Fiddlesticks and Lightning Dust explore a ruined Manehattan.
Fiddlesticks and Lightning Dust explore a ruined Manehattan.
About Mapping Manehattan:
Mapping Manehattan is a side project I picked up to challenge myself while I work on other projects. Mapping Manehattan is written with the following parameters: each chapter must be exactly five hundred words, there is no spoken dialogue, and everything is written in present tense.
The concept itself is fairly simple: Fiddle and Lightning explore a post apocalyptic Manehattan. Their journey takes them through the ruined buildings and abandoned city, meeting other survivors and scavenging supplies. The challenge lies on myself to deliver. Where ever they may go, whatever they may do, I hope you enjoy following them.
Updates Mondays and Wednesdays unless otherwise stated.
The hotel room is small and cozy. Weathered furniture lines the walls, ranging from dressers and drawers to tables and chairs. Two beds take the far wall, the mattresses stained and the sheets long gone. Instead, sleeping bags lie on top of them.
One of the bags is empty. Its occupant is standing on the balcony, stretching her wings in the warm glow of the morning light. She rolls her neck, feeling it crack and pop. Lightning Dust closes her eyes and sighs, letting the light warm her tense body.
The morning breeze blows through her mane. She opens her eyes and spreads her turquoise wings, the wind brushing playfully against her feathers. It still gives her a tingling feeling, making her want to leap off the balcony and fly away.
But she doesn’t. She folds her wings back against her sides and looks out over the city. Fluffy white clouds dot the sky, high above the skyscrapers. The Weather Factory hasn’t been operational for years now, but nature still found a way.
The skyscrapers grasp for the sky, their highest peaks piercing the heavens like spears of concrete. The buildings are old and worn, their windows broken and paint chipped and peeled away. But it's still majestic to Lightning, in its own way.
The streets below are littered with garbage. Abandoned cars are parked at awkward angles. Their windows are shattered and their doors are open, and they rest in a graveyard of rust and decay.
Lightning sighs and turns around, heading back into the hotel room. The little kettle she salvaged from an old Chineighese restaurant almost four months ago is whistling now. Lightning goes over to the sink and swipes her mug from the dish rack and pours out a cup of hot water.
She thinks for a second, then grabs a second cup and fills that up as well. The other sleeping bag moves, the pony inside waking up.
Fiddlesticks rubs her eyes, shaking off her drowsiness. She sits up and yawns again, her cobalt mane falling loose. Lightning chuckles softly to herself.
She opens the cabinet above the counter and pulls out a box. She removes two tea bags and puts one in each cup. It’s been ages since she’s had coffee, but she can’t complain.
Fiddlesticks grunts and pulls herself out of her cotton fortress. She makes her way over to a desk on the other side of the room. A map of the city is spread out, its corners weighted down with cans of food.
The map’s a cheap, throwaway one given to tourists. It’s stained and ripped, marked with pen ink and pencil scratches. Places are circled and crossed off; streets are underlined and categorized. It’s not much, but it’s the best they’ve got.
Lighting joins her, draping a wing across Fiddle’s back. Fiddle smiles at the contact, though her eyes don’t leave the map. She traces a street with her hoof, and Lightning nods. They’re ready, but first thing’s first: tea.
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.
Lightning could help her. But Fiddle doesn’t need her. She’s a mare of independence. She can take care of herself.
She climbs the ladder effortlessly, the bags on her back not bothering her. Lightning hovers nearby, watching.
As she climbs up, Fiddlesticks takes a moment to adjust the white stetson she loves. A thin strap keeps it secured to her head. It’s worked so far.
The fire escape is sturdy. It’s meant to be, after all. But it still makes Lightning nervous. Who knows how well it’s aged.
Fiddlesticks pauses, noticing a broken window. She waves at Lightning, and the two climb through the hole. It takes a second for their eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The room is packed with cubicles. Plain white dividers siphon off the room into workspaces. At one point each one had a black office chair, phone, and computer. None of them have all three now.
Chairs are scattered across the room, some in odd places like on top of a desk. Most of the computer screens are cracked and destroyed. Papers are scattered on the floor, and filing cabinets are knocked over.
The foam ceiling tiles aren’t all there anymore. Bits and pieces of wires and cables are dangling from above.
Lightning goes over to a cubicle. There are some photos taped to the sides, showing a smiling family. Lightning wonders if they’re still alive.
White papers sit in a messy pile on the desk. A memo sits on top of them. “Stamp’s sick. Please fill out ASAP,” it reads.
Lightning picks up the phone and presses it to her ear. There’s nothing. Not even a dial tone. Looking down, she sees it’s not even plugged in.
Fiddlesticks laughs and turns away. Lightning hangs up the phone. She hesitates, then gently peels the photograph off the wall. Lightning sticks it in her saddlebags and follows Fiddle.
They pass the cubicles and go to a door marked “Conference.” It’s unlocked.
Inside there’s a big oak table and a bunch of chairs surrounding it. A projector hangs from the ceiling, facing a blank screen. Lightning wonders if they could get it to work again. It’d be nice to watch a movie again.
There are a bunch of boxes on the tables. Fiddle takes a knife from her bag and cuts the tape off one. Inside there are medical masks and bottles of hoof sanitizer.
Lightning nods in approval. Not a bad find. In the next one there are bottles of water. Then canned food. Then first aid kits.
Fiddle smiles and takes out her green book. She makes a note of their location and what they found. They’ll come back for them later.
Lighting used to be worried about looters. Then she realized there weren’t many ponies left alive to loot anything.
She looks out at the empty office. Ponies used to work here. Ponies with a life. With a job. With a purpose. She sighs. That life is gone now. It’s never coming back.
Up ahead there’s a group of ponies. Four of them. They’re standing underneath a bridge, partially hidden in the shadows. One of them is standing at an open electrical box, pulling at some wires with her magic.
The other three are standing in a half circle, weapons at the ready. A brown stallion smokes a cigarette, his eyes flicking up and down the road nervously. A light blue pegasus leans against the wall lazily. A creme-colored earth pony has her back to the road, watching the green unicorn work.
The stallion looks up as Fiddle and Lightning approach. His rifle rises a little bit, and he whispers urgently to the others. They take defensive positions, but keep their guns down. Fiddle taps her hoof against her chest twice, then raises a foreleg and draws two circles in the air.
A safe signal, established between occupants of various settlements. Fiddle didn’t know who invented it, but it was a brilliant idea.
The others lower their guns. The leader pumps her hoof twice in response. They approach and smile.
They shake hooves and exchange names. Caramel. Sassaflash. Bon Bon. Lyra. From the settlement near Circle Park.
Lightning explains that they are from the Hope Hotel. Caramel asks about their situation. Fine, but running low on supplies. Bon Bon says a supply convoy was ambushed the other day.
Fiddle asks what they’re doing. Lyra explains that she’s just trying to get some of the lights in the area working again. Sassaflash used to be an electrician. Lightning laughs and says that they need more of her. She asks what everyone else used to do.
Caramel was a delivery pony. Lyra was a musician. Bon Bon was a baker. Fiddle chimes in that she was a musician too. They ask what Lightning did. She shrugs and says ‘the military.’ Everypony understands and they lower their heads in sympathy. Lightning Dust shakes it off quickly though. They don’t ask her what unit she was in, so she doesn’t say.
Bon Bon asks them if there’s anything specific they need. Fiddlesticks says painkillers.
Bon Bon pulls a bottle of medicine from her bag and offers to trade. Fiddlesticks and Lightning sling off their saddlebags. The others stand guard, eyes scanning the streets.
The three begin discussing items, throwing out names. Pack of playing cards? Set of small screwdrivers? Box of nails? Rations? Bon Bon settles on the set of screwdrivers.
Something in Bon Bon’s bag catches Lightning’s eyes. She asks what Bon Bon wants for the hat. Bon Bon says it’s Caramel’s. Lightning reaches into her bag and pulls out two packs of cigarettes. She doesn’t smoke, but they make good traders.
Caramel nods his head, and Lightning takes the hat. Fiddle repacks her bags and thanks them. They all shake hooves again and wish each other luck. Lyra starts working again. Lightning and Fiddlesticks depart.
On the hat there’s a symbol: a lightning bolt with wings. It doesn’t mean anything anymore. But it used to.
The Manehattan Police Department used to be powerful. Fiddle wanted to join them at one point. They’re gone now.
Fiddle runs a hoof against the side of the police car. The decals are worn out and faded, but she can still read the words.
‘To protect and serve’ is written near the back. Fiddle sighs, remembering what it was like to have a place you could call for help.
She wonders how many police officers were left. She knows a lot were killed trying to stop the riots. That was a long time ago.
Fiddle looks in the cracked rear view mirror of the squad car. Her splintered reflection stares back at her.
She gently pushes the door shut, and it closes with a thud. Moving forwards, she sees the windshield is cracked and riddled with bullet holes.
Lightning is waiting up ahead. Fiddle joins her, and the two keep walking. The buildings around them used to be banks, cafes, and stores. Now they’re all the same. Empty. Husks of what once was.
One of the signs reads ‘Faust’s Coffee.’ Fiddle remembers that name. They used to be everywhere. They still are.
Lightning loved their coffee. Fiddle just thought it was expensive. She wonders how hard it would be to get a cup now.
They pass a few more cars and vans, each one broken and unusable. Up ahead there’s a crane, sitting next to a massive wall made of cars.
In front there’s traffic barricades and orange advisory cones. There’s also a digital sign, illuminating an orange arrow pointing to the left.
They ignore it and pass through the impromptu barricade. Evidently some ponies had tried to build a fort here. They probably failed.
Fiddle frowns at that. She wonders what drove them out. A lot of ponies changed over the years. Not in a good way.
A flock of birds is roaming the street in front of them, searching for food. They scatter as Fiddle and Lightning approach, taking off to the sky.
On the other side of the barricade, stacks of boxes lie in the middle of the street. Most are cardboard shipping boxes, others are plastic tubs. There’s also large shipping containers stamped with the words ‘Equestrian Army.’
They’re probably from the relief effort. The Royal Guards and army did their best, but there wasn’t much they could do. There wasn’t anything anypony could do, really. But that didn’t matter now. Nopony could change the past anyways.
The two hadn’t been here before. But it looked the same as the rest of Manehattan: empty buildings, empty streets. It used to be a lot worse, but after most of the bodies were buried Fiddle found it easier. The smell was still there, but she didn’t mind it.
After all, the two of them were stronger now. In the mind, sure, but mostly in the legs. Day after day, they walked through the city. Hunting, gathering, collecting, and wandering. Searching for nothing. Plotting a course. Learning. Mapping Manehattan.
Lightning doesn’t know what any of these things do. Fiddle knows what a few of them are, but they’re still missing bits and pieces. None of it is really usable.
The thrift store has several shelves dedicated to obscure items. Lightning thinks this is a sewing machine, but she isn’t sure. She’s not a seamstress. Fiddle is holding a very old telephone and wondering if it’s usable for anything.
She decides it’s not and puts it back on the shelf. Besides the junk, there’s several racks of clothing dotting the floor. A few of them are knocked over and lying askew on the floor. Loose articles of clothing are everywhere.
There’s not really a demand for shirts, other than for use as bandages and rags. But the hotel has a decent supply last time Fiddle checked. She grabs a few just in case. The shirts are horrible. There’s one that just has the word ‘funny’ written on it. There’s a hole in the back.
Lightning shrugs and says she’d wear it. Fiddlesticks isn’t surprised. She stuffs it into her bag. They move towards the aisles, pointing and laughing at the old useless TVs and microwaves. The more technically inclined ponies could probably rip out their circuits and use them for something, but scavenging wasn’t really their priority.
The thrift store has a huge hole in the roof. Lightning has no idea how that had happened, but she can imagine. Maybe a pegasus doing a dead mare’s dive? Something to do with the riots? A pony with the right materials and knowledge to make a bomb?
Fiddle questions why someone would want to blow up a thrift store. Lightning suggests maybe they don’t like charity. They laugh. Fiddle comes to a stop at a knocked over rack of movies and TV shows. She rummages around in the pile, not really looking for anything.
Lightning watches her work with a knowing smile. They both know that they’ll probably never be able to watch any of them for a while, but it’s still fun to collect them. Fiddle pulls out a case and shows it to Lightning. The Search for Red November, it reads. Lightning asks if it was by that one author. Prancy? Sounds right.
Fiddle thinks so. She shoves it into her bag. They don’t have Mareplane! Tragic. Moving on, the two come across a rack of music CD’s. Lightning has never heard of half of these artists.
She takes a random CD and looks at the cover. It shows two ponies facing each other, eyes closed and about to kiss. Their faces are stained with red. Fiddle points to the parental advisory warning and says Lightning can’t listen to it by herself.
Lightning punches her in the shoulder. Fiddle laughs. As Lightning puts the CD in her bag, Fiddle wonders what happened to all the entertainers.
Lightning says she doesn’t know. But it’s funny to think that celebrities weren’t worth anything anymore. Nopony was. Fiddle shrugs and they move on.
The diner used to be a popular one. It had lines out the door every single day. Rush hour was always a nightmare. Ponies liked to say that Royal Burgers was the best joint in Equestria. Being unique to Manehattan, ponies from all over flocked there to eat.
Lightning thought the hayburgers were okay. Nothing special. Now she misses it though. If not the food, then at least the atmosphere. Sitting at a booth alone in a dilapidated diner just wasn’t the same.
She is splitting a small snack of peanut butter and oats with Fiddlesticks. Fiddle loved apples, but it would be a while before the hotel garden could grow any. This would do for now.
Fiddle’s eyes wander around the empty restaurant. The screens where the menus were displayed aren’t working. One is dark, the other simply says ‘no signal.’ Fiddle wonders how many buildings in Equestria still had power.
She knows that most of the generators had some sort of backup mechanism in place. She also knows that whatever was left of the Royal Guards and military retreated to installations like the energy plants and holed up there. Waiting for orders. Or something.
Lightning just shrugs. Ponies survived for a long time without technology. They could survive a while longer. She munches on her oats. Fiddle picks up the small metal container that used to hold sauces. It’s empty now.
She remembers how they used to make smiley faces with ketchup for the foals. It certainly made them happy. It didn’t take a lot to make a foal happy. Fiddle wonders how many foals are still out there. She hopes that they all have their parents with them.
Her eyes go over to the register. A sign reading ‘pay here’ dangles from the ceiling, with one of its two strings snapped. She pictures a teenage pony working the register, trying to calm down an outraged mare who was upset he got her order wrong.
It was funny how ponies could still fight over trivial things like that. Nowadays they can't afford to be trivial. Those who were didn’t last long. She runs a hoof on the table, tracing small circles on the surface. The booth is pretty dirty, but everything’s dirty. It isn’t hard to clean off, anyways. Just have Lightning get a cloud above you and buck it.
The perks of loving a pegasus. Fiddle closes her eyes and tries to remember everything she could about Royal Burgers. Supposedly they always used the freshest ingredients, and had the best service in Equestria. They didn’t really treat their employees well, though. At least, from what she heard.
Lightning says that it probably wasn’t that bad. They paid a decent salary. Well, before the economy crashed anyways. She frowns. Some ponies out there probably died being nothing more than a fry cook.
Fiddle shrugs. That is just the way things are now. She looks out the window, at the barren buildings and ruined cars. Lightning just sighs sadly.
This is a nice apartment. Fiddle could never afford a place like this. The penthouse is very large and sits on the nineteenth floor of a huge apartment complex. The living room is lush, with soft white carpet and pristine white walls. Well, almost pristine.
Lightning is staring at a painting that’s still mounted on the wall. It’s just a bunch of lines and dots. Modern art. She doesn’t understand it.
Fiddle lounges on the couch, enjoying herself. The couch pillow is very soft. Lightning wonders what kind of activities happened on that couch. That gets Fiddle off of it.
There’s a record player in the corner of the room. A high-end one too. There’s a flat screen TV mounted on the far wall too. On either side there are two large vases with dead plants inside. Whoever lived here was very, very rich.
In one of the display cabinets there’s a set of plates. Lightning recognizes flags painted onto them: Equestria, Germaney, Amareica. She wonders how those countries are faring today.
Fiddle finds a book on the coffee table. It looks like a journal. She opens it to the last entry. ‘They’re starting to quarantine the city. We pushed them to start with the lower districts. Filthy lowlifes. I’m going to get out while I can.’
That makes her angry. Stupid rich ponies. Lightning points out that they’re probably dead now. She opens the cabinet. She wants to break these stupid plates.
Fiddle rolls her eyes. The boss would be mad. You know how she feels about preserving artifacts.
But these aren’t artifacts, Lightning argues. They’re just stupid plates.
Whatever. Fiddle moves down the hall towards the bedroom. She pushes open the door and looks inside. There’s a huge bed in the middle. The sheets and blankets are on the floor, like somepony dragged the sleeper out of bed.
That might explain why the door was kicked down when they got there. Fiddle wondered how the occupant didn’t hear it. Maybe they were a deep sleeper.
The red stains on the carpet explain what happened to them. Maybe they deserved it. Maybe they didn't. That wasn’t for Fiddle to decide. She crosses the room and goes over to the closet.
Inside there’s several suits sitting on the rack. Fiddle laughs. Suits and dresses are useless now. No point trying to impress anypony anymore. She flicks through the clothes, imagining the sheer cost of the wardrobe.
Her ear twitches. There’s a shattering from outside. Fiddle sighs and leaves the bedroom. Lightning is standing in the kitchen with a proud grin on her face. The fractured remains of a dinner plate scatter the floor around her.
Fiddle rolls her eyes. Lightning laughs. At least she’s just destroying the regular plates and not the antiques.
She offers a plate to Fiddle. What if someone hears us? Lightning rolls her eyes. Nopony’s around. Fiddle sighs and takes the plate. She smashes it on the ground. It shatters. That felt pretty good.
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.
The roof gives them an extensive view of the city. From here they can look down at the empty streets, locating alleys and passages between the buildings. Lightning takes a pair of binoculars out of her bag, lifting them to her face.
A squirrel darts out of the bushes. It pauses, looking around, before taking off again. It dashes up a tree, blending in with its bark. A bird flies out of the tree, landing on top of a police car. It pecks at the roof for a bit before letting out a happy chirp.
Lightning lowers the binoculars from her face. Her ear twitches. A harmonica note breaks the silence from behind her. Fiddlesticks is leaning against a wall, standing on her two rear legs. She closes her eyes and plays a phrase.
The notes disappear into the city, rushing down the alleys and drifting through the windows. They echo off the graffiti stained walls and bounces in between the shops. Fiddle keeps playing.
It isn’t a song. She’s just improvising, playing a few notes that feel right. Lightning watches her play with a smile. Fiddle’s pretty good. She’s even better on the fiddle. Too bad they can’t find one.
Fiddle plays on, holding out the last note for a few seconds. Lightning applauds politely and Fiddlesticks takes a dramatic bow. She wipes the instrument off on her shirt and puts it back in her case.
Lightning pulls some paper from her bag. They’re old reports for some company. Notes and records from management, reports from an assistant. They don’t matter anymore.
She goes over to a table somepony left on the roof and starts folding the paper. First she bends it in half, running ahoof along the edge to create a deep crease. Then she opens it and folds the top corners in, making two triangles. She folds the edges in again, making two wings.
Finally, she folds the ends of the wings back down. A paper airplane. The bane of teachers everywhere. Lightning picks up the airplane and goes to the edge of the roof. She hops up on the short guard wall and looks down. She tosses the plane forwards, and it spirals through the sky.
Its flight is short lived. Soon the plane plunges towards the ground. It hits the street silently. Lightning has a goofy grin on her face. She looks like she wants to jump off the building after it.
But she doesn’t. Instead she turns around. Fiddle holds up another plane and gives it to her. Lightning lets it fly.
It’s not long before paper airplanes litter the streets below them. They’re stuck in trees, in the storm drains, on top of cars, and on the floor. They would have kept going if they had more paper.
But no. They’re down to one last airplane. Lightning cocks her arm and wishes it well. She releases it, and the airplane joins its brothers and sisters, covering the streets below in a dull white.
They find it at the construction site. They didn’t know it was there, but they should have expected it. The floor is dirt and grass, and massive holes had been dug for foundation. The construction will never be finished now.
There’s a huge excavator nearby. It’s rusted, dirty, and doesn’t work anymore. Just like everything else. The machine is sitting in front of the hole. It’s filled with black and green bags wrapped in yellow biohazard tape. Bags the perfect size for a pony.
That sends a shiver down Lightning’s spine. She stands next to the excavator, staring down at the mass of bags. Fiddle lowers her head in respect.
Lightning remembers visiting the Canterlot National Cemetery. The final resting place for Equestria’s bravest. She remembers watching the guard do his paces, twenty-one steps in every direction with twenty-one seconds of pause in between. Standing vigil over the nameless graves. Remembering the unknowns, because nopony else would.
She wonders who will protect the memory of this desecrated place. Nopony deserves to be forgotten, or to be put in a bag and thrown in a hole.
She wants to walk away. She wants to leave this place. Lightning wants to be anywhere but here right now. But she’s rooted to the spot. She can’t leave. Fiddle puts a hoof on her shoulder.
Lightning wants to cry. She really does. But she can’t. She ran out of tears a long time ago. That doesn’t make her heart feel any lighter though. The hole is bringing back horrible memories.
Fiddle understands. They should probably get going. There’s nothing here.
Lightning nods. But she struggles to bring herself away from the hole in the ground. This isn’t the only mass grave in the city. That’s what hurts the most.
She remembers coming to a site like this one. Being given a shovel and an order, then a pat on the back. She dug and she cried. As the hole grew deeper her heart grew heavier.
Then the trucks came. Trucks full of green and black bags. Fill the hole, they said. She tried not to think about how some of the bags were smaller than the others.
That night her unit gathered in the darkness. This was wrong, her captain said. If anypony wanted out, she would turn a blind eye. But only for tonight. The captain’s face hardened. Tomorrow she wouldn’t be their friend.
Lightning wonders what happened to the others. She knows a few stayed. She knows a few left. A long time ago she was proud of who she was. She believed in honor and duty, and was gladly serving her country. That night changed everything for her. She realized she wasn’t there to protect anypony anymore. She was just there to help clean up.
Lightning sighs at that. She failed. The whole military did.
Not exactly, Fiddle says. She’s helping now, isn’t she? Lightning shrugs. Maybe. Some days it sure doesn’t feel like it. But it’s better than nothing… right?
Fiddle looks up from the bag she’s rummaging through. Lighting’s frowning, eyes alert. Somepony’s coming. Two pegasi are staring down at them from the top of a building.
One of them nudges the other a few times before sighing. She taps her chest twice and draws two circles in the air.
Fiddlesticks pumps her hoof in the air twice, finishing the sequence. The two pegasi leap off the building, landing in front of them. They identify themselves as Raindrops and Whitey. From the Precinct.
Lightning raises an eyebrow, looking them over. They’re wearing police raid gear and have shotguns slung over their backs. She knows the Precinct is a settlement that took refuge in the police headquarters. Founded by a group of first responders who barricaded themselves inside while rioters burned the town around them.
Raindrops asks what they’re doing. Fiddle says that they’re from Hope Hotel, exploring. She asks how things are at the Precinct.
They could be better, Raindrops answers. But she can’t complain. She tells Fiddle to be careful, there’s been a lot of Ravagers nearby lately. Fiddle frowns. The Ravagers are mostly former prisoners, criminals, and psychopaths. It’s best to avoid them at all costs, unless you've got a death wish.
Lightning has her gaze on Whitey. The entire time they’ve been talking, Whitey hasn’t moved or spoken. She’s been staring forwards, face blank and eyes empty.
Lightning asks what they used to do. Raindrops says she was a police officer. Whitey was a paramedic, assigned to the quarantine.
Lightning and Fiddle flinch. That answers the question. Lightning showed up towards the end of the quarantine. She can’t imagine what it must have been like to live through it. She reaches out and puts a hoof on Whitey’s shoulder.
Whitey blinks. She tilts her head in confusion. Lightning just smiles in sympathy. She knows that behind her blue eyes there’s a world of pain and suffering that nopony else can see. She knows that underneath her skin there are wounds that will always burn and never heal. In her mind are memories that will never fade.
Whitey has loved. Whitey has lost. Whitey couldn’t save everyone. But neither could Raindrops. Neither could Lightning Dust nor Fiddlesticks. She was one mare. Nopony was expecting her to save the world.
But White Lightning was there. And she didn’t give up. For that, she’s braver than most.
Whitey blinks again. Then a small smile forms on her lips. She nods her head in thanks. There’s a flicker of life in her eyes.
Raindrops is intrigued. She hasn’t seen White Lightning smile in two years. She thought that version of her died with Manehattan. Maybe there’s still hope after all. She jerks her head towards the street. They have to keep patrolling.
White Lightning takes a deep shaky breath. She fires off a salute at Lightning, which she returns. The two pegasi fly off.
Thank you. Those two words mean a lot. More than anypony else could ever imagine.
Parking garages make Lightning feel claustrophobic. Even now. The lot is still full of parked cars, windows broken and tires deflated. The lights don’t work here, hence the flashlight in her hooves.
There’s also a lot of water flooding the place. Lightning hovers above it, but Fiddle isn’t afraid to wade through it. She pops the trunk of an SUV and looks inside. She asks Lightning to hold the light steady so she can see.
Lightning is a pegasus: she needs air to fly in, wind to fill her wings. She gets none of that down here. With the light on Fiddle, she can’t see anything around her. That makes her nervous.
Fiddle pulls her head out of the trunk and shakes her head. Nothing. They move on to the next car in the road, a sleek black sedan. As Fiddle looks in the back, Lightning’s ear twitches. She snaps the light towards the exit.
There’s nothing there. Fiddle sighs. They’re never going to finish if Lightning can’t keep the light focused on her. Lightning rolls her eyes and moves the light back, although her heart is still beating fast.
There might be Ravagers down here. Lightning heard from the Precinct ponies that Ravagers like hiding underground.
Fiddle grunts. They’ll be fine. She unzips a saddlebag she found and rummages inside. Hang in there, almost done.
Lightning does, but her eyes wander again. She notices the pipes running above them, crawling along the ceiling. They extend into the darkness, beyond her sightline. Looking down, she sees bits of paper and trash floating in the water.
She doesn’t understand how ponies can live underground in a place like this. Don’t they feel cramped? Aren’t they scared of the roof crashing down on top of them? Or spiders? Lightning Dust shivers at that. Her greatest fear is probably being buried alive. This place really isn’t helping her.
Fiddle reassures her that she’s almost done. Just a few more cars to go. She moves on to the next one, the light throwing her shadow against the car.
As she continues her search, Lightning stares into the darkness. She feels like something’s staring back at her. If she squints, she can see shadows dancing in and out of her vision, dots drifting about freely in a sheet of darkness.
Her eyes have adjusted a little bit by now. She can make out the silhouettes of other cars and the numbered pillars of the garage. As her eyes sweep the room, she wonders how easy it would be to set up an ambush in a place like this.
Lightning shakes her head. This isn’t a train of thought she’s interested in riding right now. There’s a bang, and Lightning drops the flashlight in surprise. She quickly realizes it’s just Fiddle closing the car door.
After a few seconds another light fills up the room. Fiddle is holding their second flashlight, looking somewhat amused and very disappointed. Lightning gives a sheepish grin. Can they leave now?
Lightning doesn’t know where they’re going. She’s just following Fiddle at this point. Because Fiddle is an amazing navigator, and not just because she has a great sense of direction. Fiddle seems to know exactly where she’s going, physically and mentally. To Lightning, that’s amazing.
Lightning asks Fiddle to tell her a story. Lightning’s bored. Maybe one about her family?
Family. Fiddle pauses at that. She hasn’t heard from her family in a long time. She hopes they’re doing well.
They probably are, Lightning thinks. The major cities may have collapsed, but the smaller ones might have survived. Maybe.
Fiddlesticks sighs. She doesn’t want to think about that right now. They continue onwards. Even as she tries to block them out, the thoughts infiltrate her mind. She remembers Braeburn and his infectious smile. She remembers Apple Fritter, a silent and shy mare who was a genius in the kitchen.
She misses them. She misses her house, miles and miles away now. In a dusty little town on the edge of nowhere. Fiddle would give anything to be there now.
Fiddle could leave. It would be a long walk, sure, but eventually she’d get there. But she has a job to do. A promise to keep. With a nod, she pushes forwards. Manehattan is waiting for them.
Lightning is hesitant though. She asks if Fiddle is okay.
That confuses her. Of course she’s okay. Why wouldn’t she be? Lightning puts a hoof on her withers. She points to the dilapidated buildings around them. This is no way to live. This is not the life they were supposed to have.
Fiddle knows this. So does Lightning. But Lightning misses their old life. Every day she feels sad, thinking of all the friends who aren’t there any more. In the old days she would never admit this, but there’s no point in lying to herself now.
Lightning admires Fiddle for being strong. But she doesn’t expect Fiddle to be strong forever. She doesn’t expect Fiddle to be immortal, never feeling pain.
She’s quiet for a long time. There’s no sound around them as the wind blows through their manes. Fine, she admits. She’s not okay. She misses her family, her friends, her home…
Fiddle doesn’t even live in Manehattan. She had no reason to be here, other than to try out for that stupid orchestra. She’s never liked cities. Fiddle’s a mare of the country.
Lightning knows. She doesn’t live here either. But they could leave.
That makes Fiddle sigh. There’s no point in leaving. Not when all of Equestria is like this. The old world is long gone. It isn’t just hiding in a basement somewhere, waiting to be found. It was gone. Forever.
She misses it. Fiddle remembers the simple things they took for granted, like fresh food and scheduled weather. Cars and taxis. Heaters and air conditioning. Hot showers. Telephones. Electricity. Friends. Movies. Television. Everything.
But it’s not a total loss. They have each other, and for now that’s enough.
Lightning and Fiddle hold their breaths. They crouch in the closet, backs pressed against the wall, guns in hooves. Waiting. Hiding.
There’s a sharp, piercing laugh from outside, accompanied by thuds and rustling. From their position they can’t hear specific words, only hints of voices.
Ravagers. That makes Lightning scowl. Supid Ravagers. Fiddle and Lightning had been exploring a hotel when they heard them enter.
It sounds like they’re wandering around the hall now. There’s a loud bang. One of them must have kicked in a door.
Fiddle flinches at that. Lightning reaches out and puts a hoof on her shoulder reassuringly.
There’s another bang, this one closer. The voices in the hall become clearer. Fiddle curses. They’re coming into the room.
Fiddle and Lightning hold their breaths. Another voice laughs. The floor creaks as hoofsteps head towards them. From the crack under the door, they can see a set of hooves.
The first pony passes. Another one follows, whistling a tune to themselves. They stop in front of the closet.
Lightning’s mind kicks into overdrive. She knows there’s one pony somewhere inside the hotel room and another standing in front of the door. Judging by the noises they heard earlier, there are more out in the hall.
She doesn’t know how many there are, and she doesn’t know what weapons they have. The Ravagers typically aren’t amazing fighters, but they do have strength in numbers. On top of that, Lightning and Fiddle don’t have the best position. Their only advantage right now is the element of surprise.
Her heart is beating fast. Lightning Dust loves adrenaline. She loves diving off of buildings and flying at breakneck speeds. But this isn’t the same kind of adrenaline. Mostly because her life isn’t the only one at stake.
Fiddle’s scared. Lightning is too, even if she isn’t showing it. She looks at the rifle sitting in her lap. She hasn’t had to fire it for a long time. Today might change that.
There’s a crash from within the hotel room. The pony standing in front of the closet sighs and moves away from the door. There’s more voices from the hallway, getting closer.
Lightning adjusts the shoulder strap on her rifle and raises it, aiming it at the center of the door.
From within the room there’s a cheer. Sounds like they found something. That draws the attention of the others in the hallway, and several more hooves appear through the crack in the door.
The group chatters excitedly, their voices overlapping with each other. Then, the hoofsteps fade away back into the hallway, followed by the laughter and voices.
They’re not safe yet. Slowly and silently, they start counting. First to five. Then ten. Then thirty. Lightning gets up and gently pushes the closet door open. The room is empty. Lightning goes to the door and puts her ear against it.
She waits ten seconds. Nothing. After another twenty seconds Lightning lowers her gun. They exhale in relief. Safe, for now.
Storms come and go in Manehattan. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it snows. Today it rains. Fiddle stares out the window, watching as drops pour from the sky and flood the streets.
Not much is different to her. They didn’t schedule weather in Appleloosa. Braeburn said it was because the Weather Factory didn’t like them. She enjoyed the rain. It calmed her, made her smile.
Lightning on the other hoof doesn’t like getting wet. That was why they are hiding in a small apartment, waiting out the storm. Fiddle turns away from the window and to the coffee table, where two playing cards sit in front of her, one face up and one face down.
In between them sits six bottle caps. That’s the stake of this round.
The face up card is an ace. She picks up the face down card and sees it’s a four. Fifteen or five, since the ace can be a one or an eleven. Fiddle looks at Lightning, who has a deck of cards in her hooves. She nods, and Lightning deals her another card.
A three. Eighteen or eight. Fiddle rubs her chin. Close to the goal number of twenty-one, but she knows Lightning has a ten. She nods again and gets another card.
A queen. All royals count for ten, so if she uses the ace as an eleven she’s over the count. Busted. But, if she keeps the ace as a one, she still has a chance. She gets another card, a three. Eighteen. Get another card or stay?
Fiddle taps the table twice, ending her turn. Lightning nods. She flips her face down card and smirks. She deals herself another card and gets a three.
Lightning flicks her eyes upwards and sticks her tongue out as she does the math. Fiddle laughs at her. Lightning taps her hoof twice, deciding to stay.
Fiddle flips her card and announces her total of eighteen.
Lightning blinks, then smiles. Her card is a six, total of nineteen. She beat her out by one.
They share a laugh at that. Lightning sweeps the bottle caps over to her side of the table, adding them to her pile.
Fiddle glances out the window again. The rain is easing off now. They could get going, but first, one more round.
They flash cocky grins and shove their entire piles to the center. All in. Lightning shuffles the cards and deals each of them two new ones.
This time, Fiddle gets a three and a six. She nods and gets a four. Still low. She goes for another card. A king. Bust.
She taps the table, indicating that she’s done. Lightning glances at her other card and rubs her chin. She shrugs and deals herself another card. She laughs and taps the table.
They flip their cards. Lightning has twenty-four. Lower card rule, so Fiddle wins. They laugh. Fiddle asks why Lightning would hit on twenty. Lightning shrugs and says why not. She likes living on the edge.
It’s never a good sign. There’s been a group of Ravagers that have been going around setting places on fire. Fiddle doesn’t know why.
The building looks like it used to be a relief center set up by the Equestrian Department of Emergency Management. They were supposed to help during the crisis. They didn’t do anything.
Ponies tried to settle here. Fiddle wants to go inside and search for survivors. Lightning agrees, but they need to be careful. Who knows if those Ravagers are still around.
They head into the lobby. The smell of ash and smoke clings heavy in the air. Everything is charred and blackened. There’s a few doors down the hallway. Most of them are barricaded, but a few are still in one piece.
Fiddle is going to investigate. Lightning will keep guard at the entrance. She hesitates before giving Fiddle a nod. They can’t afford to stay long.
The first door leads to an empty room. There’s stacks of boxes and some folding chairs, but nothing else. Fiddle moves on. The second door has an axe stuck inside of it. Fiddle shudders at that but tries to open it. It’s locked.
As she’s about to open the third door, she hesitates. She hears shuffling inside. Fiddle gently pushes the door open and looks inside. The room is smoky and dark. As her eyes adjust to the darkness, Fiddle sees still forms on the floor, covered with sheets and blankets.
Something moves on her right.
A pony stares back at her, pressed against the wall. The pony is squeezing a towel tight against her chest. Her eyes are full of fear, and they dart around for a way out.
Fiddle raises her hooves. She’s here to help. Gently, she approaches. She introduces herself.
Coco Pommel, the pony answers. Fiddle pulls a medical kit out of her bag and takes out some bandages. She asks to see the wound.
Coco nods and moves the towels. It’s a cut, not that bad. Fiddle starts to bandage the wound. She looks around the room. Is she… alone? Coco glances at some of the sheets and nods. She is now.
Fiddle lowers her head in sympathy. The Circle Park settlement is nearby, it’s safer there. Coco nods. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hoof. Stupid Ravagers. She doesn’t understand why they’re doing this.
There’s hoofsteps in the hall. Lightning appears in the doorway, another pony behind her. It’s Sassaflash, the electrician they met earlier. Lightning says that she was on patrol nearby and saw the smoke.
Fiddle helps Coco to her hooves. Is there anypony else? Coco’s eyes drift from one form to another. She shakes her head.
Sassaflash drapes a wing over Coco’s back. It’s okay. They’ll take care of her. She gently guides Coco out of the burned out room. Fiddle stands up and brushes herself off. She and Lightning look around at the sheet-covered forms in silence. Celestia be with them.
Lyra, Bon Bon, and Caramel are waiting outside. The group starts the walk to Circle Park, leaving the burning building far behind.
For the most part, Coco is quiet. Fiddle gives her a sympathetic look and sighs. It isn’t fair. Hadn’t the mare been through enough? She’d already lost everything. She didn’t deserve to lose more.
Lightning agrees. It’s a messed up world out there. A world where bad things are happening to good ponies. Fiddle sighs. Good ponies. There aren’t a lot left out there.
If a Ravager is a bad pony, then what makes a good pony? A pony who risks their lives to help others? Maybe in the past. Today they’d just be a stupid pony.
Fiddle glances at the group of ponies and watches as they talk. Caramel makes a terrible joke, and Sassaflash slaps him in the back of the head. Everypony laughs, and even Coco cracks a smile.
Fiddle remembers her friends. She hasn’t seen them in a long time. She hopes they’re well. Wherever they are.
The Princess used to talk a lot about friendship. About caring and looking out for other ponies. Nowadays it’s every pony for themselves.
Fiddle’s ears fold as memories cross her mind. Everypony still alive has done horrible things to survive. She’s no exception. It was the worst decision of her life, but it meant she was alive.
But maybe she shouldn’t be. A frown forms on her face. Being alive nowadays is a gift. It’s easy to forget that. Sometimes it’s a burden, sometimes it’s a joy.
Fiddle and Lightning are alive. A lot of other ponies aren’t. A lot of ponies that were stronger, smarter, faster, and better than her didn’t make it. Maybe those ponies could have saved Equestria before it fell. Fiddle couldn’t do it. So why did she deserve to be alive?
She feels something brush against her side. Coco shyly smiles at her. Her voice trembles, and Fiddle almost misses it. Thank you.
Fiddle smiles. No problem. Fiddle’s sorry she didn’t arrive earlier. Maybe she could have made a difference.
Coco shrugs. Fiddle saved her life. That’s a big enough difference for her.
Lightning smiles and drapes a wing over Fiddle’s back. Remember what she said to White Lightning? They don’t have to save the world. They aren’t expected to.
Fiddle nods. Still, it’d feel nice to be a hero.
They’re heroes to Coco, Lightning replies. Nowadays, it’s nice to have someone who looks up to you.
Fiddle laughs and nuzzles her. She feels better now. They may not be the best ponies to ever live, but for now, they’re enough.
They listen to Lyra’s stories and they laugh at Caramel’s jokes.
For a second, Lightning closes her eyes and everything feels normal again. She can almost hear the honks of cars as they line the roads, and the laughter of drunkards as they stumble through the night.
But when she opens her eyes, the city is empty. Like it always is.
The Circle Park settlement is huge, far bigger than the Hope Hotel. Fiddle is impressed at how they’ve managed to survive. The park itself is in good shape since the survivors maintain it. Defensive fortifications have been set up in the buildings surrounding it,with armed sentries moving about on the rooftops and walls.
The sentries wave them through, and Bon Bon leads Coco over to the medical tent. The others disperse, inviting Lightning and Fiddle to stay awhile.
Lightning watches as a small group of foals run past them. She shakes her head and sighs. Some foals will grow up knowing nothing else. This world will be the only one they’ve ever known. This will be their normal.
Fiddle disagrees. Things will get better eventually. Maybe. Hopefully.
Somepony catches Lightning’s eye. A white unicorn with an eyepatch walks past. Lightning raises an eyebrow and calls out to him.
Senator Blueblood turns around, confused. Lightning remembers him from the quarantine. He was one of the ponies in charge until his abrupt resignation.
Blueblood blinks slowly and sighs. He nods. He doesn’t like talking about that time. Back then he was just another pompous politician. A veteran player in a twisted game, and a horrible pony all around.
That changed when he was put in charge of the quarantine. At first he led from the back, signing orders and moving pieces. But as the pressure rose, he moved to the frontlines. And what he saw horrified him.
Blueblood absently raises a hoof to his eye patch. Lightning must remember what happened. The supply shortages, the losses, the anger… the realization that there was nothing they could do.
His voice drops as he continues speaking. Then came the day when the civilians had enough. They rioted, demanding more supplies and care. The army swooped in and put a stop to it, but not before…
Blueblood trails off. He lost his eye when they stormed the command center. He left office the next day. The disgraced former senator lowers his head in disappointment. He’s lucky the settlement took him in. Most of the others turned him away out of spite.
Lightning hesitates before speaking. She never liked him that much, but he did all he could. Sure, he may have been a stuck-up politician before, but his leadership skills were still remarkable.
Blueblood gives an empty laugh. The world doesn’t need another politician. The world needs some heroes. Heroes like them. He jerks a head at the medical tent. They do good work. Better work than he could ever do.
Fiddle feels sorry for him now. In the past, Blueblood was rude, brash, arrogant, and ignorant. But now he was just broken. Just a shell of the pony he once was. A reminder of how far they’ve fallen.
It’s sad to think that even those who survived didn’t make it out in one piece. Every single pony out there lost a piece of themselves just to survive. There weren’t any heroes anymore. Just survivors.
From the makeshift military post, Lightning can see the towering fences of the quarantine zone. It used to be guarded by armored soldiers, anti-flight spells, and armed patrols. Now, all that’s left are walls and gates.
The gate mechanisms are somewhere in the base. Probably in the control tower. Fiddle got the backup power back on, but the stairwell is barricaded. So it’s Lightning’s job to get up there.
She lands on the roof easily, a cloud of dust swirling around her hooves. Lightning goes over to the roof access door and pushes it open. The interior is dusty and old, mostly untouched since the guards left.
Papers and chairs are scattered about the floor. Looks like they bailed in a hurry. Lightning flinches as she wonders what happened to the guards stationed here. The civilians turned against them pretty quickly after they found out.
The truth. Lighting wonders how many ponies in the service realized the truth like she did. She knows there were some who blindly followed orders. Those were the ones who got promoted after the mass desertions.
There was a lot of conflict within the military, especially after the quarantine zone collapsed. In the end, it wasn’t long before the infighting collapsed the military completely.
Lightning slinks down the hallway quietly. She doesn’t think there’s anyone else in here, but better safe than sorry. After some searching and stumbling, she finds the control room. Her ear twitches as she reaches for the door. Something cold and metal is pressed against the back of her head.
Her life flashes before her eyes. A stern voice tells her not to move. But Lightning recognizes that voice. She thought Midnight Strike was dead.
The pressure on the back of her head disappears, and Lightning slowly turns around. The other pegasus lowers her weapon, eyes wide in disbelief. Then, Midnight Strike cracks a smile and pulls Lightning into a hug.
They haven’t seen each other since the night Lightning left. Midnight remembers that only a hoofful of Wonderbolts ended up staying behind. Her face falls at that.
They signed up to ‘fight the enemy.’ They never thought they’d be fighting their own. Lightning nods and changes the subject, asking her what she’s been up to.
Midnight shrugs. Hanging around old guard posts mostly. Hoping she’ll find others. Her eyes fall to the floor.
A while after Lightning left, word got out Spitfire was helping refugees leave the city. That apparently pissed off the fourth battalion, who thought everypony in the city was infected.
Midnight survived their attack, others weren’t so lucky. She doesn’t know where Spitfire ended up, but she hopes she’s still alive… somewhere. She shakes her head and sighs, asking what Lightning’s up to nowadays.
Exploring, she answers. With her marefriend.
Midnight laughs. Lightning’s lucky to have one..
Lightning nods, feeling slightly guilty. Fiddle’s too good for her, she thinks. She deserves far better. And Lightning sure doesn’t deserve her. She loves Fiddle. She hopes Fiddle does too.
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.
Maneway Station is empty. The massive, sprawling center is lit up from the rays of sunlight that stream through the open windows. Bags and pieces of luggage are scattered about the terminal floor, mostly untouched.
Lightning is digging through a backpack that’s crammed full of clothes and supplies. From someone who tried to get out in a hurry. A lot of ponies did back when quarantine was first established. But they stood and watched as the military descended on them like a horde of flies around a rotting fruit.
She moves a hoof to the front pocket, rummaging around and pulling out a small wedding ring. It puts a smile on Lightning’s face. Marriage. It’s such a strange thing to think about now. But love’s still a concept. It’s not dead yet.
Obviously they can’t have a ceremony like they used to, with dresses and suits and cake. At best they might be able to find an official and get married in the hotel garden or something. Lightning feels how light the ring is in her hoof. She wonders how much this would have cost in the old world.
Lightning was never a romantic. But she still dreamed of a beautiful future. She imagined a simple ceremony, with friends and family at a Cloudsdale chapel. Of course, those things are all long gone now.
She closes her eyes and sighs. A few nights ago she dreamt that everything was okay. She dreamt that she was at a bar, surrounded by her brothers and sisters in arms as they drank and cheered. And Fiddle was there too somehow, laughing alongside her. And everything was okay.
It didn’t make a lot of sense to her. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was something else. Lightning doesn’t really know. But she’s had stranger dreams. Last week she dreamt about the first time they met the boss…
Or, rather, the time the boss almost killed her and Fiddle had to talk her out of it. Except in her dream, Fiddle wasn’t there. And Lightning just had to sit there as the boss landed punch after punch onto her. And from behind her she saw an army of ponies surround them, cheering and yelling. Laughing. Waiting for her to die.
Lightning shakes off the thought. It was just a dream anyways. It didn’t mean anything. She stands up, dropping the bag to the floor. She pockets the ring in and looks around the empty station. It’s completely quiet.
It’s serene, in its own kind of way. She can see little specks of dust floating through the air in the sunlight. In the past it would have been full of ponies now, getting their tickets and running to catch their train. Now it’s just empty, like everything else.
Midnight Strike calls out her name. Fiddle’s hearing some gunshots from outside. They have to move. Lightning blinks. They better go check it out. But her mind’s set now: she’ll wait for the right time. Whenever that is.
The sharp crack of gunfire pierces the air. Fiddlesticks flinches, but Midnight and Lightning don’t react. They grip their guns a bit tighter and keep moving through the alleyway, past the garbage cans and dumpsters.
The shooting seems to be coming from the Manehattan Convention Center: a big circular building that the military used as a command post. It’s probably a treasure trove for looters, but Midnight doesn’t think anyone’s been able to get in yet, since there’s a group of ex-guards hanging out inside.
They exit the alley and end up across the street from the convention center. Fences and warnings have been set up around the area, isolating it from the rest of the city. Military vehicles are parked nearby, still and rusted.
Midnight thinks they should just leave the fighters alone. Ponies in these parts like to shoot first and ask questions never. But Fiddlesticks disagrees. There might be ponies in trouble, and if they don’t act, their blood might as well be on their hooves.
As they bicker, Lightning realizes that the shooting has stopped. Instead, a strange silence falls over the building.
They crouch outside the alley, behind a cargo truck, and wait. Seconds turn into minutes, and they still don’t hear anything. Lightning thinks they should hold here and see what happens. It’s probably safer than pushing up into the building.
Midnight asks why they should even bother. She doesn’t think it’s going to end very well for them. Fiddlesticks rolls her eyes and points out Midnight doesn’t have to stay with them. She can leave if she wants.
They crouch behind the trucks for a few minutes more, searching for signs of movement. The three of them hold their breaths, scanning the area.
Midnight asks what they’re going to do if they see someone. Lightning says they’ll figure it out when they get there.
Fiddle thinks they should play it slow and not make any rash decisions. She gives a sideways glance at Lightning when she says that. Lightning frowns, rolling her eyes. Before she can respond, she sees something in the air.
A pair of pegasi have shot up into the sky. They’re flying around in circles, looking for something. Or someone. Lightning pulls a pair of binoculars out of her bag and raises them to her face.
The two pegasi are decked out in military gear. Lightning can make out the heavy armor vests they’re wearing and the weapons slung around their bodies. They fly in a tight formation, close together.
Lightning focuses her binoculars on one of them. Her eyes go wide. That fiery mane looks familiar to her. It brings back memories of a gravelly voice barking orders.
She glances at the other one and sees hints of a blue mane and a pale blue coat. Lightning passes the binoculars to Midnight, asking if they look familiar to her.
Midnight takes a look, then raises an eyebrow. They are familiar. Lightning frowns. There’s only one way to be sure.
This could be a very bad decision. But Lightning feels like this is right. Fiddlesticks isn’t sure, but she trusts Lightning’s gut. With a nervous nod, Lightning Dust slowly takes to the sky. She’s spotted almost immediately.
The other two point their guns at her, but Lightning keeps her hooves above her head. She holds her breath and calls out a name: Spitfire. The two ponies freeze.
Eventually, they lower their guns and approach suspiciously. Lightning focuses her attention on the orange pegasus, seeing her battle-scarred body and an eye-patch over her right eye. She looks like she’s been through hell, but it’s still her. Spitfire.
Her captain smiles and punches Lightning in the shoulder. She thought she was dead. Lightning thought the same. Soarin looks a bit worse for wear too, but he still has the same goofy smile she remembers him having.
They land near the entrance of the convention center, where Midnight and Fiddlesticks rejoin them. They exchange hugs and shoulder punches before Lightning asks what happens to them.
Spitfire sighs. That night was a hard one. A lot of ‘Bolts died to the Fourth Division ambush. Lost her eye to shrapnel, too. But somehow, they survived. They stayed in the quarantine zone, smuggling out as many ponies as they could.
They’ve spent the last few months tracking down the rogue guards and putting them down. Soarin’ frowns at that. It’s been a hard fight, but they’ve been getting by.
Midnight asks why they’ve come to the convention center.
Spitfire says that some of the civilians have heard transmissions on their radios. They came here to try and recover some radio equipment. Her face hardens. Apparently, something is going on in Canterlot.
That statement raises everyone’s eyebrows. Fiddle asks what the transmission says. Soarin’ replies that it’s a message recalling all surviving military personnel to the city.
Lightning wonders if the Princesses have come back. Midnight rolls her eyes. The Princesses are dead.
Fiddle disagrees. She thinks they’re still alive somewhere, searching for a cure.
Spitfire shrugs. It doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that somepony in Canterlot needs their help. So they’re going to go there. Her eyes light up and she extends a hoof to Midnight and Lightning. Some of the team’s still alive. Do they want to come?
Lightning suddenly feels a strange pang in her heart. Seeing Spitfire’s awakened a strange sense of duty in her, one that’s been asleep for a long time. But she glances at Fiddle and frowns. They’d be flying, most likely, and Fiddle would probably slow them down.
She looks around the city, at the wreckage and debris of Manehattan. She hates it here, and she’s long dreamt of leaving for somewhere better. But… would Canterlot be any better? Or would it just be another twisted playground of rust and metal?
Midnight nods and shakes Spitfire’s hoof. She’s going. All eyes fall to Lightning. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her mind’s made up.
Lightning sits on the edge of the rooftop, staring out at the city. She hasn’t moved since Spitfire and the others left.
She asks what the point is. The point in what they’re doing.
Fiddlesticks tilts her head in confusion.
Lightning doesn’t think that they’ll save the world. Even if they finish what the boss wants them to do. Manehattan will still be wrecked. Their friends and family will still be gone. The world will be the same.
And the worst part, Lightning thinks, is that she’s realized it goes beyond Manehattan. The whole of Equestria is like this. A barren, lawless, empty wasteland.
Fiddle puts a hoof on Lightning’s shoulder. She’s doing this because it gives her hope, Fiddle says. Because she has faith that the boss knows what she’s doing. And that she has faith that somehow, against all odds, Equestria will carry on.
Because Fiddle doesn’t think it’s possible to kill all of Equestria. It lives on, so long as there are ponies who remember it. They’re resilient creatures, Fiddle states. They’ll find a way to survive.
Lightning frowns. There’s still terrible ponies out there, ponies who really don’t deserve to survive.
There always will be, Fiddle thinks. But if there’s anything the Elements of Harmony taught them, it’s that good will find a way. It might take years, it might take more, but if there’s enough ponies willing to do the right thing, then there will always be hope.
And that’s what this is all about. Hope. Fiddle gestures to the city. They give hope to others. To ponies like Bon Bon, Lyra, Caramel, and Sassaflash. To broken heroes like Raindrops and Whitey. To wandering spirits like Midnight Strike.
There’s not a lot of light left in this world. Fiddle knows this. But if they can give ponies hope, then that’d be enough. To her, that’s what this job is. That’s what this life is. It might not look good now. But there’s always a chance that things can get better.
It’s up to them to make sure they do.
Lightning knows. But it’s hard to find something to fight for nowadays. She can’t lie: a part of her wanted to go with Spitfire to Canterlot.
Fiddlesticks nods. She asks what made her stay. Lightning sighs, rubbing a foreleg.
It’s because she’s realized that the world is like this now. A tiny piece of her hoped that the rest of Equestria was still safe, whole, and alive. But talking with Spitfire made her realize how stupid that was.
The world ended forever ago.
Fiddlesticks disagrees. Their planet’s still spinning. The sun’s still rising. The world’s still here. It just needs some fixing up.
It hurts living like this. It hurts having to wake up every day to a ruined city that once held life, and it hurts hearing gunshots echo down the alleys.
Fiddle pats Lightning on the back and pecks her on the cheek.
They’ve made it this far. There’s no sense in quitting now.
Fiddlesticks learned a trick when she was young to help with her anxiety. It involved taking deep breaths, then searching for five things she could see, four she could feel, three she could hear, two she could smell, and one she could taste.
It didn’t always work, but it sure did help. Fiddle shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. She can see a broken escalator, an overturned table, an abandoned briefcase, a rusty fire hydrant, and a stained blue tarp on the ground.
She can feel the sharpness of a shattered glass railing, the wetness of the puddle of water, the smooth surface of a broken door, and the prickly leaves of the overgrown bush.
Hearing is a bit trickier, but she can hear the gentle hush of the wind as it ruffles her mane, she can hear the crunch of glass under Lightning’s hooves, and she can hear the chirping of birds in the trees.
She can still smell the everpresent stench of death that’s saturated Manehattan, but she can also smell the smoke that hangs in the air from a dying fire.
Lastly, she can taste the blood in her mouth. She rubs at her jaw as she thinks of it. Fiddle takes another deep breath and tries to convince herself that she’s calm now.
Lightning offers her a towel to wipe her face off. She points out that they can leave now.
Fiddle disagrees. They haven’t fully searched the area yet. She gets to her hooves and takes a few steps towards the wrecked shopping mall.
She doesn’t get far before Lightning stops her. She says that there isn’t anything in there worth going back for. Besides, Fiddle’s still hurting from that fight. They should turn back while they still can.
Fiddle shakes her head. They have to keep going. It’s their duty.
Lightning frowns, standing her ground. She doesn’t want Fiddle to get hurt again. Lightning thinks that she should go in alone.
That makes her angry. She isn’t weak. She can take this. Fiddle shoves past Lightning and heads back into the building. She stops when Lightning calls out to her again.
She asks Fiddle what it will take for her to stop.
Fiddle frowns and asks what Lightning means by that.
Lightning stomps the ground in annoyance. In the Wonderbolts, she was told that there’s no shame in calling for help. That was the whole point of battle buddies: to have each other’s back, no matter what. So it annoys her that Fiddle won’t let her help.
They fall silent for a second. Fiddle scoffs and brushes Lightning off. She doesn’t need help, she’s perfectly fine.
Lightning disagrees. She saw the same thing Fiddle did, and she knows that it’d leave her scarred if she wasn’t numb to it already. Lightning wants to help her, but she can’t if Fiddle won’t let her.
Fiddle snorts, trying to ground herself again but gives up. She doesn’t need help.
Fiddlesticks grew up in a family of morals. She was taught to always help those in need, no questions asked and no fuss made, because there weren’t a lot of ponies who would stop to lend a hoof to others. Fiddle herself learned this the hard way.
When she first arrived in Manehattan, she found that nopony in the city cared much about anyone else. She remembered almost missing her audition because she was lost, and she remembered strangers ignoring and shunning her when she tried to get directions.
It boiled her blood then, and it still did now. If there was a pony who needed help, she’d be the one to offer. Fiddle just can’t understand why Lightning is so against this idea. Fiddle asks what’s so wrong with wanting to help someone.
Lightning sighs and rubs her forehead. She thinks that Fiddle is just being naive. The world’s changed now.
That makes Fiddle mad. The world’s alwaysbeen like that. Lightning isn’t the first pony to think she’s weak for caring. She turns her back to Lightning and stomps off down the street.
They keep moving down the empty roads of the quarantine zone. The silence between them is louder than any gunshot could possibly hope to be.
Fiddle’s behavior is concerning Lightning. Isn’t she supposed to be the arrogant one? She shakes her head, frustrated. Lightning’s seen Fiddle like this before, usually after they find some… rather messy scenes left behind by Ravagers.
It just doesn’t make sense to Fiddle. She’s always been willing to see the best in ponies. And even if the whole world’s fallen to pieces, she firmly believes that there are still good ponies out there. Lightning just can’t see that.
It’s strange to think that they live in the same world and see two different things. Once they saw a mare desperately searching for her husband. She said that he never came back after he went to scout for supplies.
Fiddle saw a lonely, panicked mare searching for her lover. She saw a mare who needed someone, anyone to help.
But Lightning thought it might have been a trap. She insisted that they leave her alone and keep going. Even if she was telling the truth, she reasoned, he was probably dead already. The Ravagers didn’t take prisoners.
They spent a bit arguing over their options before Lightning finally gave in. The mare led them on an hour-long search through abandoned warehouses, where they encountered a group of rogue guards.
The firefight was long and ugly, but they got out of it. And they found the missing stallion towards the back of the warehouse, lying still by some tarps. The mare gasped and sobbed into Fiddle’s coat as Lightning looked on.
Apparently she had the self control to remain silent. But Fiddle could feel her gaze burning into her as she clutched the mare and led her away. She didn’t look at Lightning as she fetched a tarp and got to work.
It gets cooler as the sun sets over Manehattan. But the weather isn’t as icy as the silence that forms between Lightning and Fiddle.
They trudge down the streets mechanically, with Lightning shooting Fiddle a glance every now and then. Fiddle never meets her eyes, though: she stares forwards and keeps moving.
The quiet grows and grows until it fills the entire street, and Lightning can’t take it anymore. She asks if Fiddle needs to have a break. Fiddle shakes her head and says she’s fine. She can go for another few hours.
Lightning glances up at the sky and at the clouds brooding overhead. The smell of rain hangs in the air. She points this to Fiddle, who brushes her off again.
They keep moving for a little bit before Lightning speaks up. They really should just take a break.
Fiddle throws her hooves up in the air with an annoyed grunt. Fine. If Lightning’s tired, then they’ll stop.
Lightning narrows her eyebrows. She isn’t tired, she’s concerned about Fiddle’s health. Lightning doesn’t want Fiddle to push herself too hard and burn herself out.
In response, Fiddle rolls her eyes and scoffs.
That makes Lightning angry. She isn’t a very patient mare, and Fiddle knows this. She asks Fiddle if there’s some sort of problem.
Yes, there is, Fiddle decides. The problemis that the mall they just left is filled with death and bullet holes. The problem is that there are ponies who were forced down there and never made it out.
But the biggest problem to her is that Lightning doesn’t seem to care about any of it.
Lightning raises an eyebrow and scowls. Why should she? Has Fiddle seen the state of the world? It’s horrible, yes, but it’s not like they couldn’t expect it. She just doesn’t understand why Fiddle is so upset about this.
Fiddle stomps on the ground. That’s the whole problem: Lightning doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand no matter how many times Fiddle’s explained it. Fiddle knows more ponies in the ground than in real life, and for some reason, Lightning can’t understand how that feels.
Fiddle sticks an accusing hoof in Lightning’s face. Is it really so hard to understand why she prefers a peaceful approach? Is it really that bad to want to save a life rather than to take one?
Lightning smacks her hoof away. She’s so sorry for acting and saving their lives. Next time, she’ll be sure to let them die.
The wind whips through their manes. Fiddle scowls and turns away from Lightning.
A few seconds pass before Lightning offers an apology. But Fiddle refuses to accept it. She can tell that it’s only meant to make her feel better.
Lightning huffs and throws her hooves in the air. If Fiddle’s going to act like this, she might as well leave.
Fiddle won’t stop her.
Lightning opens her mouth to say something, but closes it again. She frowns, turns away, and takes off into the sky.
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.
Fiddle can barely see a foot in front of her in the rain. It pounds down around her, and thunder rips through the streets with a roar. She’s cold, hurt, and exhausted, but she still presses on.
She moves through the alleys and pauses near the edge of a building, glancing out into the street. There’s a flash of lightning, and she sees the silhouettes of several ponies in the street, voices drowned out by the rain.
They’re looking for her. And they don’t like it when somepony hurts one of their own.
Fiddle shivers in the cold as she crouches low, behind a bullet-ridden dumpster. She’ll have to wait for the patrol to leave.
Her wounds start to burn: she’s stabilized the bleeding from her right side, but the little cuts and bruises all over her body are aching now. As some of the adrenaline from earlier wears off, she pieces together what happened.
She remembers crashing through a window, tangled up with another pony. And she remembers fighting for her life as he held her down, landing blow upon blow on her head.
When the boss gave her the green book ages ago, she also gave her an old revolver, saying that it might save her life one day. Fiddle blinks as the realization dawns on her. She quietly pulls it from her holster and checks the chamber: she’s missing three bullets.
And then she remembers the screaming and her vision going red. She suddenly feels very faint, but her mind goes into denial. She can’t afford to think about that now.
Suddenly, there’s a howling laugh that reverberates down the streets. The rogues whirl around and raise their guns. Fiddle follows their gaze down the street and sees some ponies appearing from the alleys.
The Ravagers laugh and scream, and one of the rogue squad leaders shouts a command.
The air is filled with bullets and the streets come alive with the sound of gunfire. Fiddle flinches as the two groups start fighting. Suddenly, from the clouds, three pegasi dive down, blades in their teeth.
Fiddle turns away. She has enough nightmares nowadays, she doesn’t need any more. Slowly and carefully she backs out of the alleway, trying to block out the screams of the bloody fight behind her.
She makes her way down the alley, snaking between backdrops and dumpsters as rainwater drenches her coat and mane.
It reminds her of her first patrol with Lightning. They left on a rainy night just like this when a group of Ravagers ambushed them. She still has dreams about that night: nasty, bloody dreams.
But Lightning wasn’t here now. She feels a twinge of regret at that. It is her fault, after all. A part of her wishes she told Lightning about what happened at the concert hall. Maybe then she’d understand.
Memories flash through her mind. She hears the screams and the gunfire. Fiddle shudders and pushes the memories back down, before continuing forwards through the rain.
Fiddlesticks should not be alive. This much she’s sure of.
Because right now, there are hundreds of deserving, amazing ponies who will never walk the earth again. Mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. Husbands and wives, parents and children. All better ponies than her.
So why is she still alive, when so many others had fallen. Fiddle doesn’t know. But sometimes at night, she’d wake up from nightmares of disappointed faces, ghosts still haunted the corners of her eyes, and every day the guilt and pain threatened to crush her under their weight.
After all, what good could she possibly do for this ruined, broken world? The thought makes her cringe. Lightning was probably right. She’s just one mare. She can’t change the world, much less save it.
Fiddle takes a deep, ragged breath. She presses the cloth against her chest harder. There’s a long way to go until she gets out of the quarantine zone.
But… then what? Does she just go back to wandering the city and taking notes for a pony who probably isn’t alive anymore? Go back to her meaningless existence?
She wants to laugh, because earlier it seemed like she was saying these same words to Lightning, telling her how they mattered. She’s a hypocrite, and the irony isn’t lost on her.
Fiddle slumps over and tilts her head up towards the sky, letting the rain wash over her face. She imagines that she’s back home, in the vast and empty desert. But that world’s so far away now that she can’t picture the details anymore.
She tries to think of the farmhouse and the orchard, but all she can picture are burning cars and towering skyscrapers, looming over her like a vulture over prey.
Fiddle decides that this is it. She’s going to die here, because she’s tired of fighting it. And frankly, she thinks this is what she deserves. Because she isn’t a hero, and she’ll never be one.
She gently pulls the shirt away from her, letting the rain wash off the red which stains it. Fiddle tosses it aside in disgust.
With a great effort, she pulls her saddlebags closer to her body and sticks a hoof inside. She finds some of the painkillers that she traded with Bon Bon eons ago and briefly considers taking them, before deciding that they’ll only delay the inevitable.
She paws through her supplies, wondering where they’ll end up. Probably in the hands of a Ravager, she reasons, or a civilian patrol if she’s lucky.
At the bottom, the green book stares back at her. Fiddle’s dedicated her entire life to that silly little thing. It’s become more than a task. It’s become her life, her legacy. Lightning’s too, now that she thinks about it.
She hopes that someone will find it and make use of it. Fiddle closes her eyes and leans back, letting the rain fall over her.
Suddenly, Fiddle’s ear twitches, and she eases her eyes open. There’s a pony standing over her.
It didn’t take Lightning very long to get out of the quarantine zone. She doesn’t really know where she is going, but she feels that she has to fly. Maybe if she flies fast enough, she can forget about Fiddle and their stupid argument.
Eventually, she lands on a rooftop somewhere near the edge of Manehattan. Lightning wonders if she could still catch up to Spitfire and the other Wonderbolts. It’d be a long flight to Canterlot, but once she finds them…
Lightning pauses. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if she goes to Canterlot. Join up with Spitfire and… do what, exactly? Start a brand new life?
She’s not… comfortable with saying that. Because Lightning realizes that she doesn’t want a new life. She doesn’t even want her old life back, not as much as she did yesterday. Right now she just wants Fiddle.
Lightning falls onto her haunches as she stares out over the city. She thinks about when they first met that one night outside of the hotel. She thinks about everything they’ve done and all the things they’ve been through.
She’s not sure how long she sat there and thought. But Lightning snaps out of it when someone pokes her side.
Lightning turns around to see Whitey staring at her with a tilted head, draped in a yellow rain poncho. Lightning doesn’t even know when it started raining, but the water sends a shock through her system.
Whitey asks if she’s alright. She’s been sitting there for a while.
Lightning shrugs. She says that she has some stuff going on with Fiddle. Just some arguments. Mostly Fiddle’s fault, though.
Whitey takes a seat next to her and sighs. She points out that nowadays, everypony’s carrying some emotional baggage. Everyone around is marked up with scars that they don’t always show, and they’re haunted by ghosts that never leave.
They don’t flinch as thunder rocks the city. Whitey isn’t saying that whatever Fiddle did was right, of course, but she is pointing out that Manehattan’s a graveyard, and tombstones are everywhere. They can try to rebuild, but they can never forget the things they’ve seen.
Back when she was a paramedic, Whitey remembers that they saw a lot of ponies suffering from survivor’s guilt. The belief that they shouldn’t be alive when so many others have died. Whitey says that the guilt gnaws away at ponies and haunts them every day. She wonders if Fiddle suffers from this.
Lightning thinks about that. She’s been through hell herself, sure, but what about Fiddle? Has she seen things too?
It shocks her that she doesn’t know. Now, Lightning feels horrible.
But Whitey points out that it’s not too late to fix it. All she has to do is talk it out with Fiddle.
Then the realization hits Lightning: she’s just left her marefriend to fend for herself in the most dangerous part of Manehattan.
She hurriedly thanks Whitey and takes off into the air: hopefully it isn’t too late.
Fiddle blinks a few times, unsure if she should fight or just take it. But she quickly realizes the pony isn’t aiming a weapon at her.
A few tears well in her eyes, but she isn’t sure if they’re from emotion or pain. Another pegasus in a yellow raincoat crouches next to her, pulling some bandages from the bag at her side. Lightning Dust looks her in the eye, shameful and worried.
Fiddle grunts as Whitey wraps a bandage around her side. Lightning says something about they ran into each other in the city. She breaks eye contact and scuffs at the ground. Underneath her breath she offers an apology.
To anyone else, it may have felt insincere. But Fiddle knows Lightning, and she knows the hesitation is from shame, not cowardice. She nods. She’s sorry too.
Fiddle sighs, squeezing her eyes shut in pain as Whitey works on her wound. She’s sorry for not telling Lightning about what happened to her while expecting her to know. And she’s sorry for lashing out: Lightning doesn’t deserve it.
Lightning nods. She apologizes for storming off like that and letting Fiddle get hurt. She should have known better than that.
Whitey gives Fiddle some pain killers and helps her up. She tells her that it’s just a surface wound, and she’ll be fine. Lightning approaches Fiddle and pulls her into a hug. As strong as she is, she starts to cry.
They stand in the rain, holding each other and blocking out the world. Whitey smiles and lets them have their moment.
Eventually they part, rubbing their eyes and chuckling to themselves. Fiddle suggests they head back to the hotel. Lightning readily agrees with her.
The three trot down the road as the rain assaults them relentlessly. But Fiddle and Lightning don’t care. They march onwards, with tired smiles and happy laughs. They pass the convention center again, and Lightning pauses.
She watches as the battered tarps falter in the wind and gazes over the boarded up windows and broken doors. Her eyes pass over the empty crates and still vehicles, and the puddles on the ground and the graffiti on the walls.
A part of her wishes she went to Canterlot, but in her heart she knows she did the right thing. Let Spitfire and the others save what’s left of Equestria. Right now, she wants to be with Fiddle.
Eventually they pass through the gate and back into the city. Whitey spreads her wings and bids them farewell, heading back to the Precinct.
They thank her and wish the best, before continuing down the roads and streets. The moonlight reflects off of the puddles in the road, breaking through the dreary cloud cover overhead. The storm begins to waver as the rain starts to lighten.
As they continue down a sidewalk, Fiddle watches as the rainwater rushes down the gutters and into the drain, dropping out of sight. She presses herself closer to Lightning, who drapes a wing over her.
There’s an old saying, coined by a family business that used to operate downtown. ‘The Sun Never Sets Over Manehattan,’ they said.
As Fiddle and Lightning pass by the ruined building, they can’t help but laugh at how ironic it is. The sun has set over Manehattan, or the old Manehattan, anyways. But as they pass the street corner, a streak of light flies into the air.
The two freeze, staring in awe as a red flare is hurled high into the sky. Neither of them were expecting to see the signal, but it’s as real as the city is destroyed. The boss is alive, but more importantly, she’s back.
They look at each other, wide-eyed, and laugh. Because things are about to change.
As they trot down the roads, the memories come flooding back. The time they’ve spent together is etched hard into their memories, as they recall looting thrift stores and exploring restaurants, playing cards in the rain and making paper airplanes.
The city might be the same. It might still be a skeleton of civilization, filled with gangs of horrible ponies and empty buildings, but in the cracks, there are signs of life. For every Ravager there’s a Whitey, and for every rouge guard there’s Lyra and a Bon Bon. For every monster, there’s a hero, whether they realize it or not.
Fiddle and Lightning make their way home, dodging between car chassis and alleyways, and hopping over fences and cutting through maintenance tunnels.
This is their city. Nopony is going to take that from them. Their mission might almost be over, but Manehattan still needs saving.
As Fiddle jumps over a gate, she lands in a puddle and splashes water over herself and Lightning. Lightning laughs, shaking the water from her mane.
Fiddle chuckles, kicking at the puddle to splash more water on her.
Lightning retaliates by gently shoving Fiddle into a bigger puddle in front of her. She falls forwards and lands on her chest, laughing. Lightning’s lucky their saddlebags are waterproof, or else they’d be in serious trouble.
She pulls Fiddle back up onto her hooves and they carry on, down the roads and sidewalks.
Cracks run up and down the road like veins, making a sort of wavy path leading into the city. At the intersection of Fourth Street and Central Street, next to a wrecked military humvee, a tiny flower begins to blossom from the ground.
In the alley nearby a raccoon pokes its head out of a trash can. It sniffs at the air before scurrying off into the bushes in front of the Manehattan Trade Center. A squirrel crawls about halfway up the big tree in the courtyard and pauses, before jumping safely to the ground.
Tiny birds sit on the roof edges and keep vigil over the city. After a few seconds they spread the wings and take off into the sky. Then they soar freely above the clouds and into the air.
Hope Hotel is alive with activity. The sentries wave at them hurriedly as Lightning and Fiddle approach. Their words overlap with each other, but the message is clear: someone’s here to see them.
They pass through the lobby, and Fiddle takes a second to give her traded bottle of painkillers to one of the medics. After exchanging thanks, Lightning and Fiddle head up the stairs to their room.
Inside, a pegasus waits for them. She’s studying their map intensely, with a few open books nearby. Her saddlebags, gun, and signature pith helmet sit on the bed.
Daring Do glances up at them and nods in acknowledgement. She shakes hooves with them and smiles. They’ve been doing good work, if the map is any indication.
Fiddlesticks pulls out her book and passes it over to Daring. The book has everything she needs to know about the state of Manehattan: the factions, the settlements, all of it.
Daring nods and sets the book aside. She’ll look at it later. From what she’s seen so far, Manehattan’s in about the same state as Seaddle is.
Lightning speaks up. She asks if Daring knows what’s happening in Canterlot.
Daring rubs her chin. She knows that something is going on, but she isn’t quite sure what. But just maybe, things will start looking up.
Lightning and Fiddle glance at each other. The future's suddenly seeming a whole lot brighter now.
She thanks them again for scouting for her. Now, Daring has a good feel for the state of Equestria, and she’s fairly optimistic that with leadership and a few miracles, they can start to rebuild.
Fiddle asks what they should do next.
Daring smiles at them. They should keep doing what they have been doing. Because it’s giving ponies hope. And hope is more important than anything else right now.
The three of them go out to the balcony, looking out over the city. The wind carries with it a voice, one that sings a song of everything. It sings of the past and the pain and the blood, but it also sings of tomorrow and the things still to come.
Lightning turns her gaze to Fiddle as the glow of the moon falls gently across her face. She loves the way the stars shine in her eyes and the little tired sigh she gives.
Daring goes back into the hotel, but neither of them notice. Lightning digs into her bag and pulls the ring she found earlier. She gingerly turns it over in her hooves and clears her throat.
She catches Fiddle’s eye and holds the ring up, her trembling lips forming four words.
Fiddle doesn’t answer. She pulls her into a kiss as tears and emotions wrack their tired, broken bodies.
There’s a voice carried by the wind, moving throughout the city. It’s quiet and subdued, but it is there. It speaks of one word: hope. Tonight, this voice grows a little bit louder, and the stars above glow a little bit brighter.
