The overpass runs through the city. If they wanted they could take the highway all the way to Canterlot. But Canterlot wasn’t their job. Cars and trucks sprinkle the road, never to drive again. On the side of the bridge there’s graffiti.
‘R.I.P., M.P.D.,’ one reads. ‘The system is dead,’ proclaims another. ‘Celestia save us’ is also there, but ‘Celestia’ has been crossed out and replaced with the phrase ‘Nopony will.’
Fiddle imagines rioting pegasi, spray paint cans in hoof, flying up to the side. Making their mark. Thinking it would change the world. Or maybe they were just bored.
Perhaps they were unicorns, who levitated the paint cans up while staying on the ground? Or earth ponies with really tall ladders? Or maybe not a pony at all?
The newer messages were painted directly over the old ones. Underneath the cries for help Fiddle could see gang symbols and signs, along with crude drawings and political statements. Back when those things mattered.
She watches as Lightning hovers near the bridge, armed with a spray paint can they found at a hardware store. She maneuvers around in the air, adding another message to the mix. Lightning finishes and returns to the ground to admire her work.
‘Fiddle and Lightning were here,’ it reads. Fiddle rolls her eyes. Lightning wiggles her eyebrows and smirks. Fiddle laughs. It feels good to laugh.
Lightning puts the can back in her bag and the two keep walking. They pass under the bridge, weaving around the useless cars. More graffiti lines the walls of the underpass. A few of the ponyhole covers are open, and the stench of sewage seeps out into the air.
Broken glass lines the road, from broken car windows and who knows what else. A few rats scurry by, darting from car to car before disappearing through a hole. Only one overhead light is still working, the bulb flickering on and off.
Fiddle pauses as they pass a work van. ‘Lucky’s Gardening Services,’ it reads. There’s a phone number underneath as well. A ladder hangs from the side, and some equipment is mounted on the roof.
She pulls open the rear doors and looks inside. There’s a lawn mower and some garbage cans. She rummages through a few tool boxes but doesn’t find anything useful. Lightning and Fiddle debate over the possibility of using a lawnmower.
They decide it’s useless. The hotel doesn’t have a lawn. Maybe they could take the blades out and use them for something? Fiddle marks the location in her book and they carry on.
As they walk past, Lightning notices a red foal’s backpack leaning against the wall nearby. She opens it, digging around inside. There’s a jacket, a stuffed animal, some notebooks, and pencils.
Lightning turns the page, smiling at the crude drawings of ponies and objects. She sees a happy family of two foals and their parents, each labeled in crayon. A happy family. That’s something Lightning would love to see again. Maybe someday.