Armies run on order. Making sure that the right ponies make it to the right place with the right equipment at the right time requires organization, careful logistics, and regulations to keep things moving smoothly. Armies can’t function without order.
Unfortunately, this means that armies have a ridiculous number of rules. Back when I was a green airpony, I remember feeling like I spent ninety percent any given day just trying to figure out which regulations I could safely ignore.
As time went on, I realized I wasn’t alone in that. Give a group of soldiers long enough, and they’ll figure out which rules matter, when they matter, and how much they matter, in that order. Some rules, like “maintain your kit,” matter wherever you are. Other rules, you can let slide when the situation demands it, like when you decide to not wait a week for the requisition forms to get filed and just ‘acquire’ the kit you need for a mission you’re going on now. The best officers are the ones who know when to enforce the regs and when to be… flexible.
Take, for instance, Hooch’s Hooch. Officially, a civilian pony should not be allowed to take over a massive barracks tent, build makeshift benches and chairs out of leftover scrap wood, fill it with booze and food, decorate the place with a haphazard collection of war salvage, and operate an unlicensed restaurant and bar in the middle of a secure Equestrian Army encampment.
Unofficially, Hooch’s Hooch has become the linchpin of the whole First Army’s morale. And I do mean the whole army. Officers, enlisted, infantry, air corps, support, artillery— heck, I even saw Celestia drink here once.
In case you’re curious, she had imported Konik vodka with a picklejuice chaser. Downed it without blinking. Bucking horrifying. And she was enjoying it, too. I wanted to yarf just watching.
Anyway, the Hooch may be technically against the rules, but it’s got its own rules. Rule 1: no drinking when on duty, and no getting plastered even if you’re off duty. Rule 2: only senior NCOs and above allowed. Rule 3: Rule 2 can be broken if a junior enlisted is invited by a regular. Rule 4: if you’re the pony who invited a junior enlisted pony, you’re responsible for keeping him or her out of trouble. Rule 5: always tip Bubba.
Rule 5 is very important.
Rumor has it that Celestia personally asked the legendary brewer Hooch to open the Hooch in the name of morale, to give us somewhere away from the structure of Army life to drink, commiserate, and let our manes down. If that’s true, I may just have to kiss the princess’s hooves and offer her my firstborn to be her next protégé because hot dang do I need this tonight.
“What’ll ya have?” rumbles Bubba from my right. The big earthpony looks stupid dressed in his little apron and hat while his skin looks like it’s about to explode from the sheer size of the muscles bulging beneath. I’d laugh, except that I was here the last time somepony forgot to tip Bubba. I saw Bubba throw the guy out.
He cleared six tents.
“Firewater,” I say. “Double shot. Neighrish Death chaser. Some five alarm chili fries on the side.”
I hear Dash crack up laughing behind me as she enters the Hooch and swings around the table to take a stool opposite me. “Sweet Celestia, Lightning, are you trying to crap fire all night?”
“Gotta live up to the callsign,” I smirk, tapping the patch on my flight jacket that bears the unfortunate nickname. “Ole ‘Hot Scat’ gotta scat hot. And I got hate to burn off.”
Dash cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah, I got that much on the range today. You wanna talk about what you were—” Bubba clears his throat meaningfully. “Oh, sorry. A Hoppin’ Mad Raging Orchard or whatever’s closest. You got any kind of burger in stock, hay or otherwise?”
“Yup.”
“Do I wanna know what you scrounged up to make ’em out of?”
“Do you wanna know what we’re putting in Lightning’s chili?”
Dash chuckles. “And that’s why they invented ketchup. Burger, fries, and an antacid chaser.”
“Excellent choices, ladies,” rumbles Bubba, lurching off to the bar to fill our orders.
Dash is still laughing as he pulls away. “That guy, I’ll tell ya. Kinda reminds me of that stallion from Groundpounder Echo,” she says, referring to one of our ground support squadrons. “Bulk… something. You know who I mean?”
“Who, Roid Rage?” I ask. “Yeah, now that you mention it. Maybe they’re brothers.”
“Maybe who are brothers?” asks a new voice. I turn slightly to see a pair of mares from the Rangers trotting up – a yellow-coated lieutenant with a blue mane named Lemon Hearts and the speaker, a purple-on-purple captain who just happens to be the Twilight Bucking Sparkle.
When I first met Captain Sparkle – then a lieutenant – I thought she was a terminal egghead. And she is. She can kill a full-grown yak at twenty yards with a well-aimed lecture. Her mission reports are long enough to be stacked in blocks to build fortifications, and her brain is powerful enough to thaw a frozen river in the dead of winter just by thinking about how heat works.
She’s also happens to be a total hard case with a rep for making mincemeat of the Imps. She’s saved my squadron (including my sorry flank) more than once, so, terminal egghead or not, she gets a pass.
Plus, she’s got a really sly sense of humor once you get to know her.
Twilight pulls up a stool next to Dash. My boss nods to her before glancing up the other Ranger, who’s standing and scanning the room rather than sitting. “You gonna take a seat, Lemon?” she asks. The mare doesn’t seem to hear.
I roll my eyes. “Yo! Equestria to Lemon Hearts!”
“Hm?” she asks, finally noticing.
“You sitting or what?”
Lemon Hearts is a genuinely sweet mare. Off the field, she’s basically Battalion Mom. On the field though, she goes full Mama Bear and wrecks scat. Bottom line, she’s usually not the type to get embarrassed, so it’s weird when she blushes and looks away without answering my question.
Twilight comes to her rescue. “Actually, she’s here to meet—”
“Lemon Hearts!” calls out a stallion wearing the blue-and-yellow of the Wonderbolt Air Wing. My eyes widen when I see it’s the Wing’s XO, Soarin.
At his voice, Lemon perks right the heck up and trots over to join him at his table. Watching them it’s… pretty obvious they’re an item. Dash and I end up staring long enough that Bubba returns with our drinks, plus Twilight’s usual (a scotch-on-the-rocks in a vintage glass; never anything else) and leaves before we can react. Dash takes a pull of her cider and turns to Twilight. “When the buck did that happen?”
The unicorn shrugs and sips her scotch. “Two months, fourteen days, and six-point-three hours. They’ve just been pretty quiet about it until now.”
“Yeah, no scat,” I say. Twilight frowns instinctively at my language, because that’s the sort of refined upper-class mare she is, but she’s given up trying to better me. “You think you could have maybe mentioned your girl was going out with our XO?”
“I could have, but that would have been gossiping,” she replies, a touch coy.
I snort.
“Can they even do that?” asks Dash.
“No regulation against it,” says Twilight. “Believe me, I checked. They’re not in the same unit. They’re not even in the same branch. So long as it doesn’t impact their conduct on the battlefield, it’s a non-issue. They’re both professionals, and they’re keeping it genteel. Spitfire and I are keeping an eye on it, but we’re not worried.”
I take a gulp of my Firewater, letting the cheap whiskey burn down my throat. “Well, good for them. Nice to see something good come out of this lousy war.”
Twilight raises an eyebrow. “I happen to think that a number of good things have come out of this war. Our continued freedom for one. An opportunity to overthrow a tyrannical regime for another.” I roll my eyes, and Twilight’s narrow in response. “Don’t act like you don’t care, Lightning. I know you’re just as keen as Dash or I to keep the Imperial flag out of Equestria, and liberating civilians from enemy territory is a pretty good feeling.”
“Sure,” I admit. “When we actually get to do it. When was the last time we even saw civvies out here?” Bubba picks that moment to drop off our food. Rainbow grins and opens her mouth to make some smart aleck remark. “And the staff here doesn’t count.”
“Changin’ the rules mid-game, eh?” chuckles Dash. “Alright, if civvie support is off the table then it’s been a while.”
Twilight scowls. “The delay doesn’t make it any less noble when it happens. And in any case my first point still stands.”
That’s true. All of it. I don’t disagree with a thing.
But I happen to be peeved right now, so I’m being difficult for kicks. I smirk over my cheap whiskey and grouse, “Whatever you say, Twily.”
Rainbow gags with laughter at the nickname (mostly because she was taking a drink when I say it). Twilight just gives me a deadpan glare. “Call me that again,” she says with deceptive calm, “and I’ll tell Bubba you’re sweet on him.”
Now it’s my turn to gag on my drink while Dash almost falls off her stool laughing. Thanks for the moral support, LT. Twilight’s cold gaze suggests she isn’t kidding. “That’s dirty, Sparkle,” I finally respond, taking a few bites of my painfully hot chili fries to mask my fear. “I never expected a Filly Guide like you to be the first to bring out the big guns.”
Her grin is a touch unsettling. “You know the rules, sky jockey. ‘Rangers lead the way.’ Besides,” she adds before taking a sip of her expensive drink, “only my BBBFF gets to call me ‘Twily.’”
I raise an eyebrow and look at Dash for the translation; as an officer, she sees Twilight more than I do, so whenever the egghead drops some weird term (which is often) I check to see if her fellow commissioned ponies know the drill.
“Big Brother Best Friend Forever,” explains Dash.
That’s so saccharine that I almost yarf... or maybe that’s the chili and Firewater. Gad, I am gonna be on the crapper all night. “That’s sappy, Twilight. Even for you. Isn’t your brother some badass captain, too?”
“Well, technically the ‘Captain of the Royal Guard’ is a colonel’s billet with the term ‘captain’ being a holdover from medieval Equestrian custom—” Dash and I cut her off with fake snoring, “—which you would find fascinating if you weren’t total foals,” she adds snippily. “But, yes, he is, as you put it, a ‘badass.’ The donkey auxiliaries bestowed that peculiar honorific on him after the Battle of Trotter’s Pass.”
Dash gives the unicorn a light punch in the shoulder. “I guess good soldiering runs in the family.”
It’s funny to see one of the most bloody-minded soldiers I know blush and smile like a schoolfilly at the compliment. “Well,” Twilight says hastily, never comfortable with praise, “speaking of brothers, I believe you two were speculating about who in this army might be brothers?”
Following that mare’s train of thought requires a map sometimes. My eyes glaze over as I play back the conversation Dash and I had been having before Twilight showed up. “Oh, right. Yeah. We were talking about Bubba and that big stallion in the Groundpounders.”
“Bulk something,” says Rainbow.
“Roid Rage,” I correct. “His callsign’s Roid Rage.”
“And his name is Bulk Biceps,” adds Twilight. “I know him. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but good at what he does. He’s covered my unit a few times. And, yes, they do have similar enough facial structures that they could be broth—” her ears go flat mid-word and she blanches.
“What?”
“I just thought… their poor mother.”
Dash winces. “Ooh. That musta been a rough delivery.”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “Serious wonder mom there! Cripes, I’d like to meet the mare that could push out two of those babies. I’d shake her hoof, but I think she might break it!”
That earns a chuckle from the others. The table falls quiet for a few moments as Dash and I eat, but Twilight has that look. The one where she’s got her eyes fixed on her glass as she swirls the contents around absently, making her seem lost in thought before she says something serious. “You know, Lightning,” she opens, “I think you’d be fine. You’re a pretty tough mare yourself.”
I stop mid-chew. “Um… thanks?”
“It’s a tough job you’ve got, and I’m well aware of the Tartarus you must go through getting green fliers ready for combat. Still…” her eyes drift up to meet mine, “putting them on burial detail?”
Aw ponyfeathers. I swallow my half-chewed bite and cringe as it goes down square. I probably should have considered how Twilight might feel about dead Rangers getting used as a ‘teachable moment.’ I usually don’t give a rat’s rear end about offending ponies, but I’d never deliberately disrespect our dead. Plus, Twilight’s a friend. “Listen, Twi, I’m real sorry about that. I made sure they were respectful and—”
Twilight holds up a hoof to cut me off. “I’m not mad, Lightning Dust.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “The chaplain assured me they were respectfully laid to rest, so there’s no reason to be mad. Heck, it sounds like you were giving my ponies a chance to save lives post-mortem. I doubt they’d object. Still, I was wondering if it wasn’t maybe a bit much for fliers fresh out of training. They are still newbies after all.”
I glance at Dash before replying. Her expression is… hard to read. I know I’m in for a chat with her about this at some point. Is that about to happen while Twilight’s here to back her up?
If so, they should’ve called for more backup. Like Moon Dancer. I have no idea how to even talk to that mare without feeling stupid, much less how to win an argument with her.
Folding my forelegs I reply, “I dunno, Twi. Is there a way to prove a point like ‘don’t get your buddies killed’ that’s going too far?”
“Murder?” suggests a voice behind me.
Nearly jumping out of my seat, I spin to see a staff sergeant who looks eerily like a washed-out photo of Twilight with glasses.
Moon Dancer.
My first thought is, Son of Celestia, did they actually plan to ambush me with this? My second thought, upon seeing Rainbow Dash appearing genuinely surprised at Moon Dancer’s arrival, is Gosh dang it, I can’t tell if that’s genuine or if she’s just a really good actress!
“Say again?” I manage.
“I said ‘murder,’” repeats Moon Dancer matter-of-factly, as though ‘murder’ is a perfectly normal thing to just deadpan behind someone.
Chuckling, Twilight has some mercy on me and explains, “I think she was answering the question you probably thought was rhetorical. The one where you said, ‘Is there a way to prove a point like ‘don’t get your buddies killed’ that’s going too far?’”
Giving a tight-lipped smile, Moon Dancer says, “Exactly. Murder. That would, conceivably, be going too far.” Shifting her attention to the table as a whole, she says, “Good evening, Captain, Lieutenant, Master Sergeant. Might I join you?”
“Help yourself,” says Dash, waving her to an empty seat. “Heck, with you giving Lightning Dust a heart attack, you can probably just secure her leftovers and not even need to order.”
Moon Dancer allows herself an emotion and wrinkles her features in disgust at my choice of food and drink. “I think not,” she says before raising her hoof and saying, “Mister Bubba? A moment of your time please?”
Bubba acts like he’s taking her order. I say ‘acts like’ because, while Twilight never orders anything different, Moon Dancer always orders the same thing. That may seem like I just said the same thing two different ways, but it’s not. Somehow, Moon Dancer is so predictable in her ordering habits, so clinical, so precise that even Twilight’s consistency just somehow seems… less regimented by comparison.
Moon Dancer orders a glass of water and a bowl of plain oatmeal in a manner that’s somehow more complicated than ‘water and plain oatmeal please’ just like she does every time, and Bubba listens like he’s hearing it for the first time – which is something he somehow manages to do every time – and I sit here wondering how long it’ll be before we get back to the topic of an impromptu burial detail and Moon Dancer’s machine of a brain starts working on me.
Turns out the answer is ‘not long.’
“I assume the object of your discussion was Master Sergeant Lightning Dust’s unconventional enlistment of the morgue as a teachable moment?” says Moon Dancer the second Bubba turns to go put in her order.
*THUNK*
“May I conclude that Sergeant Dust’s banging of her own head against the table and resting it there should be taken as an answer in the affirmative?”
“That strikes me as a sound hypothesis,” answers Twilight.
“Neeerrrds!” I taunt. Unfortunately, having my head pressed against the table kind of muffles the whole thing.
Utterly deadpan, Twilight asks, “Did you hear something, Moon Dancer?”
“I did. It sounded as though somepony was casting aspersions upon us.”
“Indeed. And though it was rather muted, it seemed to be the words of an uneducated peon lashing out from jealousy at the breadth of our own mental faculties.”
“Quite right. ‘Tis a common feature of small minds, though we should perhaps not begrudge them the simple pleasures they are capable of.”
Bringing my head up to glower at them, I growl, “You know you’re only proving my point, right?”
“Most assuredly,” replies Twilight with a smile. “But you must not begrudge us certain pleasures either.”
Rainbow Dash taps a hoof on the table and smirks, “Maybe you just need to use smaller words.” Before I can retort ‘you’re one to talk,’ she looks at me squarely and says, “Like, ‘why did you think a morgue was a good place for an object lesson’?”
Raising an eyebrow, I retort, “Maybe because it was an objectively good lesson. It got the point across, and it stripped away the naivete about what the end of a battle looks like. Win win.”
“I am inclined to agree with Sergeant Dust,” declares Moon Dancer. “It was undeniably effective, and quickly achieved multiple goals.”
We other three all turn to her in shock. I find myself smiling. “Why thank you, Moony. Ain’t too often you agree with me on anything.”
“You’re welcome, Master Sergeant, and don’t call me ‘Moony’,” she says. “Though, I must clarify, I take this position purely because of sound logic and reason.”
“See?” I preen to the other two. “Moon Dancer thinks I’m logical and reasonable.”
“Oh, I never said you were logical and reasonable. I just said the actions you took are logical and reasonable. I can’t speak to your motives or mental state, but it strikes me that the concern Captain Twilight and Lieutenant Dash have is for your motives and/or mental state.”
Aaaand just like that she cuts me off at the legs.
“Bluntly put, Dancer, but fundamentally true,” says Twilight. “Lightning… this isn’t the first time you’ve cut into the new blood heavy enough for word of it to spread around the camp but, even so… you don’t usually lose your cool these days.”
I glare at Rainbow Dash, who immediately puts up her hooves defensively. “I didn’t have to say anything to her. You tore a strip off Fireball in front of an artillery battery, multiple crash teams, and a good section of the camp. Ain’t my fault ponies are talking about you in hushed whispers.”
“Not my problem they’ve got nothing better to talk about.”
“No,” says Dash evenly, “but it’s my problem if my master sergeant starts working out her personal demons on the new blood.”
My gaze drifts to her prosthetic wing of its own accord. Swallowing, I force my eyes down to my plate and take a bite of my food, barely tasting it. “That’s not what happened,” I mutter.
“Really?” demands Dash, “Because it sure as Celestia seemed that way to me. Seemed that way to the Rev too, and you know he’s better at reading ponies than any of us. Seemed that way to the groundcrew who said it looked like you were seeing red. You didn’t notice at the time, but Sandmane was stepping up behind you in case you started punching Fireball and he needed to haul you off the poor newbie!”
Sandmane had my back, eh? He’s a good trooper. He wouldn’t let his wingpony down.
“You saying I was wrong to be pissed?” I ask challengingly. “You want me to just let horse scat like that happen?”
Rainbow rolls her eyes and mutters something that I can’t hear over Twilight cutting in diplomatically. “Nopony’s saying he didn’t need correcting, even harsh correcting. Heck, Moon Dancer thinks you did objectively the right thing to correct him, and I might even agree. Our concern is that your method of correction seemed very personal.”
“It needed to happen,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“I’m not saying it didn’t. I’m just saying it seemed personal.”
My hoof slams on the table as I spring up from the bench. “It needed to happen!” It takes me a moment to realize that the buzz of conversation around us has trickled off as ponies either turn to look or very deliberately don’t.
Rainbow Dash, unmoved by my anger, looks up at me steadily and says, “See, it’s horse scat like that that tells me we need to have this conversation.”
I glance around the table. Rainbow, Twilight, even Moon Dancer are all looking up at me like they’re about to have an intervention for me.
Snorting, I step back from the table and start fishing for my bits. “You know what? I don’t have to take this.” I toss enough bits down to cover my meal – and tip Bubba – and turn for the door.
“Lightning, please,” says Twilight, seeming contrite. “I’m sorry if we pushed too hard…"
Dash sighs, “Sit back down, Hot Scat.”
“No.”
“I could make it an order,” she says, her voice sharpening.
My laugh is bitter as I walk away without slowing. “Rule Twelve, Crash: you can’t pull rank in here.”
“Technically,” Moon Dancer interjects, “she could just follow you outside where she can give you orders, and order you to come back in here.”
I stop without turning around, staring ahead at the exit.
Moon Dancer continues, “You could then be stuck in an infinite loop of leaving the Hooch while she cannot give you orders, exiting, being ordered to return, and then repeating the process. As interesting as that would be for me as a sort of impromptu study in the psychology of stubborn alpha mares, I hypothesize that you would become irritated rather quickly.” She pauses. “Well, more irritated than you already are at any rate.”
I stand there staring at the exit for a while. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe I’m torn between wanting to prove Moon Dancer wrong and being afraid she’s not wrong. Maybe I’m contemplating if I could get out the door and away before Dash left the table and caught up to me. Maybe I’m thinking about how neither Twilight nor Dash got me to stop but Moon Dancer, Moon Dancer, did just that.
Maybe I’m just peeved she has a good point.
I guess I should finish my food.
Wordlessly, I return to the table and resume eating.
Dash smirks. “Glad I didn’t have to chase you.”
Ordinarily I would have shot back a quip to the effect of ‘you couldn’t catch me if you wanted to,’ but that just brings back those blasted memories again. Instead, I just shoot her a look that says ‘bite me.’
Glancing at Moon Dancer, still not sure if I’m angry or impressed, I say, “Your train of thought’s all engine no brakes.”
“Thank you,” she says, dipping her head in acknowledgement of what she’s taking as a compliment. “But I apologize if I overstepped.”
I shrug. “Don’t sweat it. You I’m not mad at.”
“Yes, that would be yourself you’re mad at, wouldn’t it?” asks Dash innocently. I stop mid chew. Dash leans across the table. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You’re angry at the newbie, sure, but this is really about you still being mad at yourself.”
Forcing myself to finish chewing at a slow rate to give myself time to think, I try to come up with a way out of answering that question, or at least a convincing lie.
Judging by the look on Rainbow’s face, a half-chewed mouthful of fries isn’t going to buy me enough time to come up with either.
Swallowing, I take a moment to breathe before I say, “Brilliant theory, Sherclop. Care to run me through how you came to it?”
“I’m not an idiot, Lightning,” snaps Dash, not rising to the bait. “You never stopped blaming yourself for what happened. No matter what I say, you still blame yourself.”
“And just who should I blame, boss?” I shoot back spreading my hooves wide and gesturing around in a circle. “Who else could I possibly blame?”
Rolling her eyes, Rainbow Dash replies, “Gee, Lightning, I dunno, how about… the fricking enemy?!”
I snort. “Dash, you and I know darn well that the enemy never would have had that shot if it hadn’t been for my screw-up.” She opens her mouth to retort, but I don’t let her. “My screw-up got you hurt which put you in that position, and everything else flows downhill from there. I did that. Me.” I look her dead in the eyes, one real, one prosthetic, and ask, “Is anything I just said untrue? I don’t care how you feel about it or who you blame; is anything I said factually untrue?”
Rainbow Dash opens her mouth to snap back, then slowly closes her lips, clenching her jaw and sitting back with frustration stamped upon her scarred features. She sits that way for long, quiet moments before finally grating out, “No.”
With a bitter, smirking laugh, I conclude, “Then I guess I got good reason ta be peeved, don’t I?” Pointing one fry at her like an officer’s pace stick, I say, “Fireball is exactly the kind of cocky hotshot to get his wingpony hurt or killed if a mean nag like me doesn’t come down on him like the wrath of Celestia. And if I’m still carrying the fire of my own inexcusable screw-up, at least it’s keeping me focused. He is not going to make that kind of Grade A foul-up on my watch. And that, ladies, is the end of this discussion.”
The discussion really does end after that. Evidently deciding I can’t be reasoned with, the other mares drop the topic entirely and move on to other subjects. Or at least we try to. Twilight in particular tries to shift the conversation in a more light-hearted direction, but despite her best efforts it’s pretty stilted and forced.
Or maybe they’re having a better time and I’m just a wet blanket. I kinda hope it’s the latter. It’d be a bad sign on my end, but at least only one of us would be bitter and not all of us.
Twilight does eventually share a little bit about her reaction when she first found out that Soarin and Lemon Hearts were dating, which to her credit does lighten the mood and even gets some laughs out of me, but I still feel like I’m not enjoying it as much as I should be.
Though maybe that’s just one of those self-fulfilling prophecies – I assume I’ll be a bitter little nag, so I am.
Or maybe the cheap-whiskey-and-beer-and-hot-chili-fry slurry mixing in my stomach is the problem. Honestly, that’s a pretty safe bet.
Celestia that was a bad idea.
I’m at least able to share a few laughs with the other mares before leaving the table, citing an impending appointment with the toilet as the reason. The three of them remain at the table to continue their conversation.
I hope they spend their time chatting and having fun instead of wasting it talking about me and my ‘issues.’
As I walk vaguely in the direction of my tent – and the direction of the latrine, not quite sure which I’ll need first – moving slowly so as not to disturb the slurry, I find myself thinking about Fireball.
That dumb kid seemed to take the lesson at the morgue, but how can I be sure it’ll keep? Lots of lessons don’t really set in on the first try. Sure, a big, unforgettable lesson like the morgue should do it all in one go… but what if it doesn’t? Where do I go from there if it doesn’t stick?
I feel my lips curl in a frown. If burying dead brothers and sisters doesn’t drill that point through his thick skull, in one end of the brain, and out the other, then I’ll probably have to cut him loose. Doesn’t matter if he is a top-notch flier. A pony who can’t take that heavy of a lesson to heart after handling corpses all day is a liability to his entire unit.
So engrossed am I in thinking about Fireball that I almost trip over the idiot as I round the last corner before reaching my tent.
“Li- Master Sergeant Lightning Dust!” he barks out, scrambling to his hooves and saluting.
“Sweet curb stomping Celestia, Airpony, what are you doing sitting in the road?!” I snarl.
“I…” he swallows and braces more fully to attention. “I was waiting for you, Master Sergeant.”
An awkward silence stretches between us. Sighing, I prompt, “Because…?”
I see his facial muscles working as he tries to formulate his response. “I wanted… I wanted to apologize properly, Master Sergeant.” My eyes widen with surprise. “My behavior was… inexcusable, and unbecoming an Airpony. I understand now that I was out of line, insubordinate, and above all, careless about the lives of my fellow soldiers.”
That sounded more scripted. I wonder if he rehearsed it by himself or if the others ‘suggested’ he do this. Given the lack of bruising, I’m guessing that if there was any suggestion, it was merely verbal. Maybe Angel Wings or Silver. Maybe all of ’em. I’ll have to keep my ear to the ground, maybe ask Sandmane to look into it.
Whether they put him up to it or not, though, he did apologize, and… looking at his eyes…
“It was inexcusable, Airpony,” I say bluntly. He winces, but doesn’t slacken his at attention posture. “Insubordination hurts discipline, which hurts unit cohesion, which hurts unit survival. But even that is nothing compared to the callous disregard you showed for the lives and safety of your fellow soldiers. If you’d pulled a stunt like that in combat, I would have busted you out of the Air Corps and you’d be lucky if that was all I busted before I sent you home.” There is an almost imperceptible tremble in his legs, and I can see his breathing become more rapid. Good. He's listening. “But…” I say slowly, “the fact that you now seem to realize that means there’s some hope for you yet.”
I stand there in silence for a moment, looking him over.
After letting him sweat for a while, I say, “Make it up to me – and up to your squadronmates – by taking this lesson to heart. Your apology is accepted. I expect to not need another one. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant,” he replies, managing to keep his voice from trembling.
“Good. Dismissed, Airpony.”
He salutes again. This time I return it. As he turns to leave, another thought bubbles to the surface. “Airpony Fireball?” I say.
Turning, he answers, “Yes, Master Sergeant?”
“Look me in the eye, Airpony,” I order. Once I have his gaze, I continue, my voice quiet, “Nothing I could do to you would ever compare to the feeling of knowing that somepony got hurt or killed because you mucked up. If that fact doesn’t seep into your bones so deep that it’s not even a thought anymore but an unquestioned fact of life… then you’re not a Wonderbolt, or an airpony, or even a proper stallion.” I pause. “Don’t make that muck up.”
I see his lips quiver, and his voice is husky as he replies, “I won’t, Master Sergeant.”
Oh sweet Maker on high, I hope that’s true. “Get some rack time, Airpony. You’ll need it.” We exchange salutes again and he leaves.
Was he telling the truth, I wonder? He certainly seemed to think so. And maybe he’s even right. As I stand in place for long minutes after his departure, I can’t help but turn the possibilities over in my head.
An ominous rumble from my stomach at least clears one possibility up for me.
I’m definitely visiting the toilet before the bunk tonight.