Commission for Anonymous

Death is something that most soldiers are accustomed to. Hell, back when we were nothing but knights and lancers, accepting death on the battlefield for the good of Equestria was part of our sacred vows. I still remember speaking those vows, "Lay my life whether by steel or magic," and all that. But when we traded pointy weapons for loud ones, death certainly got cheaper. Suddenly, it wasn't just a long and ragged struggle, trying to get that sharp edge into the most vulnerable spot through a sweaty and suffocating grapple. Suddenly, taking a life became a simple matter of pulling a trigger. How does even a soldier wrestle with such conscience? Of death becoming so easy and more common than ever before? We managed one way or the other. Because while means of killing have changed, War never changes.

Maybe our best cure for a conscience more rotten than ever was still the hope that peace can come, and one day the killing can stop? But the most unthinkable happened instead. The most terrifying end came that we all could only hope would remain a delusion. And even then, war never changed. Now, killing is easier than ever before. On top of disease, hunger, murder . . . and no other excuse than survival, or just pure madness. But why? Why on Luna's moon am I still alive?

I am no hero. Killing is my only talent. There are certainly no guitars left. Of all the things that could have survived a literal end of the world, why was our murderous nature one of them? Why was I among the few to survive the scorching heat to witness the world seemingly reverse back to that chaotic period of easy killing? Do I still have a purpose?