Core

by totallynotabrony

2: Fun and Games

“That sounds terrible,” remarked Rarity. “And that was just the first day?”
Rainbow laughed. “Looking back on it, things weren’t so bad. The next two days seemed easier, probably because I learned what to expect. Wedneday during the first week was a turning point, though. Everything got a lot harder from there, until Saturday when they promoted us to Officer Candidates.”
“So the first week is kind of like initiation?” asked Twilight.
Rainbow nodded. “That doesn’t mean it gets easier after that, though. It’s just difficult in different ways.”
“How did they compensate for you?” asked Fluttershy. “Surely there are only certain things a pony can be reasonably expected to do.”
“All the Candios went through a special course before I showed up and my class team got even more training than that. None of them really made a big deal about me, and kept things professional.” Dash shrugged. “Yeah, sometimes I got off easy because none of them were sure how to handle a certain situation. Other times, I got the short end of the stick.”
“And knowing you, you weren’t about to let them know they got the best of you,” observed Applejack.
Rainbow laughed. “Yeah, there were a few times I got hurt. Nothing too serious, though. I guess it wouldn’t have been a big deal if they pulled me out for three weeks to heal up so I could join the next class, but luckily it never came to that.”
“There’s a three-week gap between classes?” asked Twilight.
Rainbow nodded. “My class, 19, came in three weeks after 18. We had a few people ‘roll in’ to our class from 18 because they had medical issues.”
“Wow, that doesn’t sound fun at all,” observed Pinkie.
“Well, not while we were Indocs.” Rainbow smiled. “We were entertainment for those in charge, and it sure wasn’t fun and games for us.”

The zero-five wakeup call was the sound of someone kicking open the door at the end of the p-way and shouting, “Reveille, reveille! Get up!”
All the Indocs were quickly shuffled through the head to brush their teeth and prepare for the day. After that, they donned poopy suits, war belts, and chrome domes before being ushered down to the front of Nimitz Hall to a waiting bus.
“Eyes forward, no talking!”
The bus trip was relatively short. In only a few minutes, the bus reached the base’s front gate and turned into the parking lot of NHCNE located just outside.
The medical building was sleek and modern with lots of glass. The Indocs were not allowed to look at it, and were told to study their gouge in the waiting area.
A blood test was the first thing scheduled. Dash had never been a fan of needles, especially those that weren’t guided by precise magic. The civilian nurse seemed to do a good job, however, despite unreassuringly commenting that it was the first time she’d had a pony as a patient.
Dash went back to her designated seat and began studying again. Time passed at a snail’s pace. With nothing but a booklet of dry information to memorize, it was a mind-numbing wait.
Dash’s name was called. To her surprise, a stallion wearing a lab coat was waiting for her. He stood beside a man who wore a Navy doctor’s uniform.
The two of them walked Dash back to an exam room. “I’m Doctor Feather,” said the pony. “I’m on the board of pegasus health at Canterlot General. I was asked to come for your special case.”
The man nodded to Dash. “I’m Commander Hawkins. I’m the flight surgeon for OCS.”
The mare spotted a silver rank insignia on the right collar of his blue uniform and a Medical Corps gold oak leaf on the left, both things she remembered from the gouge.
Talking to the two of them, Dash was asked to review her medical history. Feather helped Hawkins translate a few Equestrian civilian records to United States military ones. It all went into a thick folder with her name on the front.
“We’ll keep the records and give them to you after graduation,” explained Hawkins. “In the meantime, you’ll be here for the rest of the day and probably be back for a few follow-ups over the next twelve weeks.”
Deciding that she could be a little less formal around the doctor, Dash said, “It sounds like a lot of paperwork for you, sir.”
Feather chuckled. Hawkins smiled. “You’re going to have to help me with most of it. If you want to be a pilot, that’s just part of the deal. It’s one of the most medical-intensive careers in the military.”
Dash had heard that before, but figured it was worth it. What was a little paperwork compared to twelve more weeks of being shouted at?
She was escorted back to the waiting area. The boredom set in again. Cold meals were brought. Sandwiches, chips, and fruit. Even in the air conditioned building, Candidates were still ordered to hydrate. Occasionally some of them would be called for procedures.
Dash was put through eye exams, hearing checks, reflex tests, an electrocardiogram, x-rays, and other things she had never seen before. By the time the Indocs were herded back on the bus late in the afternoon, she felt a little envious of the easy life lab rats must have.
Some members of the class had received glasses from NHCNE. Contact lenses were not allowed, and civilian glasses were generally not as sturdy as issued spectacles. The unfortunate Indocs who needed them were given giant-sized eyeware made with brown plastic frames. The Candios referred to them as BCG’s—Birth Control Glasses—because they were so ugly. They were also—ironically—called "fancy portholes."
Before going to dinner, the class was taken back to the NAPS classroom and given a demonstration of eating by the numbers. A female Indoc that Dash hadn’t seen before ran though the procedure for the benefit of the rest of the class.
She wondered where the new person had come from, and why she seemed experienced. Later, during a head break, she found out that the woman, Lambert, had been a former member of Class 18 before getting a skin infection. She had been held for three weeks to heal as part of something called H Class before rolling in to join 19.
Dash found out later that H Class was where Candidates were held while waiting for a new class. It was generally regarded as being basically Indoc Week, but three times as long and more boring. It was run by Gunnery Sergeant Cothic, a man who had an almost-legendary presence. While it was a fact that he was trained as a Scout Sniper, other stories ran wild. It was said that he sometimes dropped out of trees to scream at unsuspecting Officer Candidates. There were whispers that he had once put on a poopy suit and covertly gone through Indoc Week for fun. Another popular tale involved a crossbow that he supposedly kept in his office.
Lambert refused to speak about any of that. She did seem to be very proficient, her time in H Class providing extra experience. Eating by the numbers was relatively simple, yet incredibly irritating to do. It was a series of steps that Indocs would be required to perform while eating. Head down, pick up the utensil, take a bite of food, put the food in the mouth, put down the utensil, head up, chew, swallow, drink. Repeat.
“You should look like a robot! That means you’re doing it right!”
That was not encouraging. At dinner that evening, the Indocs practiced, with advice shouted at them from all sides. Taking time for each individual step slowed down eating considerably, and several in the class found that the allotted twenty minutes was not enough to eat a whole meal.
Dash, of course, would never let herself be too slow at anything. Being allowed to skip silverware also helped.
The entrées were different, but the rice, potatoes, and starchy foods were the same as the previous day. The glass of water and glass of thick sports drink were also familiar.
After time was up, the class was ordered back to Nimitz. Dash couldn’t believe the day wasn’t over yet, but there were still hours to go.
The first stop after dinner was the armory. Each Indoc was issued a deactivated M16A1 rifle. Ugly welds on the sides of the weapons showed their status as harmless.
“You will lock your weapon up in your war locker. You will never leave it unsecured. Ever. Twenty five demerits await if you do. Make sure to memorize the serial number. And never call it a gun.”
Demerits could be handed out by the class team for nearly anything. All demerits had to be worked off before graduation. The way to pay back one demerit was to find a DI or RDC and ask them for ten minutes of supervised pushups and situps.
The issue of drill, maneuvering the rifle in sync with the rest of the class, certainly wouldn’t be easy for Dash to accomplish without fingers. That was where Claws came in.
Ponies requiring enhanced dexterity could get a set of hooks that fastened to their forehooves with a band. They rather looked like blunt claws. Dash had brought a set along.
The rifles wouldn’t be used for a while, however. The wardrobes—called war lockers—in their rooms were secured with combination locks the Indocs were issued.
The rest of the night was spent with marching practice. With a large group of people, some of them terribly uncoordinated, it took hours just to get in step.
After a shower, Dash fell into bed, skipping the informal meeting of Indocs in the hallway. She’d been awake for seventeen hours straight, which might be close to a personal record. While it had mostly been sitting around in a health clinic, she still felt tired.
Wait, that was only this morning? It feels so long ago… Not having access to a clock was messing with her perception of time. The Candios advised that the days would pass like weeks, but strangely the weeks would pass like days.
Leest came back to the room shortly and filled Dash in on the news that had been passed around. The medical testing had been to clear all of the Indocs to participate in the Initial Strength Test, which was to occur in the morning.
Dash’s ears perked up. Athletics? Finally! She fell asleep, a little happier than before.

In the morning, the door was kicked again. “Reveille, reveille!”
Dash had woken up in the middle of the night, the consumed water needing release. In the alcove in the kill zone, a blue-clad man was stationed. His hat was pulled low, and Dash couldn’t see his eyes. He ignored her.
She noticed the clock that was usually hanging on the wall was facedown on a desk. There was no way to tell what time of the night it was and whether she should bother going back to bed before wakeup. It was slightly frustrating to be denied time, something she had taken for granted.
This was only the third day at OCS, and not knowing what time it was had begun to grate on Dash’s nerves. She said as much to Leest as the two of them hurried to finish their preparations in the head later that morning.
“I know,” agreed the woman. “I don’t think we’re allowed to have wristwatches for a couple more weeks. I never thought I’d say this, but I really wish Flava Flav was here right now.”
“That rapper with the clock around his neck?” Dash laughed.
Bang, bang. “Quiet in there!”
After only a few minutes to get ready, all the Indocs were taken outside, carrying along their canteens. There was a field of grass behind Nimitz Hall. At the edge of the field was Narragansett Bay, the waterway that reached far into central Rhode Island. At such an early hour in the morning, the sky was still dark and the two-mile-long suspension bridge that spanned the bay near the Navy base was illuminated with white lights and a single red beacon atop each tower. It was actually rather scenic, and Dash caught herself staring.
The class was put into a blocky formation and stood on the road between Nimitz and the athletic field for a few minutes. This morning, the Candios were wearing the same blue shorts as the Indocs, but had shirts printed with a fancy custom design. Dash thought perhaps that each class got them when they graduated to being Candios. That would be a long time for 19-12A.
Speaking of classes, 19-12B was present this morning. It was the first time the two Indoc classes had seen each other. It was nice to know that they weren’t alone. Any sense of camaraderie was quickly dispelled, however.
“Both of you, one-nine-one-two Alpha and one-nine-one-two Bravo, will compete to be the better class! Remember, it pays to be a winner!”
Dash barely suppressed a smile. I like the sound of that.
Each class was led onto the field and arranged around a table. Upper classes, 18-12 and 17-12, were also there. Dash could see a few people in those classes wearing knowing smirks as they looked at the new Indocs.
A Candio jumped onto the table. “Good morning!”
“Good morning, sir!”
“The first morning exercise will be toe-heel rocking.”
“Toe-heel rocking, aye, aye, sir!”
“Begin!”
It was certainly a good thing the upper classes were there or the Indocs would have been lost. It was simple enough to follow the person on the table through various exercises, although Dash had a few problems. She didn’t have toes or heels, for example.
She soon realized that these were merely warmup stretches. The real test would begin soon. After the exercises were done, the Indocs were taken down the block to a brightly lit athletic track. It had a red rubber surface and a football field with artificial turf in the center. It was there that the Initial Strength Test took place.
Each Indoc was tested on how many pushups they could do in two minutes, how many situps in two minutes, and how fast they could run one and a half miles.
Dash had no problem with pushups. She naturally used her front legs for walking, so they were already used to holding up her body. The situps were another story.
Each Indoc was paired with another. Leest held Dash’s back legs as she crossed her hooves over her chest and began to do situps. The pony was at a disadvantage because her legs didn’t bend like a human, and she had to sit up further each time.
Dash had practiced the exercise before coming to OCS, and couldn’t believe that she wasn’t doing well. She had far surpassed the minimum required number of pushups. In fact, her score had been one of the highest in the class for female or male. Her pitiful amount of situps was just barely over the minimum and left her abdominal muscles in agony.
"You better work on your core strength, Dash! How can you improve the rest of your body if you've got a crappy foundation?"
There was plenty of opportunity to redeem herself on the track, however. Ponies were naturally faster than people, and Dash was especially fast for a pony. She easily finished a whole lap ahead of any other runner, barely breathing hard.
The class’ canteens had been placed in a block formation where the Indocs had been standing previously. Dash was told to get hers and begin marching around the formation while sipping water. She did so for several minutes all alone before other members of the class began to show up. They all marched until the last Indoc was finished running.
“There are a couple of you who are going to be getting orange belts,” said a Candio. Glow belts, made of reflective nylon material, were passed out. Most were bright yellow. Dash noticed that a few people—those who hadn’t met standards—received orange ones. The glow belts would be worn constantly for the next nine weeks with all uniforms until Class 19 became Candios.
The class was taken back to Nimitz and given ten minutes to shower and change clothes. After that, breakfast, and on to the rest of the day.
Most of the time was spent on marching, along with a few basic rifle drill maneuvers. Dash was clumsy with the weapon, and got yelled at several times.
Through the course of the day, the Candios managed to introduce the class to a few places they would come to know well. Kay Hall was next to Nimitz. It was a large gymnasium with a wood floor. It was where most of the drill would be practiced, and also where the graduation ceremony would eventually be held.
Also of interest, for completely different reasons, were three sand pits. Next to Nimitz was the original SUYA, or “Sand Up Your Ass.” Near the bay was the Rose Garden. The smallest pit next to the chow hall was referred to as the Cookie Jar. Visiting all three in rapid succession was called “getting triple crowned.”
“This is the worst way to get RPT’d,” explained a Candio. “It’s harder to do everything in the sand, plus it gets everywhere on your body, which is why we gave you a plastic bag for your gouge pack. And if it’s a really bad day, they’ll bring out the water hose to make mud.”
RPT was Remedial Physical Training, a punishment the class team could give. Candios talked big and loud, but they were not allowed to do anything of the kind.
The day ended with a talk about what was to follow. Each member of the class would get a chance to be the Section Leader for a day, the one who vocalized orders for the rest. The day’s Section Leader had responsibility to make sure the class was doing the proper thing. That duty would begin after Indoc Week.
The biggest point of the Candio’s talk that evening was “Wakeup Wednesday,” the class’s introduction to their team. It would be loud, and it would not be pleasant.
Navy OCS prided themselves on the moniker, "Navy owned, Marine Corps trained." It was a technique to add a little fear of the unknown to the Candidates, but also promote inter-service cooperation.
After another hurried shower, the Indocs were allowed to rest. And they needed it. Dash stayed up just a little later, doing a few situps. The only way to get better was practice.

At 0500 Wednesday morning, the door at the end of the p-way was not just kicked open, but slammed against the wall so hard that Dash practically felt the reverberation.
More than a dozen angry, ear-splitting voices filled the air, demanding that the Indocs get out of bed and stand on line now.
Without letting up, the whole class was ordered to do pushups and situps, and then directed to run out into the kill zone. Not once did the shouting let up.
The group of antagonists consisted of DI’s and RDC’s. The Marine Drill Instructors each wore a tan camouflage uniform, black patent leather belt, and a hat that Dash had heard called a “Smoky Bear.” The Recruit Division Commanders were dressed in the blue digital pattern Navy Working Uniform, with red braided cords around their left shoulders.
For ten strenuous minutes the workout continued. Dash kept up, but felt that she might be getting singled out. She had four separate people get in her face about some minor complaint, for instance not doing pushups fast enough. She was sure that nobody was doing them faster, but it seemed that there was no pleasing these people.
“All of you get back to your p-ways and make a hygiene call, then get ready for PT!”
Didn’t we just do PT? thought Dash. It seemed that physical training was going to happen every morning regardless of how much RPT beating they had received.
The rest of the day was not any more pleasant. It was just like how the Candios treated them, except somehow with even more shouting. And RPT. Furthermore, they were even more picky about Indocs screaming at the top of their lungs when they said anything. Somehow, impossibly, the class team was able to overpower their combined voices. Dash wondered if superhuman screaming was a requirement to get the job.
“You aren’t giving enough effort! You aren’t coordinating your efforts together! All I see is individuals instead of a group!”
Class 19-12A’s introduction to their DI left a lasting impression. Gunnery Sergeant Johns was not very physically imposing, in fact there were several people in the class that towered over him. If Dash had to guess his appearance based on attitude, however, she would have thought he was twenty feet tall. From his tan boots to the top of his shaved head, everything about him demanded respect.
Or, in his words, “I’ll RPT you all until your friggin’ hearts explode!”
Chief Valdez was not a polar opposite, nor was his attitude a likeness. He was a thickly-built man who said little but observed everything. There was very much a good cop-bad cop dynamic at play between he and Gunnery Sergeant Johns. When needed, however, his voice and actions were just as loud and commanding.
Meals were somehow even less enjoyable than before. Not only with the enhanced shouting, but the class team was also much better at spotting discrepancies than Candios. Not a single Indoc escaped without some kind of tongue-lashing. At least they weren’t allowed to get RPT’d in the chow hall.
The class was also organized into their official formation. It would stay the same for the remainder of OCS. With a critical eye, Gunnery Sergeant Johns put each of them in the place that he liked best. It was organized into four squads. Squad one was always closest to the DI. It seemed that the tallest person in the class was made the leader of the fourth squad and height descended towards the front of the formation and the back of the squads. Being the shortest, Dash was put at the end of squad one. That meant she had no one to hide behind and any mistakes she made were fully visible to the DI. Consequently, the next few days were not fun at all.
Bravo Company was occasionally seen around the base with their DI, Gunnery Sergeant Salucci. Every time Alpha’s DI saw them, he would scream about being better. Dash detected a good-natured rivalry between the Marines, and it seemed clear that they enjoyed pitting their classes against each other.
There was a brief respite on Thursday when all the Indocs were marched to the uniform shop on base to get fitted for the clothing they would be wearing later. They all carried empty sea bags over. Each member of the class was issued three complete sets of NWU’s, two sets of khaki, and one each of Service Dress Blues, Summer White, and Dress White uniforms.
In Dash’s case, the other uniforms would be sent away to a tailor used to fitting for pony anatomy—specifically her friend Rarity in Ponyville. The NWU’s would be required the next week, however, and their fit was a little more forgiving anyway.
The rotation of Indocs through the fitting rooms went slowly. Those that were not occupied, were of course ordered to study gouge.
Dash picked up the small package of name tags that would be sewn to the NWU blouses and trousers. If she wouldn’t have gotten in trouble for it, Dash would have smiled, seeing her name spelled out in gold embroidery. Despite the challenges she had faced so far, there was no way she would quit OCS. Sure it was difficult, but surely things would be better when she got to wear a proper uniform.
Thursday was far from over when the Indocs were marched back to Nimitz, their sea bags full. Most of the evening was spent with rifle drill. It was much more demanding now that the DI was in charge. After a little practice, Dash found that it wasn’t too difficult to lift the rifle, pull the charging handle, set the bolt release, inspect the chamber, release the bolt, and lower the rifle, all on command. The difficult thing was doing it in sync with so many others who had different anatomy.
“Week five! That’s when the drill competition is!” shouted Gunnery Sergeant Johns. “If you do not beat Bravo Company, you are in for a very rough rest of OCS!”
He had been saying things like that for quite a while, and every time the Indocs were required to acknowledge with “Aye, aye, sir!” Every time, they were harangued about not answering loudly or quickly enough. Of course, then they were required to respond again. It was a feedback loop of screaming and RPT.
That evening at chow, Rainbow took a sip of the thick sports drink and the sugar in it scorched her raw throat. She had shouted so much that every word made her head ache as if her brain was being rattled, but she had no idea that so much volume could actually cause physical wounds to her esophagus.
In telling that story later, Leest agreed. The woman’s own voice had changed pitch over the last few days, enough that she hoarsely joked that it would be impossible to sing The Star Spangled Banner because her voice wouldn’t go that high anymore. Then she tried for fun and realized it was actually the truth.
The Candios kept the class up a little later that night. Friday was another milestone. In the morning would be an event called Outpost. Sea bags stuffed with many of the things the Indocs had been issued would be carried around the base for a strength and endurance test.
Boots were turned upside down and placed near top of the load. That way, the toes would act as an edge that the Indocs’ arms could use to support the bag. Dash felt worried. She would be required to carry thirty or forty pounds of gear clutched to her chest while standing on two legs. Along with situps, it seemed like ponies were simply not built for such exertion.
In the morning, the Indocs were allowed breakfast and then a short break to make sure everything was packed properly in the sea bags. After that, DI’s and RDC’s slammed their way into the building and the event was on.
Each Indoc picked up their bag and was ordered to walk down the stairs and out the front of the building. The path set by yelling voices directed them around the building to a piece of grass beside the galley. All the bags were dropped, and RPT was applied.
Dash was grateful for the chance to let go of the bag. Strange that getting beat was actually more enjoyable for once. Soon, however, the Indocs were ordered back to the bags. They made another quarter revolution around Nimitz, ending up in front of the Rose Garden. Once more, it was beating.
Dash kept her head up slightly, watching two DIs look off in the distance towards the bridge as if admiring the scenery. They checked their watches, seeing that Outpost was going according to schedule. She realized that to them it was just a job. Their assignment was to do this to Indocs. While they might be passionate, it wasn’t personal. That made things a little more bearable.
The cycle of carry the bag, drop it, and do RPT went on. Dash’s back felt like it was on fire and her front legs were fatigued from constantly supporting the loaded bag. After leaving the Rose Garden, the Indocs were beat in the parking lot behind Nimitz, the athletic field, and on the sidewalk in front of Nimitz. Dash sighed with relief as the group was pointed toward the building’s entrance. Then she remembered that there were still stairs to contend with.
Gasping for breath, the mare finally made it back to the p-way where she had started. When told to drop the bag for the final time, Dash nearly fell forward on top of it. Her muscles twitched after being asked to do so much. While she was in excellent shape, a stallion or an earth pony would have had a much easier time of it. If there were going to be no concessions for species, then Dash certainly wasn’t going to make excuses for her race or gender.
The Indocs were given a break, only as long as it took to get their poopy suits laundered. They had all sweat a lot. The class spent the time in the p-way studying. The mood, even if no talking or smiling was allowed, was generally upbeat. Those that had passed the test were through the hardest part of the first week. Those that hadn’t were rolled back to wait a few weeks for the next class. The only thing left of Indoc Week was Welcome Aboard, the next morning.
The rest of the day seemed to fall into routine. Drill, marching, and quality time with Gunnery Sergeant Johns. The man was slightly less scary now that the class had been exposed to him, but none of them slacked off, or at least not for very long.
When he was in a good mood, the DI would point to an Indoc who had made a mistake and order them out of the formation. Chief Valdez would then take them out of the room for ten minutes of RPT. When the DI was not in a good mood, the whole class would suffer for the mistake of one. It was clearly unfair, but none dared say so.
That evening, the class was organized by Candios to have elections. They needed bodies to do various jobs. Medical Body, Mail Body, Religious Body, Laundry Body. Some positions, like Adjutant and President did not have “body” tacked on to the end of the title. Dash thought President sounded like a good job for her.
Each Candidate wishing to run for a position was allowed to make a short speech. Dash watched as the elections played out. When it was time for Mail Body selection, a Candidate named Meyer stepped up. He listened patiently to others who listed their various character qualities before simply stating, “I used to work in a post office.”
As it turned out, experience and a simple speech was worth more than any amount of blustering. Meyer got the position by a landslide.
When it came time to run for President, Dash tried to copy his style. “I know a lot about leadership from the times I’ve talked to Princess Celestia about it.”
That turned out to be exactly the right thing to say, and Dash was elected President of Class 19-12A. A tall man named Oberta was elected as Vice President.
That evening, she dropped into bed tired and sore, but the happiest she’d been all week. Her new title was a great accomplishment, and so early. She was somewhat concerned about a warning that a Candio delivered to her. “Don’t feel bad if you get fired. No first President ever lasts, and your DI might fire the next couple, too. Sometimes they do it for fun.”
Dash told herself that she wouldn’t slip up and let that happen.
As she lay in bed, Dash shifted uncomfortably. Outpost had been hard for many of the Indocs, but her especially. She didn’t think anything was permanently injured, however, so she didn’t mention it.
It didn't help that the bed was rather uncomfortable. All the Indocs had learned that it was easier to simply sleep on top of their already-made beds and just touch them up in the morning, rather than making them every day.
When the door was kicked in the morning, Dash was stiff and in pain. She managed to get her poppy suit on and stand at attention with the rest, but she was suffering.
Welcome Aboard was similar to Wakeup Wednesday, only about twice as long. The Indocs were “introduced” to everything around their training area.
“Get on your faces for pushups! This is your p-way! Get up and run! Get on your backs for situps! This is the kill zone! Get up and run! This is the DI p-way and you never come here without permission! Get up and go out the door! On your faces! This is the SUYA! Get up! Get down! This is the athletic field! On your feet! Get back in the building!”
The event was not the hardest thing the Indocs had done during the week, but with the aches from the day before it was still more difficult than it seemed. Dash made it back to the p-way with the rest of the class, breathing hard but with a sense of satisfaction. They were all ordered outside again, through a door they had never used before.
Outside, in a cove-like area between two wings of the building, stood three classes. 17 and 18 were formed up on the sides, with the Candio class facing the Indocs. For once, the DI’s and RDC’s were not screaming. It seemed surprisingly quiet and somber.
The Indocs were told to sit. They were given granola bars and bottles of water. The Regimental Commander of the Candio class stepped forward. “Class one-nine-one-two, you came to us as Indoctrination Candidates. Over the past week you have shown that you have what it takes to be successful. You are now Officer Candidates and we welcome you to the OCS regiment.”
He followed up with introductions of the major Candio staff as well as the Presidents of the two upper classes. By this point, the new Officer Candidates had finished their refreshments and were ordered to stand. The whole regiment began to sing the Marine Corps Hymn and Anchors Aweigh, two songs from the gouge pack. Dash was still a little shaky on the words, but it was the first time she had ever felt truly united with those around her. There was no music, most of the voices were rough and hoarse, and the walls around them had terrible acoustics, but to a tired Class 19-12, it sounded beautiful.
Dash took stock of the class as they retreated back to their p-way. Forty two had begun the week. Four had been lost, but two from H class had appeared, bringing their number to an even forty. Bravo class had similar numbers.
Now that Indoctrination was over, the real fun would begin.