Graphite walked down the streets. He started to notice that the buildings had less apartment blocks and more stores among them. There were more billboards and posters along the walls and more belongings littering the roads. By all of these little things Graphite could tell that he was nearing downtown Buckago. Though there were more buildings, that didn’t mean that the blasts and time had left them untouched. Most of the buildings had their facade crumbled down, blocking off any kind of entry into those buildings. Some doors which seemed to be unlocked had been either blocked off or closed from the inside. The shops had all their glass window displays shattered inward, and the mannequins that once modeled the clothes and accessories for their shops were burnt into chard bits of plastic and their clothes heated to ash. He moved down the empty streets, only now realizing how lonely it was actually going to be. The dark streets only grew darker with every passing second. He willed his light to shine down the road, and beamed it straight ahead and down the long, narrow roadway. There was nothing to look at other than the tumbled down buildings and old abandoned shops that had all of their merchandise destroyed.

Graphite continued on, alone still, until he passed by the only store that was intact enough to be recognized. It was a local grocery store. The sign outside still labelled it as “Lucky’s Groceries”. The door was blocked off by the rubble, but on the outside, stood some aged shelves. It looked like they belonged inside the store rather on the outside, but amongst all of the discarded packaging he noticed a tin can - a tin can of pea and carrot stew. This caught Graphite’s attention immediately, so he galloped to see if he was actually seeing this. He stopped upon reaching the shelves, taking another look at the seemingly unscathed can of stew.

Graphite shined his light over the case and picked it up with his spell, spinning the can round for a better view. It was just as he imagined - it was a simple can of stew. But it was that same simple can of stew he remembered eating back in Turquoise’s house. It was that same can of stew he remembered eating as a little colt at his mother’s house. He placed the can back on its shelf, taking a last look at the quaint can of stew. He remembered his parents after setting it down.

Graphite eased his eyes and sighed, the lonelier road became just the more lonely. He stopped to think, to look back, to reminisce. The thoughts were of the better times he had with his family; those times when they went to see the game, the moments when his mom would be there when he got hurt, and even the moments when his dad was there to play catch. The more he remembered the good times, the worse he felt about this time. He turned around to get back on the road, maybe the travels will help him forget.

Graphite planted his hooves on the yellow lines that lined themselves down the endless stretches of roadway and street. He planned on taking these lines on until he reached downtown; nothing was going to waver him any longer. The thoughts still festered through his mind though, keeping him subdued in a forward motion of regret. He moved forward with the warped image of his parents surrounding his conscience. The more he tried to forget, the more he remembered of them. Another blurry image came to his mind, something he didn’t recognize. It was, at first, nothing but a fuzz of a blur. Graphite took a second thought to realize it was something ahead of him and not a memory.

Graphite started to notice a strange figure in the distance. It was hard for him to tell what it was in the darkness of the night, but as he approached the figure, it became clearer that it was a statue of some sort. He walked closer to it, letting his memories just float away as he traded them in for the questions about this statue. He started to see three ponies made up the statue. As he looked around; it soon also became clear that the statue was in an open field - a roundabout surrounded it - and a splintered fence going around the perimeter. Some pony had set up a camp there.

Graphite decided to check the area for any dangers before heading over there. He reached a bench and took his rifle off from the shoulder, looking down the scope of the gun. Graphite could see silhouettes of ponies in their makeshift, broken beds. While looking near of what seemed to be entrance to the little camp, he noticed a guard leaning against a lamp post. The guard was a dark red unicorn, fallen asleep, and partly snoring. His purple mane was messed up and covered with grime. Graphite had definitely seen the clothing which the stallion wore, he looked like he had robbed some pony’s kitchen and used all of the pans and pots to make his armor - that was a raider camp up there.

Graphite looked away from the scope, stepping off the bench right before taking a seat on it. He realized the only way to downtown was through the camp, but the raiders meant no harm in their sleep. He checked around for another way around, the remaining two pathways were blocked off by a mountain of rubble from the fallen buildings going down that street - the street of rubble on the right was still had a small fire burning something amidst the debris. Graphite could see no other options. He checked his weapons and took a deep breath - he was going to cut right through the camp.

Graphite stepped away from the bench, the base of the statue trailing behind him. He stopped at the fence, taking another look at the camp. There were lines of old mats with dirty raiders sleeping on them just littering the road ahead. There was a single campfire flickering it’s bright illumination over a portion of the camp. It lied off the middle, near two raiders lying on the left. The tips of the fire broke off and scorched into the air before dissipating. The embers shined beneath the blaze, burning a mark in the street. Graphite turned his head to face the statue of the three ponies. He could just make out a little more detail from the faint glow of the nearby fire.

They seemed to be ponies from the military, their outfits seemed to look resemble the combat armor of military ponies. They were facing away from Graphite, but he could tell one of them was wearing a fuel tank and carrying a flamethrower in its hooves. The other two he couldn’t make out, even when he squinted hard enough.

Graphite suddenly remembered that he wasn’t there to look at statue, but to kill the raiders surrounding it. His first target was the guard napping against the lamp post in the front of the camp. It was going to be an easy kill since the guard was asleep and wasn’t aware of anyone’s presence - even his own.

Graphite unarmed himself, putting all his guns away and making sure they weren’t going to rattle with his walk. He pulled out his combat knife for a more silent kill. Slowly he approached the sleeping guard, not a sound from his hooves. The guard didn’t notice him even when he was right under his nose.

Graphite popped up right in front of the stallion and forced his hoof against his snout. The guard woke instantly from his slumber and tried to shout for the others, but Graphite’s hoof was shoved against his mouth and stopped his screams from escaping. Graphite had the guard pinned against the pole he was sleeping on while the guard himself tried to wiggle free from it. Graphite brought up his knife in his levitation spell and thrust it into the guard’s neck with enough force to break through the jugular and cut through everything else with a nasty crackle noise. The guard stopped struggling with the final crack of his veins. His body became limp, so Graphite released his grip on him and let him slump down from his lamp post and fold over on the sidewalk below.

Graphite pulled out his knife back out from the dead raider and continued his crawl through the raider camp. He did his best to weave passed all the sleeping raiders, which proved to be a task since the smell of sweat and mud grew stronger as Graphite dug in deeper into the camp.

The camp was littered with empty tin cans, syringes, and bottles of apple whiskey. It seemed that the pigs liked to live in their own filth. The raiders had also gathered some food and stockpiled as much ammo as they could steal. The piles of junk continued to pile as he traveled further into the camp, making it increasingly harder for him to sneak through without stepping on anything scattered across the road.

Now, Graphite was trudging through scraps of paper, old boxes of food, and whatever else seemed to gather in the recesses of the campsite. The lines of sleeping swines started to cave in on itself, starting to get ever tighter to crawl through the middle. There was no leeway to move over to the sides, and no turning back now. Graphite was starting to make good progress, until one raider blocked his pathway with his mattress that lied right in the middle of the walkway.

Graphite bit his teeth, and started to worry, getting a bit fidgety and looking for anyway around. Two raiders trapped Graphite in from moving anywhere else, so his last option was deal with the first one. It seemed like to much of a risk to attempt and walk over the raider without waking him, so Graphite had to deal with him as he was. He adjusted his grip on the knife and held it tighter, bringing the blade over his head. The raider took in a loud snore just as Graphite brought down the knife. The blade sliced through the sleeper’s neck, stopping his snore abruptly, and sending him into an even deeper - and quieter - rest. Graphite held the knife in the stallion’s neck for a short while, making sure his last breath breezed from his nostrils. He jiggled the blade out of the raider’s wind pipe and wiped the blood stained blade on his duster.

Graphite slid over the body, dragging all of his armour over the corpse’s chest and across the obstacle. Graphite set himself back into a low crawl to keep his hoofsteps silent and his silhouette smaller. He shimmied through the bustling city street, traffic stuffed up by the raider’s taking their nap on the middle of the roadway. The narrow line of raider’s was starting to thin out and widen up, making sneaking out just the easier. Graphite took a sight down the line, he could almost see the end of this wretched campground. The small fire was just a few steps away; marking he was just about halfway through.

It looked like a tight squeeze between the flames of the fire and the raider’s that were sleeping warmly beside it. Graphite made his way nearby, the crackles and snaps of the glowing embers and the tops of the flames snapping away from itself and into the night air. He knelt down, taking a break to plan his next move. Two ponies - a stallion and a mare - were asleep left of the fire, another stallion close nearby. Some flies were buzzing around Graphite’s head, the stench of musk was attracting them by the dozens in this camp. He was swatting them away, the buzzing mixing over the sound of some pony grumbling. He turned his head to the right, the pony there was talking in his sleep. Graphite wanted to chuckle, but he notice the mumbles were making the two ponies nearby restless. Graphite took his knife and went to silence the mumbler.

He swept over in with his knife ahead of him and aimed straight for the grumbling pony. He came up close, jamming the blade into his chest. A gurgle and a blood splatter later, the last word of the sleep talker was, ‘Ma...’

Graphite was just a bit relieved, but the two ponies were still starting to wake. Graphite was working faster, the adrenaline flowing through his body - but also causing him to shake and shiver. There was a shank in a chest sheath on the raider’s outfit, so Graphite took that in his spell along with his own knife and went for the last two raiders. Graphite swerved passed the fire, the shank swiping through the fires and rearing over to the light sleepers. He landed between them, the blades burrowing into their foreheads. The knife was easy going, sliding in easily without give; the shank was just the opposite, pushing and cracking through and shattering when it reached its end.

Graphite was panting, sweating from the rush of adrenaline and the fire at his hooves. The shank was in pieces inside of the mare’s head, the knife was dug in deeper and blood was pouring from both ends of the stallion’s brain. Graphite was pulling himself away from the bodies, trying to bring himself about to the sidewalk. Crawling over some rotted food scraps, bits of paper, and shattered glass shards as he made his way to the cracked sidewalk. He flipped unto his back, panting heavily to try and take a breath of cool air.

Graphite peeked over, looking down the rest of the sidewalk upside down. The dark, gray sidewalk was completely empty - but Graphite was glad it was lonely and free of any raiders. He rolled back to his stomach and got off from the broken floor, ready to leave the raider camp as soon as possible. Graphite started in a rushed pace, wanting to leave the foul smelling hellhole as soon as he could. It was just a straight shot from now on, taking the easy way out of the underworld. The sidewalk was very cracked and broken up, some of the sections coming out of their foundations. Graphite just stepped over them, he was going to stay on the trail out no matter the obstacles.

He was making progress, already nearing the exit in half the time and worries of going through the middle. Hobbling over another upturned block of concrete; trudging through the cracks in the sections; and, with a final sigh, he stepped out of the camp and back on the easy road to downtown Buckago. Graphite skipped off the sidewalk, walking over to the centre of the road. He looked back at the camp, the smell of the garbage wafting passed his nose. He grabbed his nose, stopping the horrid stench from going into his lungs. The flies were still swarming up around the sleeping ponies, and the fire was beginning to fade as the wood started to turn into ash. With the last of the flares flying upward, Graphite took another look at the statue in the background. The three ponies were still just atop the base of the statue, and the night still hid their faces from Graphite’s view.

He glared out over the camp, looking at the military ponies standing against the night sky. Graphite realized the statue was there as a memorial, not just a piece of artwork. Their outlines were contrasting against the dark skies, and he could see the three ponies were the three races of each pony. Three different military ponies.

Three races of ponies stood together, just as they had did in the war. An earth pony with a fuel tank on its back and the gun in its bite. Left of it was a unicorn, holding an assault rifle in its magical grip. Behind them was a rearing pegasus, holding a pistol in its mouth. All three of them were dressed in the same, regular army combat armor making them seem even closer. It was like if those three had been fighting side by side since the start of the war, but they served their parts as the one’s to remind everyone that there others just like these three different types of ponies fighting with each other throughout the entirety of the war.

But as he look at it now, it seems as if not a single pony has bothered to care for the war memorial. The raider’s certainly paid it no mind. It didn’t seem that any other pony even cared about who had won the war or about those who had fought in it - it’d be a surprise if they even knew about the war in the first place. The property of this memorial was suppose to be a place of honor, the street it crossed should be in the hands of sensible ponies who will look after it; not savages with no sense of hygiene. They corrupted the image of the memorial with their cold-blooded behavior and simply, pure hatred of others. Graphite felt a harsh rage build up in his mind, he was holding the knife with a stronger magical grip, almost bended the handle in itself. His heart was striking his chest as it boiled his blood and filled him with a burning anger. The city was barring down on him, and it was in his best interest to throw the burden off his shoulders then pummel it while it’s on the ground.

Graphite ripped opened his saddlebag, pulling out the pistol he found in his old house. In his spell binding grip, he ventured back into the camp without another thought or guess against his plan. He stopped at the edge of the campgrounds, just at the feet of a raider lying on his mat. The raider slumped over, rubbing his eyes, and looking dimly over to the figure ahead of him.

He squinted at the fuzzy figure, trying to see what was there, “Thunderclap, is that y-”

Suddenly, his vision went from a blur to a flash, then to darkness - all with a loud bang to accompany it. Graphite shot a bullet through the raider’s head, stirring the other camp into a frenzy. They all flipped over on their old beds and mats, groaning and swearing since some pony woke them up from their sleep. All of the raider’s sights were set on the strange stallion in black standing at the rear of their camp. Some were confused, not knowing what to think, or just too tired to make out an explanation; other’s were interrogating him from down the street, shouting, ‘who are you?’ and ‘why are you here?’; others had an instinct to go for their rifle’s or grab the closest object to come at him up close and personal. Graphite had his plan all thought out, he knew just how to deal with the raider’s coming against him - kill them all.

Graphite pointed his pistol forward, firing a single shot down the lane and into one of the eye of a baffled raider. At that point, they all knew what was going on - they were being attacked. They scattered for their guns, but Graphite already had them in the sight of his gun. With six more shots from his pistol, a volley of these bullets went down the road and into any raider unfortunate enough to be in the way. Four went down, two shot in the head, one down with a hole in his shoulder, and another holding his chest as he dropped to the floor. Graphite released the magazine, placed another in as the first fell out, then released the slide back into place. Some of the raiders wanted to retaliate, but they were either unjamming their broken guns or helping their mate off the ground.

Seven more bullets left the gun, entering the bodies of six more ponies. One bullet through one head, the other six went into any part of the body that seemed to attract it. One raider was holding his buddy’s neck, trying to stop the flow of blood out of his veins. Graphite moved slowly down the street, a look of disappointment, rather than anger. His fury was towards the raiders, but for their lack of competence and care. His eyes were cold and focused on nothing. The muzzle flashes reflected in his eyes, the bullets whizzed around and ricocheted off the sides of the buildings or off the iron armour of the few raiders that had such equipment.

The raiders shot at the dark stallion, their aim thrown off when the nearby comrades were falling on them trying to hold themselves up. Graphite stopped their misery with another bullet to the chest. He followed the road back through the camp in the opposite direction, going from end to beginning while he gunned down the heathens. He fired off one bullet after the other until he finally heard that one noise no shooter likes to here - click. That was his last magazine, and there were still raiders to be dealt with. Graphite didn’t let this stop him, he still had his rifle in easy access. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and gripped it in his spell just as the pistol and took aim down the memorial street.

Line them up, then knock them down - that phrase came to mind when Graphite fired the rifle off. One shot, two kills. The bullet went of his intended course, but it traveled through one raider’s chest and out into another. He swayed to his right, lining the crosshairs of the scope with another victim. Graphite tried to breathe, but his adrenaline was taking over, and his rifle wasn’t going to be any better at close range. He fired another round; it barreled out the rifle and swam through the air until it hit the raider’s chest - tearing through his lungs. One raider called his losses and dashed down the road to escape death. He booked it, screaming, “Fuck this!” as he ran full sprint, knocking down anyone who got in the way of his fleeing. He was paying attention only on running, but that’s what caused him to trip on one of the short mattresses laying on the asphalt. Graphite fired his weapon, but the bullet flew right over the raider when he tripped. Graphite lowered his weapon, checking if he got him; a bullet came by and scrapped across the shoulder of his duster. Graphite clenched his teeth together and took aim towards the shooter. The raider was standing near the sidewalk with his revolver pointed at Graphite. The rifle barrel was lined straight with his head, the raider dropped his gun in a panic and darted away - but it was too late for escape. Graphite fired, the bullet cut its way through the pony’s ear and into his head.

The pony who tripped finally got up from the dirty mattress and was already heading away from the camp. Graphite wanted none of the bastards alive by the end of this; it will only end with the end of the raider’s camp. A rifle bullet flew in and out of the raider’s head - one clean hole straight through.

Graphite stood tall in the centre of the campsite; around him, dozens upon dozens of dead and dying raiders, some never able to wake from their sleep. It seemed to be the end, but there was still an epilogue waiting to happen. One raider was still alive, hiding underneath the piles of loose debris and trash that piled up against the buildings. He had waited for Graphite to turn his back long enough for him to make a run for it - and he definitely did. The poor raider stormed from the trash heap and galloped off to the end of the camp. Graphite noticed the sound of hooves clopping against the asphalt behind him, and he turned to see a raider running. This raider ran faster than anyone or anything Graphite have ever seen. Graphite could hear that pony panting as he ran. Graphite wasn’t about to let this one away, so he started a chase.

The raider noticed a noise, the noise of steel against a hard surface. He looked behind his back with eyes wide and quivering. Behind him, the killer - and he was after him. He screamed, tears started to bundle in his eyes. His panting turned into loud gasps for air when his worry turned into panic and fear for his life. Graphite was nearing him with his weapon drawn - his two front hooves. They ran down the street, even leaving the camp and continuing on for a few blocks. The raider was fast, but Graphite was faster. Fatigue was getting to the untrained raider, but the military laps in Graphite’s training had prepared him for a moment just like this. He was nearing the raider steps at a time. First centimetres, then metres, now the lengths of a leap - Graphite was right behind the raider, who was losing his mind at this point. Graphite dove forward, tackling the pony against the road. They skid across the road a few metres before the combined weight of the two ponies drew the slide to a stop.

Graphite was riding atop the raider, who couldn’t move but was flailing around as if he could. Graphite looked deep into the stallion’s eyes while his hooves were rearing over his head. The raider stopped squirming to bring his arms to cover his head. He was crying fountains of tears and screamed a long and loud, “No!” Graphite heard the pleas of the beggar, but he refused to offer mercy over violence. He brought his hooves down on the raider’s face, plowing through his hooves and hitting pummeling his face into the ground. His strikes were slow and hard, bringing about the most amount of pain in every single strike. He punched and jabbed until the raider’s face was red and blue. He grabbed the pony by the shoulders before pulling him up and smashing him back down against the street. It was over, the last raider left in the camp had been dealt with.

Graphite stood to his hooves, kicking the corpse he just made to the side. Graphite felt only a burning pleasure in his body; a cold-blooded heat, an irritating pleasure, a pleasing regret. Graphite had one way to calm himself down now, and that was with a cigarette and a few minutes of just standing by. He still had a few Canterfield cigarettes in the pack, and he was going to put them to use. Graphite flipped the package open, pulling the first cigarette to come into view. He placed it in his mouth and lit it up, blowing out his regrets in a cloud of gray smoke. The smoke cleared his head and cleansed his thoughts, but they brought back a sense of reasonable thinking. He took a look down at his hooves, seeing the puddle of blood that was pooling at his hoof tips and the blood splatters that went up his front hooves and almost up the entire length of his arms. To his left was the body of the stallion he had just murdered, and the body he had just kicked to the curb. His faced was deformed and painted red with his own blood. Graphite was feeling a bit of regret, but then he remembered the campgrounds. He looked up and ahead, the camp was blocks away - running after the raider had led him far away from the raider camp. He had wasted all his time and energy to go after one lone pony who wasn’t even armed, nor a threat. He had gone after a lone runner, but right after he had slaughtered countless ponies back in the middle of the camp. He could just see the faint glow of the fire that was still going, he could also see the crimson red that flowed down the length of the road. All these ponies destroyed in a psychotic rage, underneath the watch of the statue that was suppose to symbolise peace among ponies.

The ounce of regret Graphite felt turned to a ton. A ton of regret. That’s all Graphite felt, but downtown was ever closer thanks to the indirect aid of that runner at his hooves. The regret would go away soon - he was nearing the end of his cigarette.