Owly watched as Point violently deposited gear into his kitbag. As a trenching shovel was inserted with the kind of force a pony would normally reserve for digging, Owly wondered if the bottom of the bag might tear out, accidentally or otherwise. “Point, you've been in a foul mood ever since we got back from the Commissar’s ‘errands.’ What’s wrong?”
Point briefly looked up at Owly with a scowl then returned to stuffing the bag. “Well, he sent me to grab the food provisions. Normally, I’d be happier than Saint Pie at a party–”
“And probably eat about as much,” Owly added.
“Yeah, but... he said if I ate any of the rations before we left, he’d gut me with his chainsword and take them back.”
Owly cringed. “Well, he had me rounding up some of his other ‘hoof-selected ponies.’ Most were… less than enthusiastic that they would be laying their lives down in the name of caffeinated beverages.” He neglected to mention the fact that the one or two who hadn't complained or threatened him with bodily violence hadn't been told the full scope of the mission.
Owy decided an attempt at levity. “Well, we’ve already been blown up once today.” He sniffed his charred bedroll and, after making a disgusted face, threw it into a smoldering rubbish pile. “And now we’re being taken on a suicide mission by Commissar ‘I can't operate like a civilized individual, much less without my morning caffeine!’”
He stopped his over-the-top impersonation of the Commissar, which included some rude pantomiming, as he noticed a distinct lack of laughter from a suddenly rigid Point.
“C’mon, Pointy. That always makes you—” he stopped as he saw Point’s eyes flick urgently from him to some nebulous point to his rear. “He’s right behind me, isn't he?”
Owly turned and almost bumped muzzles with the startlingly close Commissar. Owly was suddenly glad he hadn’t eaten earlier, or he was sure it would have been ejected in a pile behind him.
“Private Owlsworth.” The Commissar’s surprisingly cool and even tone betrayed nothing.
“Sir!” Owly snapped to attention. He could feel the beads of sweat running down his neck, his face, his… Tartarus, his everything.
The Commissar’s blue eyes regarded him in a manner that made his blood run like ice water. “Don’t forget: briefing’s in fifteen minutes. We leave in thirty.” He somehow managed to lean closer without actually pressing his muzzle against Owly’s. “I expect much of you two.” He left the tent as quickly as he had arrived.
Owly released the breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding in much the same manner, both exertion and groan-wise, as a mare giving birth to an overdue foal, and gasped for air.
“Celestia, he scares me,” breathed Point.
Owly could only nod in agreement. His throat was too dry to speak.
Point suddenly chuckled. “Look at your face!”
Owly crossed his eyes to look down his nose to see the burning red that had suffused his navy-blue muzzle. If The Princess of The Night had been present, she would have most likely proclaimed that the redness had been doubled.
He leveled his most ferocious glare at Point in the hopes that maybe the stupid scrawny scout would catch fire. The thought of Point engulfed in flames removed the scowl from his face and replaced it with a look of serious contemplation. That look was quickly replaced by a devious grin.
“Did you know Inferno is coming on our little soirée?” Owly teased.
Point went rigid. His pupils shrank to pinpricks and beads of sweat formed on his face and neck. He placed a forehoof absentmindedly on his own flank. “But all my fur just grew back,” he said, his voice filled with despondency.
Owly’s grin faded. Memories of the weeks of sitting by Point’s bedside as his flesh grafts healed soured his attempt at petty revenge. “Sorry, old colt. I… I just forgot how… bad it was for you—”
Point raised an eyebrow at him. “You can save that touchy-feely stuff for the twins. You said that they were coming too, right?”
Owly put a forehoof to his head in an attempt to relieve the pressure from the sudden headache he was experiencing. He wished that the pain from grinding his hoof into his skull would remove the unbidden image of two acolytes of the Adeptus Marecanicus and their groping, snakelike mechadendrites. “Yes. I lost all hope for anypony normal besides us on the team once he said he was bringing them.”
Point shook his head from side to side as he made his way to the tent’s newly burned exit hole. “I dunno why he’s taking us at all.”
Owly followed him through the ragged hole, which somehow managed to be easier to navigate than using the tent’s actual exit, and into the bustle of the camp at mid-morning. Owly squinted his eyes and shielded them with one hoof.
They trotted towards the tent where the briefing was supposed to be held. “What happened to the overcast skies we had for the last few days?” Owly griped as he donned a shade visor.
Point sniggered. “Owly, you put those shades on even when it’s overca—”
Point stopped speaking as a slim gray-coated mare fell into trot beside them. Instead of the standard infantry flak armor the two of them wore, she sported a much lighter camo cloak and carried a long-las, a sniper’s weapon of choice.
“Hey you two,” she purred, her piercing blue eyes probing them like they were some bizarre species of insect. “Ready to lay your lives down for The Princesses?”
“Hey Whisper,” Point replied, with no small amount of antipathy evident in his voice. “Murder any foals recently?”
She rolled her eyes upward as if she were contemplating the question. “Not since that orphanage in sector twelve last week,” she answered conversationally.
Point stared at her with a look that alternated between confusion and horror.
Whisper fixed him with a predatory grin. “Am I joking?”
Point opened his mouth to speak but somehow managed to trip over a tent’s guy-line before he could conjure forth anything resembling coherent words. Instead of a witty retort, all Owly was able to hear was an unflattering shriek followed by a string of loosely cobbled together profanity.
Owly watched in amusement as Point inexplicably managed to uproot not only the wire he had originally struck but several others as well. He was beginning to look like a skein of yarn.
Instead of trotting off laughing like Owly had expected, Whisper had stopped and stared at Point’s swearing and increasingly tangled form. “Celestia preserve us if you’re going to be scouting for the Commissar's recon team,” she said in a dead serious tone.
Point temporarily ceased his struggle to free himself from the treacherous tent lines. “You’re on the Commissar’s recaf-run team, too?”
Whisper looked at Point with eyes that only showed the barest hint of widening in shock before returning to their standard setting of squinty nonchalance and disdain.
“Luna’s beard, Owly!” Point’s pleased prostrate pony form proclaimed. “She didn't know what the mission was about?” He whinnied. “Why didn't you tell her?”
Whisper’s eyes narrowed. “I'll see you two at the briefing,” she said in a tone of voice that heavily insinuated their untimely demises should they meet her beforehoof. As Whisper turned and left, Owly saw that her eyes continued to stare murder at both Point and himself. Owly realized he wasn't feeling optimistic about their survival chances afterwards either.
Owly shook his head from side to side. “Point, you dope. The mission was going to be dangerous enough without us having to worry about her shooting us in the flanks.”
“Maybe you should have stallioned up and told her about how ridiculous the mission was the first time?” A tent flap had joined the wrestling match, pinning one of Point’s forelegs to his barrel.
Owly looked back down at the hopelessly tangled pony and couldn't help but snicker. “You look like a hay-ball buried on a plate of pasta.”
Point glared up at him from the snarl of rope. “Help me up.”
One trench-knife and five minutes later, the two galloped with all due haste to make the briefing in time.
Owly couldn't help but worry about who else was on the team. He thought that the Commissar was, at best, eccentric, or, at worst, a lunatic. Either way, the Commissar’s choices in squad members had caused a roiling knot to form in Owly’s stomach.
As the two stallions entered the tent, Owly was blinded by the sudden reduction in light. He could hear the susurrus of other ponies speaking in hushed tones. Owly removed his shade visor and almost bumped muzzles with one of the company medics.
“Oh, hey JT, sorry about that.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank Celestia, somepony normal is coming on this trip.”
The blood red stallion glared at him over a thick pair of reading glasses. “I've told you frog-heads countless times, it's just Trauma.”
Owly ignored the correction. It was the pastime of many of the ponies in the company to keep the running gag going. There was also a pot of bits going around, with the jackpot winner being the unfortunate pony present whenever “Just” Trauma finally got the joke.
The Commissar stomped a hoof for silence, breaking Owly’s reverie. The nine ponies in the tent immediately fell into line.
“Alright ponies,” the Commissar began in a tone one would normally reserve for a funeral service, “we currently face a harrowing crisis. One that could threaten this prestigious company’s very existence!”
A quick flick of the eyes back and forth confirmed Owly’s suspicions that nopony was taking this seriously… except perhaps Inferno.
“The Heathens will BURN!” Inferno’s booming voice reverberated and echoed through the ribbed metal tubing that ran from the sides of his mouth, like some sick parody of a bit and bridle, back into a saddle mounted respirator.
The Commissar nodded in agreement. “Indeed, the heretics have seized the recaf refinery here in sector nine.” His hoof tapped up against a piece of parchment which had been decorated with a foal-quality wax color rendition of the combat zone. As the Commissar lowered his hoof from the drinking-mug doodle that represented the facility, Owly spied a smaller scribbled likeness of the Commissar diving into the cup.
“Our most holy of tasks will be to reclaim the refinery and recover the sweet, sweet coffee within—” The blue-gray mountain that was Blitz raised a hoof in query. “—yes-private-what-is-it?” The Commissar ended the sentence tersely.
"What possessed you to put together an ensemble cast like this?" Blitz somehow asked without sarcasm or incredulity.
The Commissar whipped around, his tail swishing against and knocking over a luminator. Everypony watched as the light source’s dimming cover rolled conspicuously across the ground.
The Commissar grinned and pulled a data-slate from the recesses of his greatcoat. “Blitz Bastion,” he read from the slate, “highest success rate for demolition of enemy vehicles and fortifications in the entire regiment, possibly the entire local sector division. You were up for the Solar Service Crest… before you took it upon yourself to detonate that bridge on Bashkir Secundus…”
The Commissar’s eyes rose slowly from the slate to the gargantuan pony’s increasingly scrunched visage during the pause-for-effect. “...while General Shriek was still on it.”
“He had plenty of time to get off before it collapsed,” Blitz muttered through clenched teeth.
The Commissar ignored the comment. He simply moved down the line of ponies and tapped the slate some more. “Fray.” He looked down at the diminutive lime green mare. “Rated top in the regiment in close quarters combat, more confirmed enemy dispatches than any other two ponies combined, but overlooked for the elite breaching team after you were a little too aggressive during fencing practice and put out one of Lieutenant Knave’s eyes.”
Fray blushed.
Tap, tap-tap. “Whisper.” She returned the Commissar’s gaze. “Winner of the regimental markspony competition ever since you deigned to start participating in it.” He lowered the tablet. “...No negative marks on your record… but, despite the lack of all physical evidence, Sloggington knows that it was you who shot his dog.”
“I—”
He held up a hoof. “No interruptions, please.”
Whisper stared daggers at him, but he’d already moved on. “And speaking of things that should be burning in Tartarus, Inferno, I… am at a complete loss for where to even begin summarizing your record.”
“The fires of righteousness will cleanse the impure!” the stallion offered.
The Commissar looked, nonplussed, from the slate to Inferno and back again. “...Well, I suppose that sounds slightly better than ‘unstable element’ and ‘anathema to pony safety.’”
Nutmeg paused in front of the Twins. “Rust and Sheen, the regiment would be short half its motor pool without you, but the reports of your unsanctioned... ‘servicing’ of regimental equipment have started drawing attention.”
“Query,” Rust said, “is it from somepony wishing to observe our servicing?”
Sheen made a curious “squee” noise. “An excellent suggestion. Having an observer might be stimulating!”
The Commissar blinked. “Trauma,” he said, moving on with haste. “Your patients have recovery times that are half the company average. Now, nopony in their right mind would expect an expert in pony physiology to be able to translate that wisdom into veterinary practice… and yet, Sloggington brought his dog to you after somepony shot it.” The Commissar shook his head. “I understand the unfairness of that situation, but you probably should have broken the news a little easier to him.”
Trauma rolled his eyes. “The damned flea bag didn’t have a head when he brought it in!”
“Well, you definitely need to work on that bedside manner.” The Commissar took a few steps down the line, ending in front of Point and Owly. “I don’t understand how you two can alternate between being the most skilled scouts in the regiment and being the most incompetent ponies in existence...”
Owly and Point exchanged embarrassed glances.
“Over one hundred successful infiltrations, resulting in hundreds or even thousands of pony lives saved…” The Commissar’s hoof prodded at the front of Owly’s uniform. “And yet, Owl Eyes, you’ve been caught sleeping during day watch no less than a dozen times… Including when the Colonel’s dog met its timely end.”
Silence reigned as the assembled ponies waited for The Commissar to correct himself, but he only clarified instead; “Oh, it was only a matter of time before that mangy, biting, leaving-it’s-mess-everywhere little parasprite of a dog found its end at some trooper’s hooves. You're just the one who decided to take an afternoon snooze when it happened.”
“Just trying to maintain peak operational effectiveness, sir!” Owly would have facehooved at the stupidity of his own statement if the Commissar not been almost pressing muzzles with him.
The Commissar took two steps back and eyed him warily. “Do you believe that?”
Owly swallowed. “No… Sir.”
“Thank Celestia, for that much, at least.” The now-relieved-looking Commissar turned to Point and frowned. “Point, your freakishly refined stealth skills are matched only by an appetite to rival that of the penitent Dobbin in the parable of his incessant thefts from Celestia's Strategic Wheatgrass Reserve. If only you didn't make similar use of those skills to plunder the regiment’s food stores...”
Point scrunched his face in intense thought before blurting out; "Weren't my fault, they framed me!"
Owly did facehoof this time.
"That was the same excuse used by Dobbin when he was caught," the Commissar said in a thoughtful tone. "You read your scriptures, and one cannot fault a pony for that."
The Commissar shook his head, then turned to the assembled squad. “You are, quite frankly, the most skilled ponies in this entire regiment, but all of you have been prevented from being promoted or being transferred into more elite squads because you managed to irritate somepony in the division’s command structure with enough sway to blacklist you from advancement.”
Owly watched as the looks of confusion, from the Commissar’s unexpected compliments, morphed into scowls of barely contained rage. Owly felt his own brow furrowing in anger.
“I don’t blame you for being angry,” he preached, “and if there’s anything I hate more than a lack of caffeine running through my veins, it’s wasted talent.”
Owly had to admit, the Commissar was good at getting them worked up. He felt the heat on his muzzle and the grinding of his own molars.
“I should actually tell you right now that this is a volunteer mission,” the Commissar casually stated. The looks of confusion had returned, and they had invited several slack jaws for good measure.
“So, anypony who doesn't want to go, can stay here,” he turned away from them. “Anypony wants out, they can leave right now, through that tent flap. I won't stop, execute, or report you. You can remain lowly privates, or third grade acolytes, until Sloggington orders you into the death trap that finally claims you.”
The Commissar swung his head back around. “Or you can come with me, now, into my death trap. Because there’s this silly little provision in the Equestrian Guard’s organizational primer: only ponies holding the rank of Sergeant or higher can be in a Commissar’s personal bodyguard."
He paused for a moment to let the statement sink in. “Anypony coming with me would probably have to be field promoted,” he grinned. “We wouldn’t want to violate any regulations, of course." He turned to The Twins. "I also put in a request to the adeptus Marecanicus for two Rune-Seers for this single-squad mission into enemy territory. You would be surprised how quickly Magus Dynamo elevated you two."
Less than a quarter of an hour later, Owly found himself galloping out of the camp with nine other ponies. He only hoped that he would live long enough to enjoy the promotion.