The exterior of the barn showed the results of decades of neglect. The missing roofing tiles, faded paint, and a slight tilt in the frame were merely superficial and did not actually detract from the overall stability of the structure. These, however, were nothing in comparison to the gaping hole that had been torn in one of the ground level’s broad sides during the morning’s mortaring.
Through the rent in the side of the building, a pony could see that the old barn had been converted into a temporary command center. Thick insulated wires snaked in a pattern of organized chaos from chugging generators towards cogitators and command lecterns. Ponies trotted to and fro amidst the tangle, adding clippety-clops to the already incredible din of the enclosed command space. Had there been any other suitable structures within a kilomare, they would have started moving the command center. At the current time, they were forced to stick what they had.
At the center of the maelstrom of pony activity inside the building stood a masterpiece of the Adeptus Marecanicus art, a gigantic holographic projector. As one of the better models employed by the Equestrian Guard, a pony could vaguely make out a map of the surrounding countryside amidst the constant flickering and static… well, when it was operating at any rate.
“Are you two quite finished?” Hassle yelled at The Twins, who were working their “blessed” magics upon the main cogitator, which had been penetrated by a long shaft of hardwood. Sheen was on their knees, servicing the front of the machine, while Rust could be heard pounding away at the rear.
With a shuddering groan that rocked the entire barn, the cogitator first sputtered “Baka, baka” with a tinny voice before it roared to life with a sound like a hundred hooves clopping as one.
Colonel Plod Sloggington stared at the resultant hololithic display with an expression that straddled the delicate line between general frustration and severe constipation.
“I just don't understand it,” the Colonel stated as he strained to see anything in the severely out-of-focus image. “This insurrection should have been crushed weeks ago, but now they’ve managed to push us out of the eastern quarter.”
Major Hassle furrowed her oversized eyebrows as she returned to look at the map. “It looks like they’ve also taken back the carrot cannery and—” She paused, her eyes widening. “—Oh, Celestia in Canterlot,” she swore.
The Colonel raised an eyebrow.
Hassle placed a hoof to her forehead as she continued. “Yesterday, they captured the recaf facility in sector nine.”
Sloggington waved a hoof dismissively. “Don't worry, our backup recaf supplies—”
“—Were being stored in the cannery!” Hassle interjected, practically shouting.
The room was suddenly nine months pregnant with silence, and as the two senior officers felt every set of eyes lock upon them, it was as if somepony had dialed it up to eleven.
“What is our current supply?” Sloggington asked frantically.
“Empty,” Hassle said, gesturing to her own cup of hot cocoa for emphasis. “The quartermaster said that we were expecting some in last night, but that was before we’d gotten news that we lost those two—”
Hassle’s voice was cut off by the sharp crack of splintering wood.
All eyes turned towards the barn’s large double doors. They were both barred and chained shut, but had still managed to move quite visibly from an outside impact.
A second impact, followed by a crunching sound, heralded the severe loosening of the portal’s hinges. A large crack could now also be seen in the door’s bar.
Eyes in the room swiveled between the distressed set of doors and the obvious hole in the side of the barn. Hassle sighed and ground her hoof, like a pestle into a mortar, against her forehead. “He could have just walked in through the hole," she muttered. She motioned at two of the junior officers she liked the least. “You’d better let him in before we have a second hole in the wall.”
The two lieutenants moved in a manner often seen when a condemned prisoner is walking towards an execution chamber. One of them was crying. The mare of the pair consoled her blubbering stallion companion as they approached the postern door.
The moment the door was unlatched, it flew open with such violence that the pair of junior officers were thrown through the air like a pair of Nightmare Night pumpkins.
Commissar Nutmeg strode silently but menacingly into the barn. He moved forward like a ghastly apparition. His countenance was smeared with ash and soot and his greatcoat sported fresh, and in some cases still smoking, burn marks. Ponies who made the mistake of meeting his overly stern gaze instantly flinched and turned away rather than risk staring too long into those soulless recessesses and being scarred for life.
“Colonel... Major...” The ghoulish commissar nodded after acknowledging each of them. The normally benign motion was twisted into something quite unnatural by the peculiar angle at which Nutmeg was holding his head... and then there was the rictus grin.
“Commissar,” came Hassle’s wary reply, “how may we assist you this fine morning?” The tension in the air could be cut by a chainblade, coincidentally or not, just like the one hanging from Nutmeg’s combat saddle.
“It has come to my attention,” Nutmeg began, with no less than three twitches, “that our recaf supply is dangerously low.”
The emphasis on the word “dangerously” made it quite clear to anypony listening both that the danger was real and that the Commissar was the one from whom it originated.
“We do have a solid supply of hot cocoa, Commissar,” said the aptly named Lieutenant Obtuse as he used a hoof to slide a steaming cup of sweet, chocolatey liquid towards Nutmeg.
Nopony saw what transpired next. After all, Nutmeg’s reflexes were legendary amongst the troops for good reason. One second the mug was sliding across the table towards the Commissar, and the next, Obtuse was screaming in agony as boiling hot cocoa seeped into his facial coat.
“With a company of ponies, I could easily retake the recaf factory there in sector… nine, was it?” Nutmeg said as he waved a hoof through the display, trailing from their headquarters through at least a dozen blurry enemy fortifications until resting on the aforementioned facility.
The sound of Obtuse groaning in agony kept in an odd rhythm with the sound of the main cogitator. Hassle coughed into her hoof and nodded her head for emphasis. In response, a combat medic moved to tend to the seared, simpering stallion.
Sloggington and Hassle shared a meaningful glance as the medical pony dragged Obtuse’s whimpering form from the barn.
Sloggington shook his head from side to side. “We cannot spare anypony,” he said with a flap of his jowls. “We’ve lost too much ground and our current position is at risk of being compromised.”
“Heresy!” Nutmeg scowled at the two as the word hissed through his teeth. “Our fighting ponies… They need coffee and you won’t spare me even one single platoon?”
Sloggington sighed. “One squad,” he said firmly. You can have one squad: ten ponies, including yourself.”
“Fine,” Nutmeg said as he about-faced and trotted from the room. “Oh,” he called back as he exited the building, “I'll choose my own squad members. Twins, with me!”
He didn't close the door on his way out. The Twins removed their snaking mechadendrites slowly, soothingly even, from various orifices on the main cogitator.
“Major?” They both asked in unison.
“Go,” Hassle replied as evenly as she could, “we’ll have another set of priests finish… whatever it was you two were… err… doing to that machine.”
Both tech-priests sped out the door in a flurry of robes and tendrils.
“Well,” Hassle said as the regular bustle of the command center resumed, “maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll get himself killed.”
Sloggington harrumphed. “Not likely. That stallion has more lives than a cat.” He furrowed his eyebrows at the personnel roster. “We need to figure out who else he’s taking though, so we can prepare the funeral services, and save ourselves some time later.”
Hassle hadn't even noticed she was nodding in agreement. “Are ten pony lives really worth him getting his Tartarus damned coffee?”
“Tea.”
“Pardon?” Hassle asked the permanent frown that was her immediate superior.
“Recaf is tea, Major.” Sloggington was speaking as one would to a foal.
Hassle gave a brief snort. “I know that. It's just that Nutmeg said—” She paused. “Wait. Does Nutmeg… not know?”
Sloggington graced her with a look that was equal parts apathy and exasperation. “Focus, Major. We need to take care of these troop deployments before we’re up to our withers in rebels.”
Hassle nodded and began to absentmindedly listen as Sloggington discussed a plan of action that would undoubtedly result in very little progress at the cost of far too many ponies.
As Sloggington wantonly condemned another company of ponies to decimation, a grin slowly crossed Hassle’s features.