//------------------------------// // The Best Part of Waking Up // Story: I Love the Smell of Friendship in the Morning // by Moosetasm //------------------------------// Caspian IV was what most ponies would call a beautiful world, largely untouched by the major industry that had reduced many of Equestria’s planets to desolate wastelands. Thick wild forests, like the mythical Everfree of ancient Equestria, covered large portions of the land. However, amidst the sea of trees, Equestrian civilization had carved out a place for itself; numerous mass-production farms, whose produce was essential to maintaining the sector’s “strategic wheatgrass reserve,” and thus the ongoing survival of ponykind, were visible from the air as lighter patches of green or gold amidst the darker verdigris of the surrounding woods. On one particular farm-turned-barracks, situated on Caspian IV’s largest and most fertile continent, the day was just beginning. It was that magical time that existed between nighttime and early morning, when the sky began the slow change from the purplish-black of night time into the myriad colors that signalled the coming dawn. The colors were pure and radiant, just like on the tapestries that depicted Princess Celestia upon the Holy Throne of Canterlot. The barest hints of light had just begun to filter into a massive troop tent, where one of the ponies inside cursed under his breath about the dawn of another of Celestia’s blessed days. “Lousy morning patrol,” Point grumbled to himself as he donned his flak armor. The dim light of predawn cast an eerie illumination on his breath, which was smoky with condensed moisture, as he blew into his hooves and rubbed them together. “Yeah,” Owly said as he laid down on the cot that Point had just vacated, “try the night patrol sometime, Pointy.” Point leveled a glare at the navy-blue earth pony who had commandeered his cot. Twin yellow eyes twinkled with mischief as Owly started pulling himself under the blankets. “Well, next time don't let the Commissar catch you sneaking a double ration of oats.” He stopped for a moment, his brow suddenly scrunched in thought. “Wait a minute, where do you even put a second ration of oats? You’re skinnier than a manticore raised in a vegetable patch!” “Doc says I have a fast metabolism.” “Yeah,” Owly said as he rolled over, “well maybe you can-” “Will you two shut up?” rumbled the waking mountain of blankets that was Blitz. A number of more expletive-laden phrases also followed from the other stirring guard ponies. Point even swore that he could hear one or two weapon safeties being undone. Owly responded with a sputter and proceeded to pull his purloined blankets up and over his head. Point wrapped his lips around his lasgun and shoved it roughly into his combat saddle. “Sweet dreams, colts,” he muttered as he left the confines of the tent. Jeers of derision mixed with thinly veiled death threats followed him as he slipped out. To call the encampment enormous would have been an understatement. Numerous tents stretched in all directions from the one Point had exited. Small curls of smoke denoted where the army’s cooks had started making breakfast for the neigh-on one thousand ponies who made up the regiment. Point shivered in the significantly colder air outside of the tent. He trotted in place for a few moments, like a pony in desperate need of a latrine, to warm himself up. Once he had a sufficient burn going in his limbs, he started to gallop out towards the perimeter of the camp. The grumbling of his stomach told him that a quick and stealthy detour through the camp’s larder was in order. His half-minute raid netted him a fancy looking foil wrap of spiced oats and a bottle of oddly flavored, yet still potable, liquid. Both were quickly consumed and their containers hurriedly discarded. As he finished snarfing his purloined comestibles, Point realized that his impromptu snack had distracted him enough that he had accidentally galloped into the dead center of where the camp’s flame troopers “rested from their labors.” His eyes widened and he uttered a litany that contained more expletives than supplications as he eyed a cluster of holy weapons-grade ponapalm tanks next to a tent full of the sleeping fanatics. He felt a growing feeling of emptiness in his stomach, even though he had just eaten. As he paused to get his bearings and formulate an expedient escape route, the morning breeze carried to him the acrid scent of various burning materials. His nasal cavities were assaulted by various overpowering odors; the oily smell of ponapalm, the tangy smell of burnt metal, and a sickly-sweet smell of… The large patch of slightly lighter color on his left flank tingled as his nose caught the slightest hint of burnt fur and flesh. One of his hooves moved absentmindedly to touch the spot, as if to confirm its unburned status. His ears perked up at the faint sound of hooves on dirt. The noise stopped, only to be replaced by a muttered curse about “freaky hearing.” “You going for a new company record, Pointy?” Point spun to face the diminutive lime-green mare who had been attempting to sneak up on him. “Fray?” He was pleasantly surprised to see her on this side of the camp; she was normally sequestered far from his unit, practicing close quarters combat near the quartermaster’s area. “What record?” She graced him with a worried frown and a tilt of the head. “Well, for one, if you get caught swiping oats again, you're going to get the record for most morning patrol shifts.” “I wasn't-” his voice faltered as she pointed a hoof at the oat crumbs gracing the front of his flak vest. “-those were from breakfast.” “Breakfast’s at 0700, it isn't even 0600.” “... I meant dinner from last night.” “Pointy, did you really have to get into those expensive spiced oats from Bashkir... Y’know, the ones reserved for the command staff?” “They can't tell that from the crumbs on my vest!” Fray pulled a crumpled wad of foil from her saddle bags. “Lies make baby Applejack cry.” Point rolled his eyes like a calamitously capsizing kayak. “Fray, the saints don't care about me lying about petty theft.” “Well, the purifiers might, and here we are next to their tents, with you blaspheming against the element of honesty. I swear, do you want them to set you on fire for the-” she counted on her hoof, “fifth time? Celestia, you are going for the company record...” Point’s bowels clenched. “We should go, I have-” “Morning patrol?” Fray cut him off. “Which you got for doing what, again?” Her voice trailed off as she jabbed her hoof back at his crumb-encrusted barrel. “Ok, ok, you can berate me over the second bag after we get out of here.” He pulled out another fancy foil package and beckoned to Fray as he started moving towards what he assumed was the right direction. “Sorry, I'll have to catch you later, Pointy, I need to get back to MP or I'll end up with more of it.” Fray was gone before he could even ask how in the blue blazes of Tartarus she had managed to get mine-polishing detail. He shook his head and picked up his pace; if he didn't get to the checkpoint in time, he’d probably end up serving on the firing line. While Point was making decent progress towards the edges of the tent field, he slowed drastically as he passed a large black tent belonging to the pony who had decided to punish him with morning patrol. Point wasn’t foolish enough to want to perform some manner of retributive prank on the pony within. In fact he was slowing because he feared that he would somehow manage to get himself in more trouble if the Commissar noticed him passing by. As he slowed, his ears picked up an odd crumping sound that was muted through the air, and accompanied by a sensation he felt through his hooves. He swept his gaze around and briefly spotted what appeared to be some red flashes on a small hillock a few kilomares away from the encampment. As he squinted his eyes, there were several more flashes of red, accompanied by more reverberations through the ground. Point cocked his head to the side. “What the-” He stopped as his ears picked up something new: a whistling sound. One he knew all too well. Point reacted with a speed born of countless hours of repetitive drilling, and hefted his lasgun into the air. He fired the weapon blindly upwards on full automatic, creating an incredible racket. Ponies stumbled out of their tents in a daze, most having been rudely awoken from their slumber. As he moved to reload his smoking weapon, the screeching sound of incoming artillery reached a deafening crescendo. The high pitched whistling was punctuated by a series of explosions that tore through the bivouac like the hooves of a foal through wrapping paper on Hearth's Warming Day. Point stared in shock as the black tent housing the company's Commissar was ripped violently from the ground by a combination of concussive force and shrapnel. The tattered remains of the tent and its securing lines fluttered through the air like a stricken parade balloon. Point fell to his haunches, a look of horrified stupefaction plastered across his features. As the smoke began to lift from the wreckage, he beheld a single cot still standing in the midst of it, as well as the pony who still laid upon it. Several dozen ponies—Point among them—who, moments ago, had been galloping around like a herd of spooked cattle, now stood or sat, staring in amazement at the nonchalance with which the sky-blue earth pony rolled himself off of the cot. "I don't know what you ponies are gawking at," Commissar Nutmeg barked as he brushed his blonde mane back and donned his fancy hat, "but one of you is going to bring me a cup of recaf before my coat stops smoldering, or an early morning mortaring is going to be the most pleasant thing that happens to you today!" “But… sir!” The Commissar turned a steely gaze upon the hapless, red-coated private who had dared draw his attention. “We’re…” The poor pony withered under the heat of The Commissar’s eyes. “...out, sir.” The other ponies gave a collective gasp and backed away from the private, as if he had contracted a case of explosive gonorrhea. Nutmeg fumed silently for a moment, then drew his laspistol and turned it towards the unfortunate messenger of bad tidings. “No recaf?” Nutmeg stated more than asked. Sweat visibly ran down the pony’s face as he nodded. “Heresy.” The pistol fired. The poor pony fell. Then Nutmeg turned the pistol on Point. Point experienced a moment of uncertain urinary continence. “You. Private oat-thief.” The Commissar did not wait for a response. “Pack your gear, and grab Owlsburg while you’re at it. We have a mission to plan.” Nutmeg crisply about-faced and set off into the heart of the camp. "I knew that he slept in that damned greatcoat!" Point muttered. He turned back towards his tent, now half a kilomare away, seeing a chance to earn a tiny bit of favor with the pony who had, to date, made his life a living Tartarus.