First, it had started off with a blinding flash as he dreamed, and then the weightless air flowing its way into his tarnished lungs with nothing but gentle transportation. There was no weight, no aching or burning sensation that dully crawled at the back of his throat. In reality, it felt like nothing but cooling temperatures entering through his cracked lips and burnt nostrils.

It was strange. Horrifying. The radiation reminded him of why he trekked so far from his ponies. He had abandoned them for merely doing what others dreamed to do, and that was escaping their insane leader. Now, he had been cast into what many would rather die than experience. The white-coats. Corroded geniuses making themselves believe that they're just prying away the little of what remained pony population to find some sort of 'cure' for a 'disease of colored and non-unicorn ponies'. It was pure baloney. He had to find a way out of here before they sent their 'testing variables' after him.

If he didn't, well, Burnt Sun wouldn't live to see 18.

It was a lie. All of it was a lie.

Here, the colt sat, on a blackened hill of ash and destruction. His hooves were shaking ferociously as he glanced around the destroyed area in a daze. From the gored body that sat lifelessly a few steps away to his right, awkwardly bent at the crest of the hill Burnt himself was sitting on to the smoking crater at the bottom of the hill, and to the writhing wounded bodies to his left, he could only come up with one conclusion.

The Lunarists knew how to shell.

For the resistance Burnt Sun found himself under an insurrection for the Solar Diarch, Daybreaker. Only until he had sat here, watching confusedly as small dosages of Solarists trudged for ruins for cover and bodies for scavenging had he realized the mistake he had made. Daybreaker was mad.

She was no fallen martyr Celestia -- she was a cheap imitation, not only that, but a mad one.

He breathed in the toxic air as his fried lungs did their best to take in as much as possible before being forced to exhale it out in a ragged heave, his eyes turning to pinpricks as he adjusted the rusted bucket that was his helmet. An entire attachable jaw piece with crude holes dug and scratched into to let him breathe, and a dirty, rusted helmet that had surely infected the small cuts and scratches in his skull as he had been feeling sluggish the past month.

His eyes, a dulled golden yellow peaked through with a look of hopelessness and existential dread, what could he do? Sit here and die out slowly? He'd rather be cut down by the thundering roars of Lunar MER(Magic Enhanced Rifles) and artillery. His eyes slowly blinked, revealing the crust and dirt that caked his eyelids before they retreated back into the tight depths of the helmet.

"Burnt Sun, for ye 'ave no time ta diddle-daddle, for ye mus' take up th'torch 'n keep with th'fight!" An adult stallion shouted, breaking Burnt Sun of his daze. Like a robot, his hooves found his MER and equipment, most of it dirt-crusted or rusted as he slung it over his shoulders and withers. "Aye, Aye see th'way, Solarist!" He called, glancing at the chestnut brown stallion with his entire head captured in a steel cage of protection and rust. His trenchcoat was mangled and his equipment scarce, a gaping hole in his arm bleeding profusely at the second as he ushered Burnt Sun forward. "Ye mus' fight! Aye needa physician!"

Burnt Sun waved him off with his rifle arm, the stallion nodding and trudging off with a huge limp in his step as Burnt Sun stood forward. A weak posture for his weak state but he nonetheless carried on. Over the hill lay an entire field of devastation for both attacking sides as the Solarists were taking a beating from the depleted Lunarist defense forces. For such a destroyed world, there was still plenty a time to fight, Burnt thought bitterly as he stumbled and fumbled his way for a nearby piece of cover. The dead oak tree would do, he thought, his hooves sinking into the moist dirt which affected his balance greatly, but nonetheless made it to his destination.

Lifting the rifle to his shoulders, he leant into the ironsights and began his own conflict. It took some time, but eventually he had spotted a Lunarist run out briefly into the open to another spot of cover, being a giant boulder that was once enclosed by a fence, possibly some sort of artifact only to be reused into a chipped, burned and crumbling piece of cover. His hoof flicked on the trigger and the magically-powered round forced itself out in a quick FWLAP only to soar a few paces from the Lunarist's flank, his life still in his grasp as he dove for the boulder, now out of sight.

"Buck," Burnt muttered.

He rammed his hoof against the bolt located on the side of the rifle, cocking it back to let the steaming casing fling out before he rammed the bolt forward. Taking a quick second to ensure it was pushed all the way, he brought it back up to his shoulder as he continued to expose himself on the side of the tree. His breath was doubled in volume from the metallic barrier around his mouth, the sounds escaping to his somewhat exposed ears at the top of the helmet and filtering out through there and the small holes. Sweat mingled in his helmet, baking him through heat alone with each breath. His eye had found a skirmishing Lunarist taking pot shots at a rotten house of wood and chipped stone. A good portion of the wall facing the fight was collapsed, where two Solarists covered in dirt with their varied outfits, their only signification of being a Solarist being a sun-crested patch on their shoulders; Lunarists the same, exception of a moon-crested patch.

With a quick flick of his hoof on the trigger, another FWLAP rang out. Another target missed. Burnt's head flicked behind his shoulder in a paranoid, adrenaline-filled craze as the rush of the battle got to him. He felt his senses heighten as his airways constricted in tense anticipation as he roared out in a puberty-experiencing voice towards a small squadron of Solarists. "AY! TH'LUNARS 'AVE NOT A PICKET OF GOOD STALLIONS FIGHTIN'! COME 'ERE TA 'ELP ME!"

He failed to notice an ascending scream getting closer and closer to his self. He did not notice until he glanced to his right side and saw a purple-coated stallion rearing a dirt and blood soaked mace at him. Burnt yelped, swinging his shoulder nearest to the offender away as the stallion struck down and hit nothing but air where his shoulder should've been. Burnt stumbled backwards and collapsed onto his rear, the rifle in both hooves instinctively as he lifted it to counter-act a second swing from the mace.

Using his dirt-bound leg to kick one of the stallion's main supports being a leg that kept himself up, he also took to the dirt as Burnt lunged forward to attempt to straddle on top of the stallion. The stallion used whatever strength he had mustered from the sudden change from standing to laying to strike at Burnt's head. The mace struck weakly, but was enough to knock Burnt's head to the left from the momentum and collapse off the downed Lunarist.

Burnt's head rang, his ears popping as he let out a whimper, his hooves patting the dirt down in a weak attempt to regain focus as the Lunarist grabbed his collar and threw him backwards onto his back, where all he could see was the rage-filled eyes of the covered Lunarist.

Raising his mace, he struck down with a quick roar on a defending hoof, eliciting a cry of pain from Burnt. Pulling the mace back only to realize it was wedged into the colt's hoof, he was quick to let go and rear his hoof back to strike the colt. Only before that did he straddle the colt. The calloused hoof slammed into his helmet, furthering his daze as the Lunarist reared it back and struck his helmet once more. Burnt crossed his forearms in an attempt to block any more incoming strikes as the Lunarist pounded on him.

This continued for a few seconds before Burnt began to wildly swing his hooves at the straddling Lunarist in response. A hoof struck the soft underbelly as the Lunarist had let out a weak grunt in response as he doubled over. The two laid side-by-side for a moment, catching their breath and processing the wounds afflicted to them by each other. The war raged all around them as they sat coddling their wounds and slowly, but surely trying to get up.

"Nightmare Moon is nay but a hag, ye ol' madpony," Burnt groaned, his breathing ragged as he plucked the mace out from his bleeding hoof, before rolling onto his stomach with a moan of exhaustion.

"Aye, Aye coul-" The Lunarist hacked out, sprawled on his back clutching his tender stomach. "Aye coul' say th'same fer ya, hypocrite."

"'Cept yer dead," Burnt responded.

"Nay," the foe panted. "Fer ye- fer ye mus' die 'ere rather than me, traitor."

With a horrendous cry, Burnt lunged forward and lifted the mace onto the unsuspecting Lunarist. A convincing argument to the Lunarist's claim, Burnt thought cruelly. Slamming the mace down as hard as he could onto the rags-for-a-helmet Lunarist's head. The following result was satisfying, but sickening. A CRUNCH and the popping of jagged marrow and protein filled Burnt's ears as the head caved in from the forehead and snout ever so slightly and jaggedly. The Lunarist's body gave a spasm, his legs flailing and his voice suddenly screeching out horrifically in an unnatural tone, clearly from brain function being ruined.

Ripping the mace out of the skull, he brought it down again to completely disfigure the poor stallion's face, blood beginning to flick out with each quick rise and fall of the mace. Up, and down, up, and down, he repeated for what seemed to be an eternity as he pounded the stallion's skull into dust with nothing but a mace.

The skull had been disfigured so much to the point where the stallion's skull was nothing short of paste and brain matter and blood. The impacts of metal on flesh became nothing more but macaroni being squished around in a pot. Burnt's exhaustion caught with his frail body, and he too collapsed onto his back - alive. His rifle was but a forgotten item that he had lost somewhere along the fight, but he was too tired to care.

All he wanted to do was sleep. Blackness covered his eyesight and his body felt weightless.

Burnt Sun escaped that day, and was on the run ever since to avoid everypony that he could see. Now, the world seemed... living. Bright. A facade surely the white coats devised to make him feel comfortable before they killed him. If they were ever capable of that kind of generosity, anyways.

The grass beneath his hooves were soft, inviting and almost natural. Almost. It was too much of everything, too good to be true. It felt like soft pillows caressing his hooves, clearly a hallucinogen as he was being hoisted into the afterlife by those freaks of ponykind. He shuddered, eyes now paranoid with investigating every nook and cranny of the area. He had taken upon himself as a young colt to write in his journal of these discoveries in brief entries.

07/23/231 A.T.B
Five-hundred-and-ninety-three-days since I left the settlement. I haven't seen another pony for two-hundred-days. I think I am going insane.

The birds chirp louder and angrier. Wind is weird. I miss home. Must keep going. Apex promised light -- she gave us death. Had to get out. Reminder 372. Keep going. Don't stop. Never quit until free.

Apex. Daybreaker's 'code' name. 'Settlement'. Code name for the battle they participated in. All of these useless to him now as he trotted without difficulty for once in his life across (besides from breathing, of course.)

His ear flicked as a bird's chirping caught his attention for the fifteenth time that day. He had assumed it another whistling scream of an incoming Lunarist artillery shell. He thought wrong. Thankfully. Although still paranoid, he was slower to turn his head back forward, his eyes narrowed as he investigated the trees and flora. The air's weightless feeling was also scaring him. Thinning in radiation, perhaps? He's definitely noticing the healthy flora and fauna around this region, and began wondering if he had just blindly walked into a safe haven of some sorts. Then again, safe havens aren't completely safe. Cannibalistic tribes? White coat laboratory? Testing grounds for the Lunarists? Who knows. Only time can tell.

"Keep going, keep going, keep going," Burnt Sun breathlessly whispered to himself.

The grass became much more florescent and taller, as the grass reached up to almost his chin. Strange, or perhaps the affects of malnutrition and stress ruined his chance for growing, as he was pretty much taller than most, if not, one of the tallest of his Solarist detachment for his age group of 15 to 18.

How old was Burnt again? 16? 17? He never kept track except for when he would read his papers. Perhaps he was labeled KIA. That'd be great - free from one problem, not from the others. That needed to change, as he had been trekking for nearly two years by himself and he still felt chained.

Maybe losing his virginity in that old scraptown he had passed through not too long ago should've been accomplished.

Then again, the hookers there were as appetizing as garbage.

He shook his head of those thoughts, his hooves having been on auto-pilot for the last ten minutes of his musings and he had decided enough for the day. Unpacking his bags, he had set up a one-stallion camp in twenty minutes and had created a fire using stones he took from the forest and twigs and sticks he foraged, as well. A can of dog meat would do, even if his body was at a 50/50 crossroad of puking it or digesting it horribly. Griffons are weird.

His taste buds soured and his stomach begrudgingly filled for the night, he retired into his tent for a quick sleep before he'd press on in the middle of the night.

His dreams were of memories of horrific sights and battles he had endured, oblivious to the Lunar Diarch watching his night terrors from a distance within the dream realm.

Author's Note

weird way of writing lasts only for specific moments, if you were wondering about it