Fiddle swipes at the mask affixed to her face with a growl. There’s an itch on her maw already. Lightning reminds her that she can’t risk taking it off. After all, who knows what leftover chemical residue is still around?
They move carefully and cautiously, with Lightning and Midnight on the left and right. The odds of running into another pony are fairly low, but Lightning doesn’t want to take any risks. Especially here.
The buildings are draped with yellow painted tarps, with biohazard signs and warnings abound. The majority of vehicles are military ones, but most of them are twisted wrecks. Husks of what they once were.
Public opinion turned towards soldiers fell. Especially after they started shooting. Fiddle remembers hearing the gunshots from her hotel room and realizing that there was no hope.
She can’t imagine what it must have been like living here. Being told to stay inside, and that everything would be okay. Watching from your window as soldiers dug huge graves. Hearing the gunfire from those who swore to protect you.
She shudders. Lightning whispers some comforting words to her and she nods. The museum towers up towards the sky. The doors are slightly ajar, inviting them inside.
They pass through the grand halls and enter the building. Something from above catches Lightning’s eye. There’s a shadowy form that looks an awful lot like a pony dangling from the ceiling. She doesn’t look at it for too long.
Most of the artifacts are shattered or stolen. The lobby was turned into an aid center, but it’s been ransacked by rioters. Upturned tables and chairs are strewn everywhere. The tiled floor is stained and weathered from dozens of trampling hooves. Bullet holes line the walls.
Again, Fiddle finds herself wondering what it was like to live like this. She knows hundreds of ponies were hoarded here and penned up, given promises that they’d get better.
Midnight points out there might still be some medical supplies lying around somewhere. Lightning agrees, and they move deeper into the building. The statues and paintings stare back at them, their once proud bodies marred with spray paint.
It was a sign that ponies had given up. Society had fallen, and with it the rules and traditions that governed their lives.
And with that came anger. Anger at the government for abandoning them, anger at the military for betraying them. And with anger came destruction. Manehattan burned for days on end.
Lightning glances up at the hanging forms on the ceiling again. There’s a reason she doesn’t like talking about her time in the service. Most ponies in the service became obsessed with the idea of purification. They rallied around some high level colonel and began to ‘purge the infected.’
The massacres were horrifying. Gunshots pierced the night and stained the streets red. Windows broke and sirens rang, and ponies screamed and cried and begged. But the soldiers didn’t care. They just kept shooting, until there was nothing left to shoot.