"Nary a thought, 'ave ye?" The grime covered tan stallion chuckled, pushing levers and adjusting switches in the war machine that Burnt Sun currently sat in. Torn faux leather seats and improvised metal seats in cramped spaces strewn about the beast of war, the metal creature groaning and growling a cantankerous rhythm that was best to be tuned out. The interiors of the machine were amazing, at least to Burnt, as he had only wondered the ingenuity of ponykind. He sat in a decently sized passenger area where him and three other members of his squadron resided, slightly lower in seating compared to the operators which stuffed their items and inventory around them unorganizingly and unevenly, with claustrophobic tight spaces for movement leading to a driver's seat, secondary gunner's seat to the right of the driver's seat, and sitting in an even higher elevation behind them were the loader and gunner's seat followed by an even higher elevated seat of a crew captain's chair.

The crew captain, a stallion who plucked the smoking pipe out from the seal of his lips, exhaling red smoke through his nostrils that spent no time billowing like a dragon's breath in the air, blowing back into his face thanks to momentum and bouncing around the interiors of the machine. He wore a dirty leather jacket and hind leg coverings, along with an improvised cap on his head with a rusted eagle with a half of it's left wingspan chipped off crudely stitched onto the front. His hooves were calloused, chipped and unappealing from Burnt's sight as he ground them against the hatch of the war machine, or 'APC' as the crew called it.

A cream-colored stallion craned his neck from the tight confines of his gunner's seat to yell at the driver. "Can ye move th'damn tin can any more jaggedly, ye cretin?!"

The driver let out a hearty laugh, quickly flicking two levers back and forth in quick succession to stop and jerk the APC forward, bouncing everypony out of their seats and back into them, some unlucky enough to bash their heads against the metallic, rusted ceiling.

The crew captain banged against the hatch, sending ear-shattering thumps throughout the vehicle. "Cease yer damn children's play, ye fuckin' whorses!"

"Ay, captain, Wheels idn't bein' steady!" The secondary gunner called out.

The APC resumed action once more as the driver, Wheels, chuckled and shook his head. "Art all o' ye critics o' my work, now?! At this hour?! I'll bounce this tin can inta th'river o' death if I have ta!"

Burnt Sun remained silent, ears flickering as he tuned out the banter of the crew, listening to the agonizing rattling of the old and rusted vehicle, along with hollow bumps and thumps it created by itself through the walls and underneath his hooves. As much as he was fascinated by it, he couldn't help but fear it. He couldn't imagine what it must've looked like during the Great War. What would it have been like to be its' original crew? Driving into death.. were they also laughing and smiling as these crazy ponies were? Did they not know they were dead already? Or did they just accept it?

Through one of the reflective mirrors on the sides, he gazed through and spotted the dead planet before him. Plains and plains of dead grass and dirt that was chopped up and tampered with from combat and pony intervention, along with rare sightings of dead, skinny trees that lurched over the dead land like a failing scarecrow. The sun beat down on all of this without prejudice or bias, for it's only bias, ironically, was anything's life. Blinking, Burnt Sun settled himself down on the metal seat, which really was just a metal box welded into the wall, but he dare not to question it. If it can work, it'll work.

Glancing up at the crew captain, who was looking through the many holes of the hatch with cracked binoculars, he grunted to himself and himself only. "Damn."

The crew captain's ear flickered but otherwise he kept still, watching the barren wastelands with a keen eye and sharp ears. Suddenly, he banged on the hatchet against with his calloused hooves and called out in a volume that made everypony flinch. "Cease the APC! We art 'ere!"

The APC immediately stopped, jerking everypony forward once more before the back doors opened up with a creak, letting the four-stallion group of passengers look out into the wastelands. The sun burned their retinas briefly, forcing them to narrow their eyes as they piled out one-by-one into the dirt plains. "'Ave fun, lads!" The crew captain laughed like a hyena, ending it with a long and drawn puff on his smoking pipe just before the back doors closed when Burnt Sun took his last leg out of the vehicle.

The APC was built like a box with a small tube on top, completely armored crudely from hatch to wheels in scrap, skinned hide of ponies and enemies, and jagged spikes that stuck out from the rims of the wheels as the two stocky pipes on the back roared out black smoke as the APC took off away, the thick cannon that attached itself to the hatch of the APC letting out a good-bye thump of HE that sent an entire area of dirt into the sky.

Burnt Sun adjusted his backpack for a colt his size at the age of 10 with a shovel and some other groundswork supplies.

One of the stallions, Chip Baker, a reddish stallion with an orange mane geared in clothing and minimal scrap and just goggles for head wear along with a giant backpack filled with essential supplies. He spat a wad of yellowish spit onto the dirt. "Damn madponies," he said. A yellow coated stallion caked in dirt with a black mane and cloudy eyes covered by glowing goggles stuck his snout into the air. He carried a thick backpack and an extra bag that was filled to the brim with building materials. Blind Eye, his name was, grunted. "Let'im be, they art only victims t'the dead lands."

The final stallion, white in coat and white in mane with red eyes, a flak jacket and a helmet, grunted. He had some power tools and nails all over his body, and if Burnt Sun could recall correctly, his name was Albino. "So? Be shame t'th' leadah fer trussin' em."

"Youngest, take t' th' lands fer diggin'. We build." Chip Baker locked eyes with Burnt Sun, who nodded in obedience before saddling off to go dig a trench in the middle of nowhere, while Chip and his building crew built next to it.. also in the middle of nowhere.

"Construct operatin' fortifications fer th'future use. Come back. APC arrives in a fortnight." Albino droned from a yellowed piece of paper, quickly flicking it into his many pockets before setting off with Chip and Blind to build.

Burnt grunted in pain as he tied the splint using seaweed and twine around the broken arm. He stopped when he turned his arm over to ensure the wrap was tight, eyes falling upon the intricate tattoo that made a sleeve across the back of his entire foreleg. A burning sun-like ray made the center, dotting from the beginning of the hoof all the way to just before the shoulder, dotted with scratches, nicks and drawn cuts along the way with a heart in the middle of the streak with an arrow through it. The words Heart Beat Stopper cut through the heart, being centered inside the streak and non-discriminatory to it's path, cutting across the heart and keeping linear within the streak.

Burnt's breath hitched in his throat, before stomping the offending leg back onto the ground to keep his mind off of the terrible 'branding' as he liked to refer to it as. He hated that day too much...

Way too much...

The distant body, probably a good 300 meters away, collapsed in a puff of sand, dust and heated air. The trenchcoat it wore flapped up sporadically from the body's backside, draping itself over the reddened torso that gave the diagnosis to it's untimely demise. The wind whistled a low hum of a death song for the corpse, as small tufts of sand fluttered about it like it was forming a cocoon.

A minor dust cloud spawned from the impact of the body. A small, low exhale meandered out of the rusted helmet of one Burnt Sun, nestled under and against the single palm tree in the tiny oasis, far away from the downed pony. Chip was prone besides him under the shade of the palm, his forelegs holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes. The goggles sat on his forehead, giving a glare to the empty desert.

He whistled, lowering the binoculars to look at Burnt slowly lower his rifle, a single spark of excess mana flittering into the air from the superheated barrel, the metal cooling from a red back into the black, chipped colors. "Good shot," Chip said.

Burnt's shoulders shrugged, looking towards the dead body before looking back over to Chip. Wordlessly, he raised his branded foreleg. It was a lot more crisp comparatively to his future self's, the design a lot more sharp and vibrant against his chocolate coat. Heart Beat Stopper emblazoned on the forefront, it made Chip snort.

"Aye, aye. Heart Beat Stopper Burnt Sun. Long name, nay?"

"Wasn't mine's choice," Burnt groused. "Sharpshooters get names any which way. If thy aim be true, thou art given title."

"An' given ink, We see," Chip said.

Burnt bristled for only a second, shoulders tense. "Branded."

Chip blinked, looking back out towards the unmoving body 300 meters away, laying unmoving in the bleating desert. "We thinks it th' highest o' honors ta receive that, nay?"

"For thee, perhaps," Burnt said sharply.

"Calm yer tits, o' joyous youth, ye forgo yer pride fer what? Moral 'ighground?" Chip shook his head, raising the binoculars to look out towards the body again.

"Morality be slain when th' bastards hold ye down 'n' dig it in thou skin like a casual day."

Chip paused. He stopped inspecting the body for sake of keeping the conversational flow from going choppy, but he had no answer to that. He shrugged, "Tae each 'o' thy own, We suppose.."

Burnt could only nod slowly, slinging the rifle around his withers. "Aye," and he got up to return to the small pond where Albino and Blind Eye were drinking greedily.

"Heart Beat Stopper! Care t' parlay in th' wa'er with us cretins o' the hammer 'n' nail?" Blind Eye looked up at the sky, his dripping snout wiggling before finding Burnt's direction.

"Refillin' me waterskin," Burnt said.

"By no accounts stop t' our meddlin', drink it up," said Albino with a swipe of his arm across his water-soaked muzzle.

"West bank's overran. Th' lunarists made headway intae our flank. Sent us 'ere tae make a hedge fort," Blind Eye sat on his haunches, pulling out a sack of hardened bread to munch on while Burnt filled his waterskin.

"Hedge fort?" Albino shifted as he too sat on his haunches short of the water, washing his hooves.

"Aye. Fort meant ta be hedged intae th' advancin' troop line. Spear'ead fer a new push." Blind said.

"We're losin', hrm?" Albino asked, looking over to Blind whose ear flicked at the accusation. Silence permeated from the goggled stallion, shoving another few chips of bread into his mouth. Swallowing, he set the bag down beside him.

"Aye."

"Huh. Methinks we ran out o' men b'fore they did, nay?" Albino chuckled. It was no good sign of the stone-faced laugh, eyes steeling for just a moment before softening into returning to washing his body of sin and the coarse sand finding ways into his cracked hooves. Blind could only nod, pocketing the bag of bread as he stood up to go return to building the first section of the wall over the small top of the oasis' dip. The few trees swayed lazily in a dust-laden wind.

Burnt just finished scrounging up what little clean water there was into his waterskin, turning to also walk up the small incline before being stopped by Albino's sharp whistle. "Huh?" Burnt hummed, looking over his shoulder at Albino.

He nodded his head the opposite direction, scrubbing his final unclean hoof. "Keep eyes on th' o'er side. Chip's got this side whilst Blind 'n' We build."

Burnt replied by listening to Albino's order, trudging to the other end of the oasis to keep watch out towards a dead, unrelenting plain. A torture to an untrained, unconditioned and dead pony. For the rest of the world, which was still alive and kicking ferociously, it was another Wednesday afternoon.

Splinted, and he considered himself cleaner than usual from the shellacking of the clean river. Burnt couldn't of asked for a better river, having dipped his helmeted head into the river to greedily suck at whatever could clear the rusted holes into his mouth. The headache was settling into him now, and he could feel the uncovered, flawed edges of the helmet's design dig into his skull now. It'd not be too long before it started cutting deep and infecting him with any type of disease or rust it carried.

That's a problem for another day. Well, at least his rifle washed ashore with him, miraculously enough. Inspection for it will be later, he promised to himself when he haphazardly slung it around his withers. Walking on three hooves was a problem, but not too much of a problem when a natural shade came to be in the form of a minor rock formation on this little river bank's shore, surrounded by an endless horde of healthy trees. Green? Everything is so lush here. A land where no pony has touched?

No, whitecoats were present in the area. He must have walked into one of the whitecoat's zones. Doesn't make sense how one would be mingling with the likes of pegasi and earthies like himself, especially ones who most certainly lacked white coats themselves. Fanatics? Pawns? Or just one of those mixed groups of bandits who managed to nab a whitecoat for potential big scores?

Leaning against a rock, looking out towards the flowing river, Burnt just stared.

Another day, another survival lesson.

Author's Note

remembered this and decided to pump out this final 2018 chapter before continuing onwards