//------------------------------// // 18. Inspections // Story: Millennia: Eye of the Storm // by Thunderblast //------------------------------// It was somewhere around one in the morning where the party goers had begun to lighten up and head home, as the case for us five. Too much alcohol in addition to cocky Marines spelled disaster. I think it came as a shock to myself more to discover Anchorage far unalike the stereotypical drunk sailor, and in fact the exact opposite. The way he acted with the swings he threw (and missed) left me wondering if he is never sober around us. Though, I suppose if he wasn’t, he would not also have his job. Night did much of the work, dragging Anchorage into the elevator before security could be called, with myself and Silver struggling with Ash who, based on the tenseness of his body and the scowl he wore, told us he was about ready to deck somepony, too. Likely the same Marines that Anchorage argued with. As soon as we’d reached ground level, the tension eased, and without the headache-inducing camera flashes and shouting of the press, we seated ourselves in two separate carriages and headed home. Silver, Anchor, and Ash sat in the one ahead of mine and Night’s. From back here, we heard the loud chatter and laughter of the three as they discussed the evening. I simply rolled my eyes, unable to force back the grin on my muzzle. It soon became known between us two that, come morning, the only noise from those three would be pained groans, and possibly rumbling stomachs of alcohol attempting to force its way back up. We each took a moment to ironically thank the heavens for placing us in the same dormitory room. Or, rather, we should thank the sergeant for that. *** I could not begin to think of how much time had slipped by between hitting the bed and passing out completely. Before then, I’d neatly torn off my uniform without care for where it landed and flopped onto my bed, and evidently left my wings open flat across the sheets. Through lowered white pleaded shades, gentle light spilled into the room as morning came. My lids fluttered open and eyes unraveled from having rolled upwards during my slumber. A small groan escaped my parted maw as I turned my head to the side to glance at the digital clock display on the wooden stand between beds, reading a few minutes past nine. A minuscule headache, almost too tiny to notice but there regardless pulsed with gentle intensity seemingly in rhythm with my heartbeat, throbbing in my temples ever so lightly. I rose up from the bed sheet surface, having not once tucked myself in during the night and eased my hooves down one by one until I stood on all fours. For a brief moment did I stand on the tips of them while I stretched comfortably, twisting my head sideways until a crack jolted my neck, and for a second time as it pivoted the other way, followed by another low groan mixed with a contented sigh. My gaze fixed on Night’s bed for a whole minute, blinking steadily, before coming to the realization that he already left for his shift. As it turned out, mine was not due to begin until later that evening, leaving the remainder of the morning and the whole afternoon at my disposal, much to my gratitude as well as dismay. I suppose, with all of this extra time, I could lay back down and try again for a second round of sleep. If that were possible, that is. Rather, my stomach sort of made up my mind for me when it rumbled. The kitchen Night and I had in our little living space, despite the lack of some appliances, underwent a slight remodeling, so to speak, in the weeks after moving barracks. A portable electric stove surface replaced its counterpart with two burners. For what it was, he seemed content with it for its price, and it got the job done when it came to cooking. Although I had previously offered to bring my own brewer from Canterlot, Night insisted on having a coffee pot anyways. With one glance, a shallow breath of relief slipped out upon seeing the pot to still be half full and very much warm thanks to the heater beneath it having been left on since whenever Night had first turned it on this morning. Any superior would likely kill us if they found out, seeing how huge of a fire hazard that was, not that any of us cared much about. Opening a cabinet above the counter, reaching up and pulling down a basic white mug by the handle, I removed the pot from the burner and carefully poured the steaming hot black liquid nearly to the top. From the corner of the counter, beside the fridge, I took an opened bag of sugar and gently shook it above the mug, observing granules trickle out and seemingly vaporize into the coffee. With a spoon, I then stirred in the sugar collecting at the bottom thoroughly, tapping it on the edge, before placing the spoon in a small basket in the sink for later washing. Taking the mug by the handle again, I brought it up, blowing a couple of times to disperse the trail of steam rising from the beverage, and cautiously tipping the mug until the coffee touch my lips. Oh, the sweet—yet bitter—sting of fresh caffeine. Still strange how a year prior, coffee only formerly tasted decent with cream and occasionally a touch of milk. Definitely one of the larger changes I’ve taken great notice of that began on my first deployment. That has yet to not come to mind every time I take a refreshing sip. Even seasickness no longer has an effect on me, even in the roughest of waves in the most horrid of storms. That is an improvement for sure. After a second quick sip, I placed the mug back down on the counter and opened the refrigerator. A decent size, certainly large enough for the two of us and possibly more if these rooms had up to three or four ponies living in them. For how preoccupied we were with work, we decided to keep grocery trips light at most. Some mornings or evenings—depending on the time of our shifts—one or both of us skip eating just to head straight to bed, or if we have eaten at the chow hall on our lunch break. There were many factors behind our decision so as to avoid wasting food. So, overall, the fridge did not have much in it. An opened gallon of milk, Night’s coffee creamer, two cartons of eggs, some butter, a couple varieties of cheese to our specific liking, along with a vegetable drawer with some carrots, lettuce, three tomatoes, and even a ball of cabbage. I pulled out the emptier egg carton along with a half-cut stick of butter and opened a lower drawer, pulling out a frying pan and placing it atop one of the small burners. With the twist of a small knob, the burner began to gradually heat. Cutting a decent chunk off the end of the butter and wrapping the rest back up to put back in the fridge, the little square dropped in center of the pan and slid off to the side, smearing against the black metallic surface as it began to melt. Lifting the pan up just slightly and rolling it around horizontally, letting the butter spread across the pan and sizzle as the heat grew, I plucked two eggs out of the box and cracked them against the outer edge. Each oozed out of their exposed shell, turning from transparent yellow to white as the gooey contents met the searing metallic surface. My ears perked to the satisfying crackle of the eggs as they had begun to cook. Taking a spatula from the silverware drawer, I slipped it beneath one egg and flipped it over, following suit with the other so as to let them cook thoroughly on both sides, and continuing to do so every so often until none of the white jiggled to the touch. Seriously, how could some ponies enjoy sunny side-up eggs if they’re not done? Monsters, all of them! With a final flip of either egg, the yolk having since broken and fried against the white in a thin layer of yellowish-orange, the knob of the portable burner flicked to ‘off’ with a mere twist. Lifting the pan, I brought it above a small plate and tilted, sliding the two eggs down onto it with the spatula’s aid, and placing the still-steaming utensil on the other side of the sink to soak beneath cold water, along with the spatula. Taking a fork from the silverware drawer now, I remained in the kitchen as I began chowing down on the two sunny side-up-now-turned-fried-eggs and guzzling the since-cooled black coffee to serve as my breakfast for the day. Without a dinner table—or even a couch for that matter—Night and I typically hung out in the kitchen to eat. Or, on rare occasions, we sit on our beds, but mostly after long days. Upon finishing, I placed the plate and fork on their respective sides of the sink and ran the water. With a finishing swig of coffee, I held the mug beneath the water to fill it up, then dump it back out to wash it out. While doing this, I raised a hoof to my muzzle to silence a low belch finally escaping my gut, then clearing my throat. A silent yawn crept its way out soon after, hinting a trace of fatigue left over from waking minutes prior. While a cups worth of coffee remained in the pot, my mind set against it for the sake of an afternoon crash. Not that I have ever had one after drinking it, though it would not serve me well to pass out on the clock. My wings unfolded and stretched with gentle pops of the bones. The feathers, for the most part, remained straightened since last night, and the past few nights before. Not often did they require fixing, or, for the grand majority of pegasi, thorough preening. For some strange reason, it seemed pegasus ponies I have come across find it to be morally awkward to be caught preening themselves. To me, that made little sense—if any. Not that I have ever preened myself before and had to quit due to fragile wings. Fragile, in the sense of being ticklish, something I hope no pony I meet in my lifetime discovers for my sake and theirs. It was then where I glanced back to my opened wings. I rolled them gently back and forth, like the flaps of an airplane. I folded them to my sides, then extended a second time to full length, a frown crossing my muzzle a moment after. I faced forth, gaze falling to the counter but not fixing on anything in particular as thought took over. Looking up, I reached across the sink, taking the blinds string in one hoof and pulling down to raise them. I squinted slightly as unfiltered light spilled into the room, the sky still brightening with noon a few short hours away. Beyond the open hall and above the adjacent building to ours, I took note of at least a dozen pegasi moving about above the base, all military personnel. Some gathered in groups with one in front of them all, hovering a hundred, perhaps two-hundred feet above the ground. Trainees, most likely, with the sole pony ahead of them an instructor, likely for a specialized flight class. As learned from a couple of pilots on the Eclipse, physical flight orientation—involving one’s actual wings, assuming they are a pegasus—comes before the pony may step near their training jet. Like Wonderbolts, Navy pilots take a beating when it comes to flying, worse even. Then again, one side flew for performance and entertainment, the latter must also be concerned about combat if worse came to worst. But, that was not what punctured my composure. It was the fact that not once in my life have I experienced the supposed joys of flying. It wasn’t just that flying did not speak to me like it does to most pegasi, despite being a contributing factor—all of the doubt and neglect to properly learn came from my father. He, a war-hardened earth pony from Winneighapolis, and my quiet-yet-stern mother, a pegasus from Coltlumbus—my home town—never truly agreed, or even agreed-to-disagree over the topic of flying. My father, jolted from his time in the Army, held strong beliefs of flying, un-grounded ponies, as he referred to us, were unnatural and undeserving of rights in Equestria, which led him to set rules forbidding neither myself nor my mother from flying anywhere near him, even barely. I am not too sure what she saw in him. Before I left she claimed that his personality and strictness had not been that way before my birth. While that could very well have been true, it continued to remind me of why I had decided to run off to Canterlot in the first place, or one of the reasons behind it. Among that, the cause of my grounding. In the years since, flying had been the least of my concerns. It was not that I believed he may somehow find out and track me down just to beat my ass into oblivion because of his psychotic beliefs, it was more due to the fact of having other issues to be far more concerned about. Finding a place to live was definitely one of them, as well as income to avoid becoming homeless which, admittedly, almost happened two or three times. Yet, with the past far behind, a part of me continued in mental protest to hold me back from getting into the skies one way or another. My mind raced with a million, possibly a billion different thoughts, all in one instance. What if you’re too heavy? What if your wings get tired? What if you pull a muscle from trying too hard? What if you lose balance and tumble into the river? What if you crash into somepony and kill them? What if you hurt yourself? It was nonstop. But above all, one struck right at home. What if you fail? My hoof released the string, the blinds dropping to the small granite lip of the window sill and echoing a plastic crack! in the room, jolting me back into reality and snapping my wings tight to my sides. I huffed out a deep breath that held for too long, gripping my chest with the same hoof and easing my breathing pattern so as to avoid unprovoked hyperventilation. Maybe my father did have good reason behind his morbid disapproval towards flying. Perhaps those reasons explained it. As it may be, he could have just been trying to protect my mother and I from harming ourselves. Flying was not for everypony, after all. Sighing out to relax the tension in my muscles, I stepped away from the counter and toward the short corridor splitting the kitchen and the bedroom with the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I stopped, fixing on a thin paper object wedged between the entry door and the frame itself. Blinking, I moved to the door and took the paper in my hoof, yanking it inside and looking it over carefully. It was a notice posted by the base commander, evidently sent out to all of the barracks, reading: Important Notice Base-wide inspections of barracks and dormitories at 1630 on the 18th of May, 2015. What a waste of paper for a few short words, I thought to myself. I grumbled, setting the notice down on the edge of the counter for Night to see when he comes back. “Inspections,” I snorted. One would think that as long as we aren’t burning the place down and taking care of it, the higher-ups could care less about what we do in the dorms. Of course, in basic training, inspections then were truly awful. Cleaning the barrack we slept in wasn’t nearly the hard part, it was maintaining our uniforms and standing in one spot for four hours while we waited for the drill instructor to drop by with two or three lieutenants or other officers looking to tear somepony—or all of us—a new one. 1630, that’s four-thirty. Eighteenth of May, that’s today’s date! Four-thirty this afternoon, granting me a bit of time to tidy up. Without Nightpath here to help, it was all me for the afternoon. At least, until he finishes with his shift. Perhaps then he could do his own little part just so I’m not left to handle the cleaning all by myself. Bringing out the cleaning supplies beneath the sink, I started with the kitchen—washing the few dishes and silverware in the sink and putting them away in their respective areas, scrubbing the counter tops, mopping and later polishing the inch-sized square-tiled floor, and even wiping down every handle with disinfectant. Apart from yellowing spots near the floor of the shower, and crusty toothpaste marks in the sink, the bathroom required little work. For what it was, it being the cleanest room in the place came off as a slight surprise. Not due to neglecting to pay attention to such—well, maybe just a bit... Either way, to not be stuck breaking my spine polishing each individual shower tile and pretty much every other object that isn’t the wall left me somewhat relieved. But the feeling ended up short-lived the moment I opened the cabinet beneath the sink, where a horrid stench met my nostrils and forced my nose to crumple inward. Purely out of reflex of the smell, I bellowed a hack, covering my muzzle with a hoof as I resorted to mouth breathing. Lowering back to the cabinet, my gaze fell upon little darkened specs across the near-empty wooden surface. It did not take long for the puzzle to complete, and without hesitation, I ripped a piece from a paper towel roll on the counter top and began scooping up the tiny droppings left behind from what I presumed to be a rat, or some other pesky rodent. A tiny, yet painful nip prompted me to jerk my hoof back without the paper towel in it. Adrenaline momentarily surged in my veins the moment what felt to be tiny teeth began digging into my hoof. The littlest of red-turning marks showed where it had not previously been after taking thorough examination. Grunting with frustration, my gaze briefly fixed on a pair of eyes reflecting off of light in the bathroom staring right back towards me, before disappearing in a scurry of tiny paws and two squeaks as the little shit disappeared through a small chewed-out hole in the rear of the cabinet and through the wall, exposing a vertical pipe partially. Turning back down to the bite mark, I stood and quickly rinsed it beneath a running faucet, and taking a second peek over it. Nothing too deep, I determined, but still concerning nonetheless. I knew Manehattan was notorious for its pigeons, and its rats especially. That would not change the disgust I felt now knowing our apartment is occupied with one, possibly more, without a clue of what diseases they could be carrying. Practically slamming shut the cabinet door, secretly hoping the bastard who bit me had stuck his or her head out for it to slam on its throat and end the problem temporarily—or worsen it, more likely, I walked out of the bathroom and around the corner. Our bedroom still needed quite the pick-up, especially Nightpath’s side of it. Upon closer inspection, crumbs strewn about the floor surrounding his bed, with some even on his bed beneath his twisted, untidy comforter. No wonder we had rats, he was their ringleader! Scoffing and rolling my eyes with further annoyance, I briefly debated staying put to clean, or head to the medic’s ward to make sure I don’t contract rabies, settling on the latter for my sake. Here I hoped the place was not busy as I slipped on my work jacket and cover, before heading out the door.