• Published 4th Mar 2020
  • 529 Views, 111 Comments

Mapping Manehattan - The Red Parade



Fiddlesticks and Lightning Dust explore a ruined Manehattan.

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leaving

The elevator stopped working a long time ago. So instead they take the stairs. Their bags are full of tools and equipment, from first aid kits to compasses.

Both of them carry rifles as well, strapped across their backs. They haven’t had to use them in a long time. Lightning hopes someday they won’t ever have to again. They also each have a green book with a compass rose on the cover. Something to keep them busy.

The hotel lobby is cleaner than it was before, but still a mess: luggage carts are thrown against the wall next to the elevators; the red carpets are faded and stained.

The reception desk is battered as well. Red stains and bullet holes line the front, along with signs of hasty repair. But it worked, and that’d do.

A sentry is sitting at the desk. He looks up and waves to them. They wave back. A few other ponies are milling about. Their voices barely reach their ears.

One is lying on a stretcher while another tends to him. A stained bandage is wrapped around his leg. His breathing is pained, but he refused painkillers. They’re running out.

Outside, the courtyard is sealed off with a set of gates and fences. Patrols of sentries walk around, bored and waiting for the shift change. Bleary-eyed but alert, they barely notice Lightning and Fiddle pass.

A lever is pulled and the gates open. Fiddle and Lightning walk through, leaving their sanctuary behind.

The city waits for them. Veins mar the concrete roads. The streetlights stopped working ages ago. Plant life emerges from the cracks, sprouts of green among the black. Vines and bushes line the sides of the roads, spewing over the sidewalks and invading the streets.

An acrid, lonely stench hangs in the air, but it’s nothing new to them. It wasn’t going away any time soon.

The streets stretch off in every direction. The buildings tower over them, guardians of a bygone era. Their rooms are dark, and their windows are boarded. Whatever life used to be here is long gone.

Something moves in an alley, too small to be a pony. A raccoon, maybe. Or a dog. Lightning knows some of the hotel occupants have adopted strays. She hopes nopony’s allergic.

After a brief pause, Fiddle leads the way down the road, away from safety and into the city. Lightning follows.

She kicks a can that’s lying in the middle of the road. It doesn’t go very far. Fiddle laughs. As they pass it she picks it up, sticking it in her bag. Somepony at the hotel was collecting cans. Apparently they can make rope out of cans. Fiddle isn’t sure how.

They know they are safe for a few blocks. The sentry patrols make sure of that. The shops and restaurants here have been picked clean. The windows are shattered and their doors barricaded or kicked down. Shattered glass lines the floor in front.

This is their city. This is Manehattan.