Blackacre

by Princess Woona

Iron Boot

12 February, Y.C. 970
Foal Mountain

A steady drum roll played on the radio, and within moments it flourished into a fanfare, only a few seconds long but instantly recognizable.

“Young ponies from all over the land are joining up to fight for our future,” the announcer said over the military march, his voice rich and personable.

“I’m doing my part,” came a female voice with the barest hint of a northeastern accent.

“I’m doing my part,” said an unassuming male, a midlands farmer perhaps.

“I’m doing my part,” added a third with just the hint of a southern lilt.

“They’re doing their part,” returned the main announcer with a note of fatherly approval. “Are you? Join the Royal Army and save Equestria. Remember, service —”

“— is the first day of the rest of your life,” roared the voice in front of them, in a tone decidedly more sinister than the ubiquitous recruitment advertisements. “Which is good, because you aren’t good enough the way you are! Hooves at your sides!”

Clove was in the third row, but a sharp sound told him that the offending pony had been smacked back into compliance. He couldn’t see the offender, but he did see a pair of grey horns moving slowly down the line.

“Chin up,” rumbled the voice, and with another smack one of the freshly-buzzed manes at the front jerked up. “Legs together!

“To think this had to happen to me.” The horns finished their slow motion and moved off towards the front of the ragged formation. “Bunch of foals.

“No!” he roared again. “Strike that! You don’t even rate that good! Never in my life have I seen —

“Do you think I’m funny?”

The horns rounded on a quivering mane.

“I asked you a question, twinkle-ass! Do you think I’m funny?”

Perhaps a murmured reply.

“Wrong!” he bellowed. “Again!”

“I don’t,” came a reedy voice. “I’m sorry —”

“Damn right you are but guess what, your lousy ass is still wrong! Try it again!”

“I —”

“Wrong!” roared the minotaur, drawing himself up to his full height, easily twice that of the front row of ponies, and addressing all thirty-odd of them. “The first and last words our of your filthy sewers will be sir. Do you maggots understand that?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Clove found himself saying with the others.

“Me-shit, I can’t hear you. Sound off like you’ve got a pair!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“If you fillies leave my island, if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon. You will be a minister of Celestia praying for war, but until that day you are shit. You are not even little damned ponies. You are nothing. You are the lowest form of life in Equestria. You are nothing but unorganized grabastic pieces of amphibian shit.”

He started pacing the line. Clove started to track the horns, but for some reason thought better of it, staring straight ahead.

“Because I am hard, you will not like me. But because I am hard you will learn. I am hard but I am fair. I don’t care of there’s a rainbow heart or a skull on your ass. I do not look down on pinkos, clops, hoofers or zappers. Here you are all equally worthless. Do you ridglings understand that?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Me-shit, I can’t hear you.”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“You! Scumbag!” he roared, whirling on a front row pony. “What’s your name?”

“Sir!” shouted the pony, his voice cracking. “Private Nutmeg, sir!”

“Nutmeg? Nutmeg? I don’t see any Bolts around; Nut without a Bolt, looks like you’re just screwed! Private Screw! Do you like that name?

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Well there’s one thing you won’t like, Private Screw! We don’t bake damned cakes on a daily basis in my mess hall!”

“Sir! No sir!”

The horns took two steps down the line and stopped.

“What’s your excuse?”

“Sir! Excuse for what, sir!”

“I’m askin’ the questions!” roared the minotaur. “Do you understand!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Well thank-you-very-much! Can I be in charge for a while!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Are you shook up! Are you nervous!”

“Sir! I am, sir!”

“Do I make you nervous!”

“Sir!”

The slightest of pauses, and Clove could almost imagine the horns curl.

“Sir what! You think you can get out of having to think by sayin’ sir-sir-sir!”

“Sir! No sir!”

“Looks to me like you’ve got nothin’ back there but an air hole and you don’t even need that ‘cause there’s nothin’ that needs breathin’! Private Airhole, do you get me!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

The horns whipped to the right.

“You! Shitstain! Are you about to call me an asshole!”

“Sir! No sir!”

“How tall are you, Private?”

“Sir! Four foot six, sir!”

“Four foot six, I didn’t know they stacked shit that high! You tryin’ to squeeze an inch in on me somewhere?”

“Sir! No sir!”

“I think you’ve been cheated! Looks to me the best part of you ended up a brown stain on the mattress! Where’n the hell are you from, Private?”

“Sir! Appleloosa, sir!”

“Holy dog shit, Appleloosa! Only queers and steers come from Appleloosa! You a queer, Private?”

“Sir! No sir!”

“Then that narrows it down a bit, doesn’t it, Private Holstein!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

His head jerked up, looking them over with a surprisingly level expression.

“Anytime you think I’m being too tough. Any time you think I’m being unfair. Anytime you miss your mommy? Quit!” His massive head turned from side to side, scanning the crowd. “Quit!” he bellowed. “You sign form twelve forty-eight, you grab your gear, you take a stroll down Washout Lane! Do you get me!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“All right then.” The minotaur’s glare passed them over. He gave a mighty snort and cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing out on the training field like splitting wood.

And then, much more terrifying than the abuse, a smile spread over his face.

“Now that we got that out of the way, I wonder if there’s a handful of guts in the whole bunch of you.” The smile curled in a most disconcerting way. “Who here thinks they’ve got what it takes to knock me down?”

A few seconds of silence.

“Sir!” announced a voice towards the back; instinctively Clove turned to see a slightly overweight pony raise a hoof. “I guess maybe I do. Sir!”

The minotaur said nothing, instead nodding slowly. He unclasped his utility belt and gave a slight wave beckoning the pony closer. He maneuvered through the forward three rows; when he passed through the front one he bellowed and broke into a run, straight for the minotaur —

— who caught a forehoof and spun him head over heels to the ground with a dull thud, half the minotaur’s body on top of him in a submission hold. A half-second later, the pony’s foreleg gave a wrenching snap.

The minotaur let go, brushed a speck of dust off his coat, and gave the pony a slightly disdainful look. For his part, he was bellowing incoherently, clutching his foreleg, which was bent backwards at an entirely unnatural angle.

“You all right, colt?”

“Sir! Yes sir!” said the pony through clenched teeth. “It’s just my leg, sir!”

“What’s your name?”

“Sir! Floyd, sir!”

“Private Floyd, eh?” said the minotaur, considering for a moment. “With a name like that, you get to keep it. Medic!”

A pair of white-clad ponies detached themselves from a nearby tent and dragged the unlucky private off. As they did, the minotaur paced the line again.

“Pain,” he declared, “is in your mind. Who’s next?”

“Sir!” called a voice from off to a side. The minotaur turned to see a red pony trotting towards them with a small saddlebag; she stuck out a sheaf of paper, jutted her chin up, and stood stock still. “Private Vera reporting for duty, sir!”

“Tardy to the party,” said the minotaur, snapping up the paper and scanning it down. His tone was neutral enough, but they knew better.

“Specifically requested transfer from Hollow Shades to this training unit.”

“Sir! I heard it was the best, sir!”

“It is the best,” said the minotaur quietly — and then, a fraction of a second later, his eyebrows narrowed and he drew in close.

“But what makes you think you’re good enough?” he roared at her.

To her credit, Vera didn’t cower, though she was driven back a few inches. Instead, she hit the release on her saddlebag, letting it and her travel coat slide to the frozen earth. She took a step back, pawed at the ground once, and assumed a crouch.

“Now that’s the kind of mare that makes squad leader,” murmured one of the ponies next to Clove.

“That’s my job you’re talking about,” shot back another, in a voice just a little too loud for comfort… but the minotaur didn’t call him out. He and Vera were circling each other slowly, eyeing each other —

Vera darted forward, launching a high kick. The minotaur blocked it easily, threw a punch at her — but hers had been a feint, and she landed a solid smack just below his horns.

The minotaur grunted, unfazed. Clove leaned over slightly; the fight was in front of him, but so were two other rows of ponies.

She tried for another kick but he was too quick this time, smacking it out of the air; he was on the ground with a roundhouse before she could recover. He swept her feet out from under her, and by the time she hit the ground his knee was on her throat.

Vera struggled, but there wasn’t anything to be done; pinned by the full weight of his massive slate-blue frame on her throat, all she could do was scrabble at his hands as gurgling noises came out of her throat. Her eyes rolled back….

And then the pressure was gone, the minotaur standing above her, eying her not as a piece of primordial sludge but rather as… nothing close to an equal, surely, but as something sentient, perhaps.

In a flash the moment was gone, the minotaur’s look back to one of pure disdain, one aimed squarely at —

“You!” he roared.

And in that instant, Clove knew pure terror.

“Sir!” said his mouth.

“You payin’ attention to this?”

“Sir! Yes, sir!”

“All right then! Private Gawker, get Private Vera to her feet and keep her upright until I figure out what to do with you!”

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Today!”

“Sir!” he shouted, dashing forward through the lines to Vera’s side. She had struggled to a seated position, but he pulled her up and dragged her off to the side of the formation. She stood easily enough, but was definitely breathing heavily, and leaned against his side for balance.

“Thanks,” she said under her breath as the minotaur was off berating a pony for the gall to have a flower-like cutie mark. “I owe you.”

“No you don’t,” he said, praying the minotaur wouldn’t hear them. “We’re all in this together.”