“War. War never changes.” ~Anonymous
The year is 1999. June 18th. The day of my birth. Born in FillyDelphia with my mom and pops. Mom was an earth pony who grew up on Appleloosa. Was in a family 7, if you can believe it. Had a Cyan blue mane/tail, and a rust orange coat; with beautiful crimson eyes. She loved her family but hated the farm they lived on. She high tailed it out of there as soon as she could. She had a talent that she was good at. Tried to write a book. Would explain her typewriter cutie mark. Father was a unicorn. There is not much to say about him. Not because I did not love him, but he was a straightforward stallion. An eggshell-colored stallion with a dark black mane/tail; with stern blue eyes. He never told me where he was from. All I know is that he loved me and mom dearly. They had met each other when my mom moved here to FillyDelphia back in 1997. They said it was true love after the 5th date. I always thought that the phrase was funny. It took them a year and a half to marry, and in the next half-year, I came to be born.
The following events that came were because of my birth. My parents did not regret having me, but I am sure they wished they did not have to live the way they did. My Father Before marrying my Mom had already planned on going into the military, and my Mom planned on writing her book. The first 5 years with me for them were brutal. My father was in the reserves of Celestia’s sentinels, a now-disbanded group of the military. While my Mother worked tirelessly on a book that would never be published. They only got by with the money they were given by their own families. She eventually gave up on it but my Father kept her papers neatly stacked in their bedroom. My father had to find something to help pay their bills, so as the strong stallion he was; he became a coach to a football team. That managed to get them by somewhat with their apartment bills.
Eventually, though, he was called into service when an insurrectionist group arouse in the west on our neighboring country. They threatened ponies across our border and my father left. At this point, I was a 6-year-old colt by now and my poor overworked Mother had to live in a small apartment in the southside of FillyDelphia. My mother had to work two jobs to keep up the pay my father used to be able to take care of. I rarely saw her at home, but when I did I was eager to become as annoying as a chirping morning bird. To her annoyance, I'm sure she was happy I was there. Even if I drove her insane. When the weekends came she had time off and took that time to spend with me after the grueling and terrible weeks of school I would have. And the unorthodox work she had for two jobs. She would often tell me of my Father’s military past; how my Father was in a line of stallions who served in every previous war prior. Those brave stallions who gave their lives to protect our rights as a country and world power.
My father was next in line to give his life.
In 2009, at the age of 8, I got the news that my father had been shot down in combat protecting a medic evac from incoming bullets from insurrectionists.
To make matters worse I did not hear it from my mom. I overheard a dumbass colt at my school mentioning that his father had told him about a devastating attack to Celestia’s sentinels at the Smoking mountains near the west border. I did not want to believe it, but I knew that my father had to be part of that. I didn’t bother sticking around at school. I ran and ran until my hooves ached until I got to my apartment. I barged past ponies from the stairs to get to the second floor. I fumbled to get my keys from my school bag and once inside I found my mother crying on the couch. At that moment my heart sank into a pit. My mother looked up at me with the beautiful crimson eyes she had, covered in tears. She was heartbroken. I walked over to her and hugged her with all my might, trying to keep back my own feelings. Of course, I couldn’t, and I bawled as much as she did.
For three whole weeks, my mom and I did not bother going to school or work. Who could blame us? On that third week, two soldiers came to our apartment and gave us my father’s uniform and the medals he would have received for his heroic act to protect his fellow pony. My mother was still not ready and bawled once again. The two decorated stallions took off their hats and had their heads hanging low apologetically. That following week we had a Military funeral. On the west side of FillyDelphia General Lockpin, himself had come down to talk for our father and great deeds him and his fathers have done for our country. Despite how sick I felt being there and watching my father's wooden casket being lowered into the ground, I was happy we had the military. The respect each soldier there showed was astounding. Both stallions and mares who had no idea who my father was, treated it like one of their own had died. Then the general came to me and my mother and gave my mother an engraved wooden box. I had no idea what was inside, but my mother was very thankful.
What I am about to write next, pains me. To this day I still feel a sharp pain mentioning it to anyone.
My mother no longer needed to work, the military was nice to compensate us in monthly pay for our father’s sacrifice. However, my mom was a loving hardworking mare do to her Appleloosa blood. Rather than quitting her two jobs, she went back to them. An English teacher and a steel mill worker. To my protesting, she told me it wouldn’t be fair for her management to let her be paid in a term of absence and then suddenly quit.
In the steel mill, she went to for her second job. A support beam came crashing down. She didn’t make it.
It was instant. I hated the world. Why did good ponies have to die? Why do they still die?
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Why am I the sole survivor?
With the pay from the Military and the company that got sued to the ground due to the fact one of their workers died under poor conditions, I could have been set for life. Could have been. I was not about to live out my life with the bits I earned for the deaths of my parents. And even though I was a straight B student at my school, I gave up on education. I wanted to shut the world out. I had no one left, well as far as I knew. It didn’t take long for me to be mailed a letter from my grandmother who lived up in Ponyville. Grandma Ann was pleading for me to come to live with her instead of alone in this crappy apartment. I don’t know what possessed me to not reply to her right away. Arrogance? Self-loathing? Either way, it took me almost half a year of living in FillyDelphia on my own. A young stallion at the age of 9 who was getting in constant street fights with the punks of the corner. Cuts, bruises, and broken bones. I got the trifecta. The only good that came from those fights, is I got good at doing them. It got to a point where I was being left alone rather than being bullied by older colts. I would carry a knife constantly, which got me arrested more than once. The only time I recalled not being hard-hearted is when I saw a pony being treated unfairly, or when an animal was in distress. I helped the ponies that were afraid of me, by warding off muggers or angry stallions. I fed the homeless animals around my apartment with the various foods I would buy weekly for my apartment. But I was still just as selfish.
Only when Grandma Ann herself came to FillyDelphia, is when I realized I was not completely alone in this world. The day she showed up on my unclean and unorganized apartment doorstep, I was wrapping up a cut I had gotten from a recent mugger. When I looked up and saw her there giving me the most heartful smile I hadn’t seen since my mother passed, I froze. Began to cry. I hugged her as hard as I could. She was old and frail, yet she made the hundred-something mile trip from Ponyville to come to get me. She told me I needed to come with her. I am happy to say I agreed. For the next 9 years, I lived with her. I learned discipline all over again, to go out of my way for others, and to treat these days I had with the utmost respect. If I could, I would do anything to bring my parents back, to say “I love you” to them one last time.
Instead, I live in their name and try to bring pride back into our family. It wasn’t until 2019 when I graduated from school. Passed with flying colors and had an A in physic, attended the cadets every year. Turns out I have a knack for military life, who would guess? Though I can see it on my aging grandmothers face throughout the years that I was following the same path as her son did. She supported me though, despite her discomfort for me joining the military she supported me because she loved me.
Eventually, I found myself wanting to be in the military as Grandmother Ann predicted.
After graduation, I took hours out of the day to keep myself physically fit to take on the challenges a soldier might come face to face within combat. Days without rest, without food, exhaustion, dehydration. Sometimes going days not being home, going into the ever-free forest near Ponyville. Fighting off the odd otherworldly atmosphere there. Worrying my grandma half to death for showing up covered in dried mud one night. That following morning she told me to come into her room where she kept all her family heirlooms. From a locked drawer, she brought out the same engraved wooden box General Lockpin gave my mother. Inside was a beautiful colt 1911 that she informed has been in our family since its original release. It had been used by every father since it was originally issued backed in 1911 and has been converted recently into a TACOPS model. The original wooden grip was inside, however, it recovered from the first Equestrian war.
That old wooden grip had scratched on stars for each stallion who used it prior to the second Gryphon war. However, the new TACOPS grip was specially made with a grip that compensated for all the stars who used this gun. My Grandmother would tell me if I was serious to go into the military, then I would need to get approval to bring this gun in as my sidearm. She did not doubt at all it would be allowed, seeing as how many wars it's been in. I was quiet for a while, staring down at it. Then I used the dark purple aura of mine to pick it up and get a good look at it. She definitely kept it clean since my dad had it.
She told me it has a name, “Etch”. I must have had a quizzical look on my face because she laughed at my expression.
She said that it was named etched because a great grandfather was a certain private that said:
“This is a fine piece of iron, I will etch my mark on it and make it mine.”
Hince the original Stars on the wooden handles in the box. She told me if I'm going into the military I was going to need to become a sharpshooter. From that day on I would take the spare magazines in the box and practice my shooting in the ever-free forest. There were a few times I scared a yellow pegasus out there, but she told me in the timidest way as long as I'm not scaring or hurting any animals, just to keep the noise down. Funny how that works. She would later be the header image for a ministry. I burned through months of ammo before I felt like I could even compete in basic training. Until that day.
That day... I went to the guard pony building and I made my official sign up to enter into the military. The 1337th Division.
This is where my life truly begins.