The first time they saw the city rot, it didn’t even look real.

Twilight Sparkle stood in the middle of the cracked street, notebook clutched to her chest, staring at the towers ahead. Just days ago, Canterlot had been alive—markets open, students running late to class, soldiers patrolling with false confidence. Now the skyline was dusted in black-green fungus, windows glowing faintly from the spores crawling like veins across the stone. The air tasted sour through the rag tied over her mouth, and every breath stung her throat. She forced herself to keep writing, recording what she saw: the speed of infection, the structural collapse, the faint shapes shuffling in the distance.

Behind her, Rainbow Dash paced, blade slung across her shoulder. Her usual cocky grin was gone, replaced with a restless scowl. “We shouldn’t be standing still,” she muttered, eyes scanning the rooftops. “They’re out there. I can hear ’em.” She twitched like a wolf ready to bolt, the kind of tension that made everyone else nervous—but Twilight needed her steady, needed her sharp.

Pinkie Pie leaned against the wreckage of a car, her smile too wide, too red from where she’d wiped blood off her cheek. She had been laughing when they’d cut down the Hollowed in the alley two streets over, still humming the same tune now. “It’s funny,” she said softly, turning her lantern in her hands, the cracked glass spilling faint chemical light. “The city’s finally quiet enough to hear myself think. Don’t you love it?” The others didn’t answer.

Applejack adjusted the red beret that shadowed her face, her hands still smeared with gore from the last kill. Her voice was low, steady, like an anchor in the chaos. “Quiet’s the problem, sugarcube. Quiet means they’re watchin’ us. Waiting.” She gripped her axe tighter, the blade chipped but sharp, her eyes hard. Behind her words lay exhaustion—already she carried the weight of protecting the group, of choosing who would live if supplies ran low.

Rarity stood a little apart, her scarf pulled over her mouth, her coat buttoned to hide the torn seams. Even caked in dirt, she had managed to keep herself composed. But her eyes betrayed her—wide, glassy, darting to every shadow. “This is barbaric,” she whispered, her voice trembling but sharp with defiance. “Cities don’t just… die. They don’t. Civilization doesn’t rot away like a corpse.” Yet she clutched the knife at her side like a lifeline, as though some part of her already knew the truth.

And Fluttershy, pale and silent, knelt beside the body of a man who hadn’t made it out of the last alley. His chest was split open, his eyes clouded, but his hand still twitched faintly. She brushed her fingers over his brow, whispered something none of them heard, then pressed her knife into his heart with quiet mercy. When she rose, she was crying, but she didn’t wipe the tears away.

They were six girls in a world unraveling, none of them soldiers, none of them killers—at least not at first. But the streets were already filling with shapes that moved wrong, that twitched and convulsed in hunger. The air was thick with spores, glittering faintly in the failing sunlight. Twilight snapped her notebook shut and looked at the others.

“This is just the beginning,” she said. “If we’re going to survive this, we have to change. All of us.”

Rainbow gripped her blade. Applejack hefted her axe. Pinkie’s lantern flickered in her hands. Rarity’s jaw clenched. Fluttershy’s tears streaked her cheeks, but she nodded.

And together, they walked toward the glowing city.