//------------------------------// // Newbies // Story: The New Blood // by Antiquarian //------------------------------// Scat: noun; plural: Scats 1. Droppings, especially those of carnivorous animals. 2. (Slang) Something incredibly disgusting or distasteful; a derogatory term reflecting distaste or scorn. 3. (Slang) In some cases, a compliment, often of some creature/thing seen as being dangerous or impressive. Equestrian First Army Encampment ‘Meadowbrook,’ Day 1067 of the Crystal War My parents brought me to Unicorn Range once when I was a filly. Looking back, I honestly don’t remember if they brought me to try and teach me the history of one of the other pony races or just to try to get me to appreciate the natural beauty of the place. Either way they failed miserably. All I cared about was flying. Was I the fastest? The most agile? The toughest? The quickest to recover when a patch of weather hit or a stunt went wrong? These were the questions that mattered to me. If they’d asked me which of the unicorn legends I liked the most or whether or not I thought the scenery was pretty, I probably would’ve just answered with a blank stare. No, scratch that, I probably answered with glaring, snark, and flying off to do tricks. I was a cocky little snot. I don’t remember any of the history they taught me, if I’m honest. I should probably feel bad about that, especially now that unicorn gunners and infantry have pulled my sorry flank out of the fire more times than I can count (once literally), but, frankly, I still don’t care much about history. The present has enough problems of its own. The scenery, though, that I remember. It was one of those things that I totally took for granted at the time, but I can still see the rolling hills and meadows, the lush flowers blooming in colors I didn’t even know existed, the cute cabin retreats that dotted the terrain, the quiet little stands of trees, the streams that just sort of wandered through everything… I remember it all. Memory’s all that’s left of it. Now, I look out at grassy swells turned to rock and mud by the tramp of hooves, blasted open by cannon fire, and cut through with earthworks and trenches. The bright colors of the flowers are replaced by the glint of the sun off the bits of armor and weapons that the burial details and scavengers missed. The cabins are all either bombed out, cut in half by massive spears and spires of dark crystal, or coopted for command centers and surrounded by tents. What trees there were either got shattered by artillery or cut down for fortifications, leaving those blasted crystals as the tallest things around. As for the streams, well, enough bodies have fallen in them that only somepony truly desperate would drink from them. There’s a big old boulder poking out the top of the hill at the edge of our encampment – a real boulder, not one of those crystals – and it’s quickly become my favorite spot to just… be away from ponies. Up here I can see whole shattered land. If I close my eyes and ignore the smell, I can almost believe it’s still the way I last saw it as a filly. It’s an easy illusion to break. I was too stupid to pay attention to things like beauty when I was young. That’s not to say I didn’t care. I did. I cared about it without really knowing that I cared about it or why I cared about it. Now that I do know… it’s gone. And that’s a fricking shame. I snort. Why do I come up here? I always wind up pissed off or miserable. My ear flicks automatically in the direction of approaching wingbeats, but I don’t turn to see who it is. There’s only one pony in the camp who sounds like a machine when she flies. It’s taken some getting used to, but that’s okay. I’m just happy she’s back in the air. The mare touches down and trots over to stand next to me, her Air Corps armor a muted blue and grey against the brown wasteland beyond. “Philosophizing, Dust?” she asks, a hint of humor in her voice. I manage half-smirk. “Something like that, boss.” There’s a rasp of metal, and I turn to see her flexing her metal wing. The sight makes me wince. “Wing playing up?” Dash grimaces, something she doesn’t do around any of the newbies. “It’s the high-pressure system moving in. Always gets a little stiff when that happens.” Being straight about her pain; another thing she never does around the newbies. Sighing, she shrugs. “Doc says it’s probably just in my head.” “Howzat?” Now it’s her turn to smirk. “It was another high-pressure system the day I lost it. Bad association or something. You know how the shrinks are.” Before I can say anything, she changes the subject. “New blood’s touching down in a few minutes. Time to give ‘em the old Whiskey Charlie welcome.” Casting one last glance at the once-beautiful hills, I turn my back on them with a sigh, scooping up my helmet as I do. The stupid thing is as clean as it can get (clean kit is a big part of survival it turns out), but it’s so fricking dented and weathered that it looks like dog scat. “How green are they?” I ask, slipping the battered thing on. “Green,” replies Dash. “Six fliers. Not one of them has combat time.” I try to keep the shock off my face. I fail. “Hot dang, LT, none of them?! This isn’t a rear airspace CAP, this is the Wonderbolts!” Rainbow shrugs as we start walking towards the airstrip. Emphasis walking, because we need time to think. “Best we could do, Dust. You know how strapped we are. Spitfire had to twist some tails just to get us top Academy grads. They’re good fliers, even if they’ve got no experience. We’ll make Bolts out of ’em.” “If they survive their first minute of combat time!” I shoot back. “Yeah,” says Dash more quietly. “If they do that.” I open my mouth to keep shooting it off, but Dash’s quiet resignation shuts me up. It’s not her fault Command keep sending us green fliers. Heck, it’s not even Command’s fault. All the experienced fliers are either committed, hospitalized, or dead. And most of these newbies will die the first time they hit the Furball, an unhelpful inner voice reminds me. I want to shut it up, but I can’t really prove it wrong. Average life expectancy for a new blood flier in full-scale air engagements (‘the Furball’ in parlance), is measured in minutes. “How long do we have to get them slotted into the squadron?” I ask, forcing myself to focus on what I can control. Rainbow’s laugh is bitter. “A whole seven days.” I want to spit. “Buck.” “Yeah.” We take the rest of the walk in silence. By the time we reach the airstrip, the new blood’s already touched down. We approach from the back, a move that lets us observe the newbies from a distance and decide how to handle them. I don’t like what I see. The newbies jostle and laugh and brag about how they’re going to take on the entire Crystal Empire by themselves. Dash chuckles dryly, absently removing her helmet to scratch at her torn ear. “They seem… spirited.” I’m not as nice. “They seem like a bunch of cocky little pissants,” I snarl. “Listen to those shiny drecks bragging like they’re gonna deck Sombra in his stupid face. What a steaming pile of dog scat!” Dash snickers. “So, I’m guessing you want a run at them then?” “Darn right I do! Those shinies need a good grounding if they’re gonna last five minutes out here!” Rainbow nods, donning her helmet. “So that’s how we’re playing it? Revere me, fear you?” “Yup.” “Alright then.” Her wings flare out, and I flex mine to match. “Showtime.” We take off silently, looping around so that the newbies don’t see where we come from, making it look like we just got back from patrol, or maybe that we were just waiting in the clouds looking down in disapproval. I’ve had ponies assume the latter before; I call that result. Finishing our loop and tucking ourselves up into the clouds, we align ourselves to the airstrip below. Then we fly. Bolts can be subtle when we want to be, but we sure as Tartarus aren’t known for it. Rainbow hovers for a moment, then shoots downward like a rocket, rainbow contrail in her wake. I’m on her wing, just a shade back, lightning ripping through the air behind me. As we come screaming in for a landing, I see the newbies look up, first in shock, then in terror as we blaze right for them. They stumble back in fear, but there’s no need. At the last second, we reverse thrust, dropping our speed enough to land with a shockwave rather than a splatter pattern. The dirt cracks beneath our hooves as we drop to a coordinated stop two yards away from the newbies – just close enough to make our presence felt, and just far enough for me to be able to glare at all of them at once. But the show’s not over yet. Two groundcrew appear on either side of us as if by magic, and Dash and I rip off our helmets, toss them to the groundcrew, give our manes a flick, and end staring down our muzzles at the newbies – Dash like an empress, and me like a judge. Celestia, I almost crack a smile as their jaws hit the floor. Gets me every time. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s showy and over the top. But if it’s one thing I learned from that crazy captain over at the 23rd Rocket Battery (Tricks or Trixie or something), it’s that ‘shock and awe’ is a legitimate tactic. Now that they’re suitably wowed and cowed, it’s time to make soldiers out of ’em. “Ten-hut!” I bark. Shakily they come to attention, forming a line so sloppy that I think Chief Master Sergeants Whiplash and Fast Clip just blew capillaries clear across the camp. This is the top of the Academy? sneers that inner voice. The newbies realize their mistake and shuffle into place, but it takes two full seconds longer than it should have. Pathetic. “Airponies!” barks Dash, her red eyes taking in the entire line. “I am Lieutenant Rainbow Dash, CO of Wonderbolt Third Squadron, known here as Whiskey Charlie Squadron. Welcome to Camp Meadowbrook and to Whiskey Charlie.” She pauses to let the greeting sink in. Now that they’ve gotten over their initial stupor, the newbies’ fear gives way to excitement. It’s hard to blame them. This is Rainbow Dash, the Rainbow Dash, the ‘Iron Wing,’ and she’s welcoming them to the Wonderbolts. They’re bursting with pride at the thought that they’ve made it; that they’ve joined the ranks of the best of the best. I remember that feeling. The newbies don’t quite start whispering excitedly to each other, but I can tell that they want to. One colt in particular. Blue coat. Red-orange mane. Cocky smirk and enough ego in his eyes to make even me blink. You’re marked, scat-head. “As you may know,” continues Rainbow, “combat fliers tend to refer to each other by their callsigns. Bolts are no exception. My callsign is ‘Crash.’ When you have earned your place with us, you may call me by that name.” At the mention of ‘earning’ their place, confusion replaces excitement. “Until then you may refer to me as Lieutenant, Lieutenant Dash, LT, or Whiskey Charlie One.” Several of the newbies risk opening their mouths in front of a senior NCO, no doubt to ask what Dash meant by ‘earn,’ but we’ve done this song and dance before, and she turns the reins over to me before they can get their words out. “Now, I’d like to introduce you to the mare who will be responsible for the final phase of your assessment.” Showtime. Stepping forward, I let my head dip down enough to shield my eyes behind my mane. When I whip my gaze up, my eyes are blazing. “Listen up you misbegotten, mewling, miserable excuses for enlisted ponies!” I roar. “I am Master Sergeant Lightning Dust, callsign ‘Hot Scat,’ but you putrid little sacks of scat will call me Master Sergeant or Sarge!” I step forward and begin pacing in front of them like a lioness stalking her prey. “No doubt your tiny brains are wondering what the Lieutenant meant when she said you hadn’t earned your place here. Well, let me clear that up for you.” I stop at the end of the line, setting my back to them. “The Wonderbolts are the best Interceptor Wing in the entire EAC. We have the pleasure of taking the unholy nightmares that weaker ponies laughingly call missions. Which means…” pause for effect, “… that any of you shiny boys who can’t hack it will not be staying.” Distressed murmurs start behind me, which is bad enough; only an idiot mouths off around a senior NCO. But what really gets my blood up is that some of them sound offended. Out of the corner of my eye I mark who’s making a fuss. Blue Boy (as I’ve dubbed him) is the most vocal of the bunch, with the silver-on-grey stallion next to him close behind. They were yammering before we showed up. Probably wingponies, then. Double the trouble. I glare one-eyed over my shoulder. “Did I give you maggots permission to bellyache?” I ask, my voice low. The murmurs stop. Turning, I stalk down the line, glaring each and every one of them in the eye. “I heard you creeps were all top fliers back at the Academy. Well, let me be the first to tell you that that doesn’t mean jack all out here. Maybe you thought you were hot scat back in the little two-bit burgs that spawned you, but here…” I stop in front of Blue Boy and give him a long look, “I am the only Hot Scat there is!” I wait until he blinks and swallows before I start stalking again. “If any of you shiny little punks last long enough to call me that, I’ll just have to write the princess and tell her I believe in miracles!” There’s yet another calculated pause in the performance – one that lasts long enough for me to gauge their eyes and body language in response to this little rant. Most newbies expect to leave the bootcamp experience behind once they qualify for the Bolts, but that ain’t how this works. In peacetime, getting into a top tier squadron means additional training courses that last months. In wartime, it’s down to a cold mare like me to weed out the weak and stupid. And by ‘stupid’ I mean ‘cocky.’ Blue Boy is definitely stupid. So’s Silver and an orange mare with green mane. All three of them look like they’ll just roll their eyes and laugh off this little speech the second they think I’m out of hearing range, current fear of punishment notwithstanding. The yellow-and-blue mare on the end of the line looks cowed, which is just as much of a liability, and the teal stallion next to her doesn’t look much better. How they managed to make it through bootcamp without breaking is a mystery if an angry nag like me is enough to get to them. Maybe the fact that we’re on the Front is making this worse, but it’s still gonna take some work to get them combat ready. The only one who doesn’t have ‘migraine’ written all over is a grey-cream mare with light brown and red hair and a red bow colored on her helmet. She’s clearly intimidated by me, but she’s holding her ground better than the last two. Not cowed, and not cocky. Good. I can work with that. I gesture to one of the groundcrew, a red stallion with sandy hair, a pleasant smile, and a blue patrol cap. “Specialist Sandmane here is the squadron’s quartermaster. He will show you to the bunks and get your gear stowed. He will also be responsible for any requisitions you need to make. Do not be deceived by his pleasant mannerisms and good nature. He is not your valet, your maid, or your mother, and he will escort you to the infirmary if you make the mistake of treating him like one.” The cocky ones all smirk as if I’m joking, the timid ones smile nervously, and Miss Not-a-Migraine hedges her bets with a half-smile. You, my inner voice declares to her, are my new favorite. “You have ten minutes to get your gear stowed. You will then report to the training field at 0950 and demonstrate to the Lieutenant and I why you think you should stay. Is that understood, newbies?” “Yes, Master Sergeant,” they reply in a lackluster and un-energetic fashion. My eye twitches. “Sweet tapdancing Celestia, I have been struck deaf for my sins!” I roar. “I said IS THAT BUCKING UNDERSTOOD?!” “Yes, Master Sergeant!” they bark. “Then get the buck out of my sight!” They beat an energetic retreat, almost forgetting to salute in their eagerness to follow Sandmane. From behind me, I hear a sound like sompony’s trying to force the air out of an inner tube. “You’ve sprung a leak, Lieutenant,” I snark, turning to see Dash trying desperately to suppress a snicker. “Does Smirks need to requisition some sealant?” “‘Sweet tapdancing Celestia?’” she echoes, shaking with barely restrained laughter. “What?” I chuckle. “They can’t all be winners.”