A little light moment of inspiration.

The glare of a police strobe pushing into the flat, words meaningless fuzz and static to the waking mare. Bloodstains and matted fur plastered to her haunch, again the words blaring from the speaker. Door breaching officers wipe the fuzzy image from the shadow cast room. A slit throat, dead unicorn, beige, at a glance, wingblade still gory. Preset explosives shred and mangle the first wave. Instinct and corrective software the stragglers with the assault rifle in the following seconds. Seconds pass, training kicking unconsiously into donning armor, magazines, reloading. An autopilot to waking whurr, what was a bed and stallion shredded through drone fire into meaningless meat and wood smeared across the back wall with the lead.

The mare, hiding now in the backroom kicks, the wall buckling to augmented strength as the whirr outside dies down. The heavy thud of armored hooves pushing in, and meeting the morning surprise of an under-barrelled attachment into the living room. Screams and the wail of medical sirens cover the sound of cracking plascrete as she's gone into the night.

Neon signs glare in the passing flight, weaving amongst the vehicles and fliers. Screens broadcast her latest little scrape with the law. Twenty and rising with on the second news. A passing aircar provides a moment to let her think, its intruder systems doing little but waking her up. Kicking it with a forehoof, it flickers and dies if the fall off didnt. The occupants opening a window to yell, stopping with what tends to do so succinctly, staring down the barrel of a gun. Silence reigns amidst assurances that everything is going to be okay, hollow words, but comfort enough for her departure. Thankful enough to be living after that exchange.

A brick and mortar echo, a distant memory of happier times and happier people. Mage lights glow dim, the church beaten but never out with a welcome door to all wayward souls. Dusty, disheveled, weaponry and armor all too apparent, she strides in all the same, with respect. Kindness stands serenely bowed upon the plinth, as the oaken pews show a weathered hospitality all their own. In the silence of the distant city, she finds the words, and speaks. Creaking to her right breaks a blade from its sheathe, the pastor paling for a second in his seat next to her, save her matching humiliation at her actions.

Unbothered by her current attire, the larger pony still smiles, saying only what is in his heart. And she, in this moment, breaks the dam of silence, and her words flow as a raging flood. Written so many years ago, her tale unfolds, from the booze, the drugs, the augments, the choices, good and bad. It heralds a passage of time in this timeless night. And a hint of a smile, from her as he listens throughout, saying nothing, only letting it go. Teary, tired, hung over, she finally finishes, and approaches kindness once more, to speak. And finished, she walks on out the open doors. A flash of fire leaving one stunned pastor in her wake, wondering.

(A little song to inspire this bit of writing here in.)