//------------------------------// // 4. Boot Camp - Part II // Story: Millennia: Beginning // by Thunderblast //------------------------------// Today already sucked. Not because of the extensive exercises forced on us day after day with more presumably to be expected within the next few minutes, but simply due to the soreness plaguing every square inch of me from the moment I woke. Every crucial muscle in my body, in addition to Celestia knows how many I have never in my life used prior to now, seared with the anguishing pain of a thousand fires, minus the part where my flesh melts away. No singular movement I made, not even the most minor, went without sending a deep, jabbing ache that internally creaked my tendons. Hell, not even gym back in elementary was this awful, and I strongly loathed the teacher of that class. Now, here I am, wanting him back. I wanted all of it back. Why did I have to grow up? Better yet, why for the love of all things good did I sign six years of my life away for this shit, again? Catching decent sleep at night was no simple task, either. While the constant exercising drained the final ounces of energy in me at the end of the day, it had its consequences. The same routine every morning, afternoon, and evening did my ailing body no justice. By lights out, five minutes was spent slipping into bed alone. Any quicker and I felt as if I might disintegrate, and shifting to new comfortable positions woke me to more surges of pain. The one-minute showers granted to us twice a day, while not borderline scalding hot to my personal preference, did help somewhat, albeit for a brief period of time. Standing beneath lukewarm water as it came out of the head on the wall provided relief in the form of relaxing my throbbing muscles to the point where I developed a light tremble lasting until it was time to get down and dirty once more. Granted, the perpetual aching was also a good thing; an indication of physical development. As mentioned by Hardstaff a day ago, pain is just weakness leaving the body. While motivational, it did essentially nothing to aid the inflicted suffering. Day two of week one and eight days after arriving in Manehattan, the comfort of my bed at home never sounded so lovely. The peace and quiet will be long missed, I knew that from the start. Every morning thus far has kicked off with a three-mile jog from the east wall to the west, followed by a half-mile run to the chow hall for breakfast. Turns out, there were two separate mess halls to occupy recruits for either branch occupying the base, and the only reason we saw a pack of Navy recruits the first night was once in a blue moon, such as when one place is closed for maintenance reasons. Sailors referred to theirs as the Galley. Ours was just called the Chow Hall. Damn seaponies and their fancy jargon. After the fiasco that was P-Days, we were told to expect anything, whether that be laps around the track or fifty crunches in the Dunes; a large flat area filled with sand solely for training purposes, built to simulate desert conditions with gigantic fans along the edges. When I say the weather has been in our favor thus far, I mean for us conscripts. For all I know, Hardstaff and Huss probably pray every night for a freak monsoon so the Dunes turn into a thick, goopy mess that can swallow a pony whole. Maybe that is their plan all along, so they don’t have to put up with us any longer. Either way, here’s to hoping we will be long finished with it by the time the first storm of boot camp rolls through. On top of the physical stuff, we had tests in the form of written exams to be concerned about. As compared to the ASVAB, which tested basic subjects covered throughout grade schooling, the advancement quizzes, consisting of thirty questions each, asked about basic military knowledge, the eleven general orders, as well as Equestrian military history centering around the Marine Corps. It was later brought to our awareness that these tests would return near the end of boot camp, so our performances now didn’t hold much significance—although, a reasonable score would be satisfactory. It just gives us more of a chance to study, barring the few or majority that did so for some time prior to enlisting. Given I didn’t know much apart from the Marines being the most respected branch of them all, this helped quite a bit. If anything, I had more knowledge on the Army from Dad’s experiences, and how he handled the household in the years after his discharge. Even then, it wasn’t a whole lot to run by. Come day four, when slowly waking at the reveille’s patriotic wail, as if by queue, the sergeant’s commanding tone rang out across the barrack, sending a shock to my crumbling system. “Conscript Star Shooter! Get your ass moving, on the double!” Yep, today already sucks. *** Like the gears of a machine working nonstop, I felt as though my joints desperately needed oiling in order to avoid locking up. The cracking of my bones itself was embarrassing as I moved in formation, and every gentle stride I took met with newfound soreness from hoof to shoulder, even past my chest and back to where respiration itself gradually became more difficult, albeit not to the point of straight-up suffocation, and the mere pulsating across my body deprived of what energy I had regained overnight. I wasn’t old, but reaching my teen years determined I wouldn’t nearly have the exuberance of a foal. It doesn’t mean, at nineteen and slightly out of shape, that I should be popping all over like an elderly mare, either. If this doesn’t turn me into a laughing stock at some point, even if it is just to the sergeant or our instructor, I don’t know what will. To my relief, however, it seemed to alleviate the aches a little. Eventually, most of the pain throughout my body utterly vanished, bound to return this evening in yet another one-two punch. For now, I was regenerated. Led by Hardstaff under the soft blues, yellows, and oranges of daybreak, we lined up over symmetrically-placed white markings in the cement before our barrack. They were there for the ponies who had more trouble figuring out their position in formation, though no one in our training unit really needed them anymore. Upon halting, to our surprise, there was no sign of the gunnery sergeant anywhere. Yet, that is. Typically he meets us out here at the end of our base-wide march, leading to some suspicions as to what was going on. But, of course, all good things must come to an end. The older, emerald-coated stallion, donning his dark brown, leather campaign hat and uniform seemingly emerged from the early-morning shadows, gradually approaching from the left to pull up beside Hardstaff. “Well, lookie, lookie. A bunch of little pussy fillies who think they’ve got what it takes to be stallions and stand up to fight for their country. Disgustin’! And y’all still haven’t quit. Fuckin’ perfect!” he spat, the wad of his saliva landing short of the hooves of the stallion on my right. “Admittedly, y’all did somewhat decent yesterday,” he added, letting his tone soften. Based on what we’ve seen so far, that is almost never a positive sign off the get-go. At that, I numbly tensed. The gunnery sergeant then started down the line, menacingly glaring down each pony he passed before halting in front of one for a good few seconds in attempt to break him. It didn’t work, and he moved on. “But ah ain’t done with y’all yet,” he snickered in a rather sinister manner. “Today, y’all move on to sit-ups and crunches to go with yer push-ups.” Blinking in bewilderment, the very same light yellow unicorn to have garnered an honorable punch from Huss days ago, spoke up. “Sir, aren’t sit-ups and crunches one in the same?” In a flash, the gunnery sergeant was up in poor Solar Wave’s face, looming over the much younger stallion. If the sun were up and behind Huss, his shadow would have cast completely over the unicorn. “Did ah give ya permission to speak, Conscript?!” “N-no, Gunnery Sergeant!” sputtered Solar, struggling to maintain attentive posture and prevent from looking up into Huss’ wrathful cores and probably fearing for his life right then. I saw it in his stance, the faint tremble he sported, he expected to be struck down. “That’s what ah fuckin’ thought!” the gunnery sergeant shouted, backing off a moment after, much to everypony’s surprise. “Let this be a lesson to you dumb fucks. As so stupidly and incorrectly pointed out by yer fellow conscript, no, they are not one in the same! I don’t wanna hear no moanin’, no cryin’, nothin’ when ya start.” Standing just a couple paces ahead of a smirking Hardstaff, the gunnery sergeant’s terrifying violet irides scanned across our group. “Y’all will see just why they ain’t the same.” “Conscripts!” called Sergeant Hardstaff as soon as Huss finished. “On me, single file!” Lovely, more walking. Just what I need right about now. *** “Conscripts! What is the first general order?!” barked Hardstaff, taking long, slow strides up and down the line. “To take charge of this post and all kingdom property in view!” we answered in near-perfect unison. There were a few who needed reminding, and hearing others speak served as that to where they joined in mid-sentence. “Good! What is the fourth general order?!” he shouted, turning around to walk the other direction. He was testing us, checking whether or not we were studying. “To repeat all calls from posts more distant from the guard house than my own!” “Eighth general order!” “To…” there was hesitation between everypony. “To talk to no one except in the line of duty!” “Wrong!” he yelled, whipping around and stomping his forehoof into the dirt. Even I felt the strain in his vocal cords. “That’s the seventh general order! Drop and give me twenty!” At that, a collective groan emanated from around. The night-blue pegasus’ ears stood up. “Shall I make it forty, conscripts?!” Without any hesitation, we dropped at our own pace, making an effort to synchronize our push-ups to where we could call out in a non-confusing manner. First time this happened, we had ponies shouting the number they were currently at while others addressed differently. It was a total clusterfuck. With some practice, we called, “One, Sergeant!” with much improvement in timing compared to earlier in the week. Upon finishing at twenty, we rose to all fours at firm attention. Boy, if I don’t pull any more muscles by this evening… “Third general order, go!” “To report all violations of orders I am instructed to enforce!” “Excellent! Ninth general order!” “To call the Corporal of the Guard in any case not instructed!” “In any case not covered by instructions!” Hardstaff corrected. “I’ll let that one slide. Fifth general order!” “To quit my post only when relieved!” “Second general order!” Out loud, I yelled, “To walk my post in a military manner, keeping always on the alert, and observing everything that takes place within sight or hearing!” However, the majority of the group responded with, “To salute all officers and all colors and standards not cased!” completely drowning out my answer. “Wrong! Drop and give me thirty!” Damn it, you screwed us all! was what I wanted to call out, but knowing if I did would result in punishment in the form of an extra number being tacked on. At least I was gradually improving on my push-ups it seemed. A film of sweat coated every last area of my body from forehead to flanks, dampening the single t-shirt I wore with a notable wet stain down to the midpoint of my chest with two more in my pits. Flames ran up the length of my arms to my shoulders, pulsing between intensities every time I pushed up and grunting softly as I did so. Hunger-induced weakness was beginning to settle in, and each push-up gradually slowed as a body-wide tremor left me struggling to keep up with the others. While I can imagine breakfast wasn’t too far away, the incremental passage of time made it seem so. The movies made this exercise seem so much simpler than it actually turned out to be. Even though I found myself churning out more each day with less effort, I simply could not understand how anypony is able to make fifty in one minute, let alone double that in twice the time, the universal requirement for all recruits by the end of training in a little over ten weeks. Thirty was pushing it in my case! “Faster, faster!” the gunnery sergeant barked, trotting up on my side. My attempts to pick up the pace were abruptly cut short by the older stallion’s hoof kicking into my wing. The blow, while admittedly not as strong as I took it to be, came off as a shock to my system and forced my hooves to completely give out from underneath. I fell flat to the dirt, heaving for oxygen. Two more knocks, this time to my shoulder, turned me almost on my right side. Withdrawing a step, the emerald-coated instructor snarled, “Pathetic! Get up, Conscript!” Shakily, I turned upright and returned to push-up position, only to receive another hard smack to the muzzle that I barely managed to prevent from knocking me down again. Dipping his head, putting his muzzle near my ear, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “On your hooves, dipshit! On your fucking hooves!” causing me to wince. Without a moment spent hesitating, I leaped up and stood tall, despite my body’s persistent tremble. I was in trouble now. At least, he had me convinced that I was. “Look at me, Conscript!” The second my gaze shifted to him, a powerful blast of frigid water initially struck my chest, before moving up to my face. It caught me so terribly off guard that I lost all sense of awareness for a good half-minute. I fell backwards, forced onto my flanks while attempting to fight off the relentless stream from a fire hose held by a Marine corporal on the gunnery sergeant’s side. Turning my head away did nothing in my favor, and the water kept on coming. At least now I could breathe this way, though now I basically exposed my bruised, albeit healing cheek to the violent jet. Grunting, clenching his teeth, the gunnery sergeant shouted over the roaring torrent. “You weren’t supposed to fucking look, damn it! Get yer ass back up and take it like a stallion!” Holding just one forehoof out in front of my face to deflect at least some of the water as it pushed against me, whilst also spraying a few of the surrounding recruits as consequence, I did reluctantly manage to stand back up against the current. Without getting back on all fours, however, I immediately returned to what I was doing. While slower than I had hoped for, my pace held steady, even with the constant spray of icy water splashing against my forehead. Though, I must confess, the cold sensation against my burning skin worked wonders and prevented me from overheating. However, with each push-up, my limbs felt more like cooking pasta in a boiling pot the longer I persevered. They wanted to give out on me for good, even when the stream of the hose redirected to another troubled recruit. But I wasn’t about to let that happen. By now, I was determined not to fail. Soaking wet and dripping into a larger puddle around me, I pushed on. “Come on…” I mumbled to myself, making attempts to quell my strain-induced grunts. My pace had gained ground as my muscles readjusted to the rhythm of my exercise, leaving the pervading tenderness in my body behind in the dust. “Time’s up!” called the gunnery sergeant, nodding to the corporal beside him, who pulled a lever on the nozzle to cut the flow of water. At his word, I fell flat to the ground once more, face pressed against the soft, drenched grass. Each breath I drew in was deep, but burned my lungs as if they had spontaneously combusted. My heart beat at such a rate that, if a medic were to check right this second, he or she might not even detect a pulse. Worse yet, it throbbed in my ears, drowning out the sounds of other recruits struggling to their hooves and the combined yells of Sergeant Hardstaff and Gunnery Sergeant Huss. Just barely did I make the instructed count, and the pride within fluctuated above the amount of pain I now lay utterly motionless in. It was one step closer to the set goal. And I would have to do it yet again this afternoon, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and so on. But by the end of this week, I’d be ready to take on fifty. “On your hooves, conscripts! It’s time to hit the chow house!” shouted Hardstaff, glaring his ice-blue cores across all fifteen of us at once. Quite honestly, I didn’t want to move for a few minutes. Or a few hours. Why not a few days? Yet I couldn’t disobey a direct order. Fighting against my knees that ultimately felt like noodles, I succeeded in being able to sustain my own weight just a little while longer. *** The ten-minute break that was our breakfast could not have come sooner for me. Before we could head inside and grab our food, Hardstaff and the gunnery sergeant held us short of the door so we could one by one enter, calling our number in line ahead of addressing them. Being as hungry as I was, that spiked the impatience in me, and I so desperately wanted to just run in. That would have ended disastrously for me, though, and it would be my stupidity that costs my fellow recruits. My stomach had been rumbling since the moment I woke—or, more like, was abruptly woken. Thankfully, the only line between me and the pony serving up trays of hot and ready oatmeal with a small side of fresh fruit was four of the recruits ahead of me, being ninth in line into the chow hall. What we were provided with would suffice, just until lunch rolls around in some four and a half or five hours. I couldn’t be bothered to keep track of time anymore. It didn’t matter much, given the amount of micromanagement put into our daily routine to make sure everything ran accordingly and that we were on track for graduation in mid-September. Anything I did, the fifteen of us in all did as a group—no, a squad. That’s what we were. That’s what we are set to become in due time. Like usual, I took a seat at one of the emptier tables, minding the gap placed between myself and the other conscripts. Even though nopony interacted with one another, I still preferred keeping distance. For some odd reason, outing myself from the rest in free time such as now was a preference of mine. Smacking a pack of plastic utensils by their ends and removing the wrapper they sat in, I took the spoon, dipping it into the steamy brown goo. To most ponies back home in Canterlot, they would absolutely freak at the sight of this dish. Of course, the food at boot camp isn’t exactly meant to appease the aristocrats. Not that I cared, anyway. As long as it keeps me fed and alert on the training grounds, it goes on in the pipe. While not exactly like glue, the oatmeal here had a kind of viscosity that most would find utterly nauseating, especially the nasty, squishing noises it makes every time you move your spoon around; not to mention the thin little sticky tendrils that stretch between the two surfaces as you lift it to your mouth. In fact, I’m sure television food critics would have a hayday in regards to virtually every meal at the chow hall, not just the oatmeal. But, on the plus side, it wasn’t an MRE. I chewed slowly. Somehow, without using it for more than responding to name calls and yelling 'Sir, yes, sir', which wasn't very often mind you, my jaw was in similar amounts of pain as the rest of my aching body. “H-hey there,” came a docile-esque, quiet voice from just in front. Looking up from my breakfast, on the opposite side of the table stood a beige-coated unicorn with a two-toned greyish-silver mane, roughly my size in height and of similar build, holding his own food tray in a deep crimson hue. “Can I… sit here with you?” he questioned at my mere acknowledgement of him, smiling innocently. I stared for a good couple of seconds, blinking twice. “Be my guest,” was my response, done quietly so as to not attract any of the instructors watching over us. Roughly two weeks in and conversing between recruits was still prohibited. “Thank you,” he whispered, gently lowering his metal tray before seating himself directly across from me. Anxiously, the beige pony carefully studied his surroundings. “I think I’m in the wrong place.” “What makes you say that?” I queried, shoveling in a spoonful of cinnamon-flavored oats before taking notice of the ‘NAVY’ in small, bold white lettering across his right breast. There’s the obvious answer to my question. My hoof froze just before I could take another bite, gaze lifting to meet the young stallion’s magenta irides. “How in the hell did you screw that up?” At that, he turned dead pale with angst. “I-is it bad?” Damn it, look what you did, Star. Now he looks like he’s gonna flip out over a slight mishap. Wait a second, you would, too. “Well…” I began, offering a bit of a sheepish smile in return. “This is the Marines’ hall.” In swift response, the unicorn’s face fell flat to the table with a thump, gently shaking our trays. Into the flat surface, he let off a muffled groan. “Damn it all, Silver, you did it again…” I cocked my head a little at his remark. “Not your first time winding up in the wrong spot, eh?” He gave a slow shake of his head against the table, only lifting it when he finished, sporting a saddened, worried look on his countenance as he made steady eye contact. “Twice in three weeks. My RDC is going to skin me alive for the others to see.” “RDC?” I questioned, puzzled. “Navy version of a gunnery sergeant, I presume?” “Recruit Division Commander,” he nodded. “We get more than one. Actually, we get three. I hear they’re pretty well balanced between mares and stallions here as far as RDCs go.” “Huh, you learn something new every day,” I commented lightheartedly, hoping to lift the poor soon-to-be-sailor’s mood. The unicorn brought his head up off the table, giving the faintest of simpers in response, lifting an orange slice in his magic. “Heh, yeah.” With that, he softly chewed on the small portion, though that did not stop him from talking some more. “What’s your name?” Unlike him, I took a brief moment to completely swallow. “Star Shooter. You?” I replied, taking my own peeled orange by the hoof and splitting it down the center to begin pulling apart the individual slices. “Silver Edge,” he answered. Oddly fitting, considering the off-center silver streak straight down his stone-grey mane. “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, retaining a low volume and keeping to short responses. It was small talk mostly, though I suppose it is a start for making friends here. Not like I have many to go by back home anyway. At that, he beamed a little. Only a bit. His demeanor definitely changed after our little exchange. I suppose that counts as my good deed for the day. Now, hopefully, he doesn’t speak for the duration of breakfast. It would be nice to stay out of more trouble today. “S-so…” he began meekly. There goes that wish. “Where are you from?” I didn’t rush as I forced the bite of oatmeal down my tube. “Coltlumbus.” “Oh! I hear that is a nice city.” My gaze flicked up at him, coming off in a way that might have startled him inside. I shrugged to retain an approachable appearance. “It’s alright, I guess. I wouldn’t recommend living there. I live in Canterlot now.” “Oh.” A faint blush lit up on the beige unicorn’s cheeks, seemingly in embarrassment. At that, he went quiet for a few moments to catch up on eating, before another question arose. “So, what made you join?” Having returned my attention to my food, I only partially processed the query. “Pardon?” “What made you choose the Marines?” he repeated, offering a thin, friendly smile. I blinked a couple of times, setting my spoon down on the edge of the glass bowl. For only a moment or two, I mused over my answer, then gave another shrug of my shoulders. “I don’t… really know, honestly,” I said, meeting his magenta sights softly with a primarily neutral countenance. “I guess, I kind of needed a job, and something to get me out of the house more often. I got fed up with being lazy and relying on unemployment pay to get by, even if it was plenty.” I then curtly and quietly chuckled. “I sound like the exact opposite of what any normal pony would die to have for their lives; be comfortable and not have to work without a worry in the world. But it’s just not fulfilling. I feel like I was born for a purpose other than to sit around and be lonely.” The last part said was completely unintentional and rather out of the blue. Yet it felt strangely relieving to unravel and say it at last for what it was, and that was the truth of my life. However, despite the somewhat dark turn of the discussion, Silver simply perked his ears in curiosity rather than droop them in pity. “Oh. So just seeking a change of perspective, huh?” I let myself relax a little, slumping gently over the table and my tray. After a moment, I nodded. “Yeah, that sounds like a decent explanation in short words.” The unicorn smiled once again, raising up his fruit cup with his hoof. “Well, good for you! It’s that kind of initiative that sparks something great in ponies.” I gave a third shrug, but simpered in my own indiscernible way. His outlook on the world was something, and I could only appreciate it and him. “You’re right, it does.” While I might not have shared his apparent enthusiasm, seeing his added a pinch of confidence in my case, albeit insignificant. He tipped his chin in what I could assume was a kind of nod. “So, what’s it you want to major in?” “My… major?” I blinked, puzzled a tad at first. “You know, your rate!” he added just a second ahead of plopping a tangerine slice in his mouth. “I don’t know if that’s what you Marines call your jobs, but hey, we gave birth to you!” “Right…” I nodded in partial acknowledgement. “Uh… I don’t know. Tracking? Radar stuff? If I’m going to be on a ship, that is. I hear Marines go on sea tours now and then.” “Oh, yeah! The vast majority of all Marines go on ships at least once in their enlistment, because there isn’t much else to do in peacetime! That, and you guys serve as a secondary defense force.” “So… maybe?” I cocked my head with a sheepish look. Frankly I was clueless as to my direction in the service right now. Hell, I didn’t exactly give myself enough time to decide. “I don’t know. Weather stuff seems cool, too. I used to be real passionate about it as a colt. Still kind of awes me today.” “Well, if they put you with a radar screen, you will surely be at least taking some climate data here and there. That’s a given,” he said, taking a two-gulp swig from his own milk carton. “I suppose,” was my response. Damn, he knows his stuff. But, please, stop talking before somepony calls us out, went my conscience. “What made you join the Navy?” I returned, as the huge hypocrite I was. “I kind of have a passion for the ocean. Not a big one, but enough where I don’t mind it. My dad thinks I’m crazy for finding a slab of region with water miles deep and thousands of square miles across even somewhat attractive a view, but I think it’s more than that. Oh! And my uncle, the youngest of them, he’s a chief petty officer on the Gibbous!” My head tilted again, this time out of genuine curiosity. “The Gibbous?” “Guided missile destroyer, one of many in the Lunar Fleet,” beamed Silver proudly. “I wanted to tour it way back, not long after its first or second tour below the Zebrican Peninsula, but… I never got the chance,” he faltered, only to perk again shortly after. “But since then, I’ve wanted to serve with my uncle, or perhaps even under his command one day!” “Heh. Well, that’s an aspiring dream.” Sadly, I don’t think it works that way, though I could be wrong. I wasn’t about to break that news to him here. “I hope you make it.” “So do I, man. So do I.” He smiled warmly. “But, if not, I’ll happily settle for a submarine or something.” At that, a sudden chill crawled up my spine, causing me to shudder. “Submarines…” Silver’s eyes widened just a little, and he frowned, taking the appearance that he had been offended when, quite clearly, he wasn’t actually. “What? You don’t like them?” “They creep me out.” I shivered some more, ruffling my feathers and re-sparking the aches in my tendons. This time, I disregarded the pain to continue. “The idea of being a few hundred feet under the ocean in a dark, cold pressurized tin can just doesn’t sit right with me, especially when we don’t know all that is down there.” “Hey, it can’t be that bad! They’re actually quite large with plenty of room! Hell, you’ll probably forget about it after a while! Just probably have to get used to sharing a tiny room with three others, but that’s with all vessels. They’re big. Small, but big.” For a moment, I had trouble computing what he had just said, so I simply nodded in response. “Well, to me, it’s not natural. None of it.” I insisted, but in a moderately playful manner to where he could tell I wasn’t trying to strike him down. “And I refuse to get near one, not even in drydock.” He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I think it would be pretty damn cool!” A last shiver of my body was the icing on the cake, going back to my food. I could tell he wanted to talk more about subs with the amount of restraint I noted on his mien. Fear or no fear, it was best if he went quiet now. I think somepony was getting on our case at last. *** Any time now, and I can quit hurting all over. Any minute. Any second. Any hour. I begged, and begged, though unlikely at this point that my cries will be answered, let alone heard. Yet I had to constantly remind myself that, despite being here for eight days already, today was only the second damn official day. September was quite a ways off, regrettably. It was a few minutes from bedtime, at long last. After yet another long day of workouts, it was on to… yet another long day jam packed with, you guessed it… workouts! Showering did little to quell the aches this time. By now my nerves have probably passed the point of no return in terms of pain, and it was just a constant thing that will never go away. I didn’t even know what it is like to be completely normal anymore. Sergeant Hardstaff was hard on us off the get-go. Now I long for those days to return. Maybe they will, should something absolutely terrible happens to the gunnery sergeant. Yeah, like a train accident. No, wait. Training accident. That’s more like it. Maybe somepony will grow fed up and shove him off a platform to his death or something. It’s bound to happen. Wait a second. Did I just let myself get on a roll with intrusive thoughts? I wouldn’t actually kill somepony, even in self defense. Why would I? What good would it do for me? The old prune probably has foals—ones that are probably in their twenties or thirties by now, but foals of his own regardless. Those contemplations were fairly and oddly common with me. Heck, weren’t they with everypony from time to time? If not, that is concerning. But I’m pretty certain that I am not the only one to get intrusive thoughts now and again. At first I worried I took a wrong turn and was slowly working myself to becoming just a psychopath. That was, until one night when I did a little bit of online research and discovered that I might not be one just yet. But if anything does drive me to absolute insanity, it will be these next few months. Maybe to the point where I don’t feel pain anymore. Isn’t that how all ponies are molded into soldiers, sailors, and Marines? I sure hope so. Otherwise, I’m screwed. “Yer clothes are as wrinkly as mah granny’s ass cheeks! Hell, even she has less wrinkles!” I heard from a few racks down, before my attention was really grabbed. “Conscript Star Shooter, get yer ass over here and help out yer comrade!” Not a second after swiveling my body to face the two, my gaze met with the stabbing glare of the gunnery sergeant; but more importantly, the icy, menacing look of the pony presently taking the brunt. He was a tall, dark brown earth pony. Draft, to be precise, and he had hazel cores with a mane as black as tar. Two seconds spent briefly examining this stallion from afar told me he was somepony not to trifle with his family. Or anytime. Then I refocused to the gunnery sergeant’s command. Hesitating none, I marched down to the other conscript’s rack and discovered just why Huss was furious and made such a vulgar declaration—and quite frankly, it wasn’t all too inaccurate; most of the conscript’s clothes were simply tossed into his hooflocker with no thought, and those that had been plucked out for inspection were wrinkled to hell and in desperate need of a quick run in the dryer. Unfortunately for him, we ourselves did not have access to such a luxury. That’s another thing I wouldn’t have expected, to not have to wash our own clothes. Just fold and store them properly. Why is that difficult for this guy? He is clearly an adult like the rest of us; surely he should know how to. Without so much as waiting for the gunnery sergeant’s order, I brought out the rest of the conscript’s tops and laid them out across his bed, folding and piling each one by one atop the other until a single short neat stack stood on it. Upon finishing, I placed the stack gently into his hooflocker, allowing to fit snugly inside with a little bit of room to spare, where Huss smacked the lid shut mere inches from my own hoof as I pulled it away. “Nice t’ see somepony wasn’t raised in a damn barn!” the gunnery sergeant grunted with a snort, stomping away as we both snapped to a semi-attentive stance. We broke posture to return to what we were doing prior, and as I turned to head back to my own rack, the draft stallion bumped me intentionally. Had he been around my size, I wouldn’t have stumbled over a couple of feet like I did, immediately snapping my head to flick a cold glance at him. As condescending as can be, he muttered on his way past while dipping his head slightly to my eye level, “You better watch your back, boy.” For some odd reason, it wasn’t exactly his size that intimidated me. Perhaps the tone of his voice? I dunno. I would have thought he’d be thanking me for being voluntold to save his ass. Instead it seems I have made an enemy already. Before I knew what to think next, the room went dark, and the gunnery sergeant’s voice rang out one last time. “Light’s out, maggots!”