//------------------------------//
// bleeding 
// Story: Mapping Manehattan 
// by The Red Parade 
//------------------------------//

Manehattan can be brutal at night, in more ways than one. Even back before everything went sideways, Fiddle was always told not to head into the bad parts at night. Trouble had a tendency to lurk in the darkness, after all. 

And Fiddle was dismayed to find that nowadays, things weren’t all that different. Really, Fiddle should have been paying more attention. But she was still stewing in anger after her talk with Lightning that she really wasn’t thinking.

By the time she saw the rogue guard patrol, it was too late. 

Out of the two of them, Lightning had always been the better shooter. She had taught Fiddle the basics, like how to shoot and how to aim, but it was nothing compared to good old-fashioned military training. 

She wasn't the best shot in the world, but it’s usually enough to ward off Ravagers. Ex-guards, not so much: their training and equipment make them tougher to take out. 

Still, Fiddle was lucky that the rogues weren’t expecting her either. There was a brief, awkward second of shock before the shooting started. Adrenaline took over and the details were lost to her, but she recalled instincts kicking in when her mind failed her.

So now she is here, hiding behind  against a storefront counter, clenching her teeth and biting back a scream. Her hooves are pressed against her right side, where a nasty cut stains her coat.

Fiddle pulls a shirt out of her saddlebag. It’s the one she found at the thrift store; the one that says ‘funny’ on it. She moves it against her side tightly to soak up some of the blood and hisses in pain. 

It was the closest call she’s ever had. A little more to the left, and…

She shakes the thoughts off. There’ll be time to worry about that later, because she isn’t out of the woods yet.

Voices call out from the doorway. Flashlights sweep through the darkness and illuminate the world around her.

She holds her breath and reaches for her rifle. There’s not much ammo left, but if she’s going to go out, she’ll go out in a blaze of glory.

A lightning strike illuminates the store, making her flinch. The voices drop to whispers, and a beam of light goes over the counter. 

Fiddle is alone. Alone as she’s ever been. Is this how it ends for her? Is this her fate, to die alone and cold in an empty store? 

She wonders how long it will take for someone to find her. She wonders if anyone will find her. And for a second, she regrets not having Lightning by her side. 

A voice calls out from the street, and the lights disappear. A roar of thunder slices through the air as hoofsteps fade away from her. 

The rain pounds the roof and fills the roads. Fiddle starts counting in her head. When she reaches thirty, she lets out a slow sigh of relief.

Alive to fight another day.