.”

“That was a stupid idea, then.”

“How so?”

“You just said wanted to inspire change, didn’t you? Open your eyes!" The mare waved around her. “We’re still here, nowhere closer to what you wanted than the day you first thought up this hair-brained scheme. If change was your goal and shooting that stallion was your plan, then your plan was a really stupid one.”

“Then what do you suggest?” I tried to feign indifference, but the mare’s words had cut me deeper than I’d have liked to admit.

“Don’t shoot rich stallions out of spite?” The mare huffed. “That’s a start.”

I hated being wrong.

“I’ll...try,” I responded before slipping the pistol back into my saddlebags. I took a deep breath before looking out the nearest window. The way was clear.

“I guess I can’t ask for more.” The mare crooked a smile. “Do promise me you’ll at least think about it?”

I looked at the mare, and I nodded.

As I trotted back out into the snow, I came to a realization. Maybe I'd come up with the best plan to kill Fancy Pants, and it seemed like I'd carried it out flawlessly. But the mare was right; sometimes it wasn't about having the best laid plan.

Sometimes it was just about having the right one.