Four ponies crouched in a darkened room. One was a hostage, a young stallion. He sat, trembling right down to the tip of his tail, in the midst of his three captors. The masked terrorists were all armed: one pointed his pistol at point-blank range at the hostage's head. All four of them stared, throats dry and hearts pounding, at the open door.

Outside the door in the hallway. a single pony crouched. He was a Royal Guard, a slim pegasus with cloud white coat, crimson mane and tail, and sky blue eyes, with a cutie mark of a five-pointed shooting star with a rainbow trail. He was dressed in the golden chest armor, boots and kneepads, but lacking the helmet—he found that the weight slowed him down and skewed his aim slightly. In his hoof was a pistol, an oak-handled, polished steel .44 revolver.

The Guard's heart beat steadily in his chest, which rose and fell slowly with his breath. He allowed himself to observe his condition without feeling anything, detached from everything; from doubt, from fear, from anger. His mind was still, like an clear reflective pond, untroubled by waves. He knew what he was going to do.

He took one last breath and in a burst of motion, turned the corner, entering the dark room. As if moving on it's own, the gun in his hoof raised, took aim and fired. Fire and brimstone propelled the bullet through the air at a speed of over 1000 meters a second. In the blink of an eye, it struck the one holding the gun to the hostage's head right between the eyes, killing him instantly. The other two terrorists didn't stand a chance. Without conscious thought, the Guard aimed and fired twice more. Both of the other targets fell dead before they could even start to raise their guns, leaving the hostage alive and unharmed.

Lowering the gun, the Guard, PFC Zipline, blinked once. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer standing in a dark room with a terrified hostage and three dead terrorists. He was standing in an open field south of Ponyville, far enough away from the town that nopony would be disturbed by the sound of gunshots or endangered by a stray bullet—not that there would be any stray bullets. In front of him was four large paper targets mounted on cardboard. All of them had the silhouette of a pony on them. Three of them were holding guns: each had a hole in the dead center of it's forehead. The fourth, which had it's hooves up in a gesture of surrender, was untouched. Satisfied, Zipline holstered his revolver on his right hip and walked back to the oak tree that he was using as a depository, his empty backup revolver slapping rhythmically against his left hip with every step.

Shooting, Zipline knew, is both an art and a science. The science, ballistics, took hold when the projectile was loosed, put at the mercy of physics. The art was prior, when the weapon was held in shaking hooves attached to a pulsing, breathing body. As part of Zipline's job as a Royal Guard sniper, one of the few armored ponies trained and qualified to use firearms on a regular basis, he had to be an expert of one and a master of the other. He had to be as quick as lightning and precise as a scalpel, hitting his target every time over any distance. That meant constant practice.

Reaching the depository, Zipline took his revolver out and emptied it, replacing the unspent bullets in the ammo box and putting the spent cartridges in a trash baggie. He then turned his attention to his rifle: a .30 caliber Summerfield. If a gun could ever be described as beautiful, the Summerfield would be a work of art: an oak body the color of hoof polish, with polished steel metal parts that were each hoof-crafted precisely to fit, placed exactly in their proper place. Zipline picked up the rifle, taking a moment as always to appreciate the perfect weight distribution, then drew back the bolt, selected a six-round clip and prepared to load it.

"Hey, dad!"

Immediately, Zipline placed down the rifle and ammunition and spun around, a delighted smile crossing his face at the voice. His daughter, Scootaloo, was riding towards him on her scooter, looking equally pleased to see him. When she came within a few feet, she stopped abruptly, propelling herself up into the air, gliding towards him on her wings. Zipline snatched her out of the air and tossed her back up, laughing as his daughter used her wings to hover for a moment before gently falling back into his bear hug.

"What're you doing up here, kiddo?" he asked, removing Scootaloo's helmet so he could tussle her mane.

"I wanted to see you," Scootaloo said, giggling as she tried to squirm her way out of his embrace.

Zipline's face fell slightly. He hadn't been spending a lot of time with his daughter: his job had required too much of his time for too long. That had to change. "I know, sweetie. I haven't been around as much as we'd both like to, but I'll make more of an effort to—"

"I know, dad," Scootaloo said, wilting a little in his embrace. "It's your job."

With a bit of a shock, Zipline realized that Scootaloo was looking over his shoulder at his collection of guns. With a soft sigh, he set his daughter down beside him. For a while, the two simply lay in the grass side-by-side, listening to the breeze through the trees.

"Dad?" Scootaloo asked after a while. "You know how you're always telling me that violence isn't the answer?" Zipline nodded. "Well...doesn't your job involve violence?"

Zipline swallowed and looked down at his daughter, putting a wing around her. "Well, sweetie..." He sighed. "This isn't easy." He swallowed and looked back up at the sky, as if searching for knowledge up among the clouds.

After a moment, he decided to do what he did best: just do it. "When Diamond Tiara makes fun of you, you'd like to haul off and punch her right in her big, fat, no-good mouth, right?"

Scootaloo smiled softly and nodded. "Well, that doesn't solve anything," Zipline said. "All she'd done was say some bad things about you: I know it hurts when bullies make fun of you, but words are just words.

"But in situations like I'm trained for—when ponies' lives are at stake—I have to use violence to stop the situation, to keep ponies from getting hurt. But I only use violence when I have to. That means I have to know when to use it, and also when to stop."

"But what if..." Scootaloo said softly, her wide eyes brimming with worry. "What if one day you have to kill a pony?"

Zipline sighed heavily, bending his head, briefly wondering why his own daughter had to be the one asking these questions. "It's not something I like thinking about," he said. "And it's not something that you should be thinking about. But sometimes...sometimes if I can take one life to save another...that doesn't make it all right. But it is the better option." He gave Scootaloo a little squeeze. "Maybe someday you'll understand."

Scootaloo managed to smile a little wider than before and snuggled up against her father. He lay back down and pulled her on top of his chest. Father and daughter just lay in the grass for a while longer as the sun lowered closer to the horizon.

"Hey, race you home!" Scootaloo declared, hopping off Zipline and scurrying to her scooter.

"You really want to take me?" Zipline said with a bright grin.

"Any time, dad!" Scootaloo said, placing her helmet on her head and buzzing her wings excitedly.

In a flash of motion, Zipline gathered up his equipment and strapped it to his back. The two ponies stood side by side at an invisible starting line. "Ready, set...go!" The two raced off back towards Ponyville, laughing all the way.

Author's Notes:

Just a little short story I wanted to write about Zipline interacting with his daughter in a warm-hearted way.