15th of the Moon of Harvest, 1933.
He stood at attention in formation with more than three dozen other ponies, donkeys, and griffons, all of them wearing the white short-sleeved shirt of a police academy trainee. The sun, just barely cresting over the horizon, provided them with only minor protection from the early fall air as they stood in the parade grounds in front of the brick building that would be their home and schoolhouse for the next six weeks. Several of the other rookies fidgeted where they stood, as if mimicking the motions of the Equestrian and city flags flapping from the metal poles behind them.
“So, this is the newest class of recruits,” the instructor growled, pacing in front of them. The tall, steel gray pegasus had a stormcloud as a cutie mark and wore the familiar gray shirt and flat cover. “What a bunch of sorry flanks you lot are,” he grunted.
The instructor started stalking down the front row, examining each pony with a criticizing eye. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here, boy?!” he shouted at a trembling stallion who had clearly floated in on his dreams out of high school and was just now receiving his first slap in the face from reality.
“T-training,” the little unicorn squeaked.
“Training, WHAT?!” the instructor barked.
“Training, sir!” the unicorn cried out, his voice high with terror.
With a disgusted grunt, the instructor moved on to the next pony to berate them. Sixth in line, Phillip just stood straight ahead, silent and unmoving. It wasn’t hard, and at the end of the day, words were words: they couldn’t hurt you unless you let them. Why couldn’t the others handle it?
He glanced to his left. The unicorn mare next to him was standing tall, almost a half head taller than him. She had a white coat, pure as snow, and a short, dark blue mane that tumbled down like water. She stared straight ahead, not moving, not trembling, expression neutral. But even as plain as she was, as stern and serious, Phillip had to admit she was far from hard on the eyes, or on the peripheral vision.
The instructor reached the mare and paused. “Now, this one,” he grunted, a note of interest in his voice. “This one knows how to handle herself. You all could learn from this one.” He circled the mare, who remained as still as a statue.
“Yes,” the instructor said very quietly, his cold eyes tracing the curves of the mare’s flanks. “You might find things very easy here, missy. If you do right by me.”
The mare reacted for the first time, her face flushing up with embarrassment and rage. A shudder ran down her spine, her hooves shook, but she didn’t turn around, didn’t speak. Phillip saw a flash of fear in her eyes, and realized that saying no would put everything she had worked for at risk.
White-hot anger stirred in Phillip’s gut, and raced up to his throat. Before he could stop himself, he snapped, “I don’t think she’s your type.”
Everything stopped. All was silent: even the wind seemed to have stopped blowing, so that the flapping of the flags ceased. The snowy mare turned to stare at Phillip, eyes wide. The instructor glared at Phillip, slowly stalking over until they were nose to nose.
“What did you say?” the instructor hissed, his voice audible to all.
Phillip barely heard him over the thudding of his heart in his ears. “I said, I don’t think she’s your type...sir,” he spat, not daring to blink.
The instructor glared into his soul for a few seconds more, then snarled, “Push-ups, Down Under. Until I tell you to stop.”
Phillip glared, but got down to the position and began to do push-ups as ordered, working at a steady pace, puffing out loudly with every push. The instructor launched into a brief lambasting of the class, lecturing them on the importance of obedience and not talking back, and how their instructors were there to shape them into new ponies, ready to serve and protect as officers of the Ponyville Police Department. The lecture dragged out into many minutes; Phillip continued to do push-ups, glaring at the ground as he dropped down to brush his nose against the grass before pushing himself back up again.
“Dismissed,” the instructor finally barked. “Be in class by 0800. And those dorms better be spotless, or you’ll all end up like Down Under here.” He stalked past Phillip, who shot a glare at his back. Not until the instructor had walked out of sight around the corner of a building did he finally stop, collapsing onto the ground. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his lungs burned with every breath, and his forelegs felt like they’d been turned into noodles, aching dully.
Hoofsteps crunched in the grass next to him and a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see the snowy unicorn mare standing over him, looking down at him with an unreadable expression.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
Phillip had to take a moment to catch his breath before answering. “It was the right thing to do. If I didn’t say something, might as well pack up and go home right now.”
The mare stared for a beat, then smiled and held out a hoof. “Cold Case,” she introduced herself.
Phillip gratefully took her hoof and let her help him up. “Phillip Finder,” he smiled. “Ripper to meet you.”
“You too,” Cold Case nodded, tucking her head beneath his foreleg and helping him walk back to the cafeteria, where breakfast awaited them.
“You don’t have to—” Phillip started to say.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Cold Case replied.