Millennia: Beginning

by Thunderblast

1. Getting Comfortable

I reached for my backpack and stood from my seat. The door’s hydraulics quietly hissed as they went to work, sliding open and letting ponies off the train. Stepping out of the car, I met with pure shock and awe, stopping to take in the sheer size of the station. It was definitely at least four times as large as the one operating in Canterlot and occupied twice as many platforms.

On the north and south faces of the station were tunnel openings for the trains to roll through, seeing as each of the platforms were built inside the station with a large walkway constructed, stretching above each of the tracks to a tall corridor that led directly into the entrance hall with ticket counters, a food court, some small shops, and seating areas.

Clocks and schedule boards stood along sections of railing or in center of the walkway, or hung from the ceilings around the station. In the hallway separating the entrance from the tracks sat rolling advertisement boards, displaying popular products of a business or food from the city’s famous restaurants. Taking a brief moment to look at them made me a little bit hungry, might I add.

Down the split-path staircase to the wide open floor of Manehattan Central, I stopped in the center as ponies walked and weaved around each other in all directions. Revolving doors constantly turned as more filed in from the streets or out. I glanced all around me in attempt to locate those recruits from Canterlot back at MEPS. A few in the crowds looked like them, but with notable differences.

Eventually I decided to shrug it off, heading to a row of wooden shelves displaying brochures, booklets, magazines, and newspapers. You name it, they probably had it. Thankfully they had maps of the city as well. Taking one, I unfolded it, slightly recoiling upon discovering simply how big it was—unnecessarily big, if you ask me.

It wasn’t hard to make out where I needed to go. Along the south mainland shore of the north river sat a large, restricted space: a military installation. While not too detailed of a map, other than streets, and many widely-known locations labeled here and there; the shape by which the area took further gave it away. It even included piers where the navy ships presumably moored to.

The route from the station, which was situated near the center of the city on Manehattan Island, all the way to the base would be somewhat of a hike. Of course, a taxi carriage was likely a quicker option, though I figured the walk would make for good exercise.

I took a few minutes to sit and examine the map and grow familiar with it a bit, pointing out key spots to scope out along the way or at some point in the future. In all reality, I had the day to myself to explore for a bit, seeing as evidently the memo for a pickup to the base aforementioned never reached. Heck, the other recruits were no-shows. That isn’t bound to sit well on their descriptions in the long run.

Getting up and heading out onto the street, I once more stopped, this time to bask in the warm afternoon sunlight and take in a deep, refreshing breath of concrete and steel. That is definitely a new scent I would have to grow accustomed to.

So, with a map in-hoof, following the street to the left of walking out of the station, every so often I would check to make sure there wasn’t any wrong turns taken or that I had missed a crucial one in order to reach the Manehattan Bridge, the nearest crossing that leads into Bronclyn, the borough in which the base was located.

A few sights to be seen popped up along the way, even from afar. One for example was Trotterdam Tower, the tallest structure in Manehattan, topped with an enormous art-deco spire taking the shape of an equine’s head. It was what stood out against the vast majority of the metropolis’ extensive skyline and watched over the lower east island, and across the glimmering ocean until the horizon’s end.

After some time of keeping a steady pace, making turns around corners and at the end of other blocks, my path brought me to the Manehattan Bridge, at long last. About an eighth across came the realization that this bridge was far longer than depicted on the map. Stupid, not-to-scale maps.

It couldn’t have been less than eleven or twelve minutes later when I finally reached the other side, where the bridge sloped down to meet an intersection. There, I veered left. According to the map, while at this point only having partial trust in its accuracy of the street layout of the city, this road would curve into another, which would pass by the base, where a branch off led directly to the front gates.

The architecture around Bronclyn, while far lower in terms of height as compared to Manehattan proper, was far unlike Canterlot. Central parts of town had mixtures of architecture in high rises and skyscrapers, from anywhere between modern steel and glass frames, to old-fashioned brick and stone.

Bronclyn consisted mostly of this brick and stone and is evidently one of the oldest boroughs. Each building was like a uniform—unchanging, equal to one another, and bland without any diversity. Canterlot was more of a melting pot for architecture all around Equestria, and even far away lands in smaller numbers.

Much of this area accommodated brownstones and a few newer apartment projects, especially towards the base. Every so often there would be a roundabout in the street with a fountain or a statue in center, or nothing at all. Just a plain circle of cement with nothing interesting to it whatsoever.

Though, it seemed the further west I went on approach to the base, the less developed it became. Soon I found myself heading down a vacant cobble road with trees on all sides, coming up to a clearing where the path intersected with another. Lifting my gaze a bit, my eyes moved across a sign made of brick with silver wording on the side, reading: Joint Naval Station Manehattan.

I could breathe a sigh of relief, tucking my map away in a backpack zipper and turning onto the path. Further down, beyond a surrounding fence line and an open cover and guard box on the road, from what I could make out stood large, ten-foot concrete walls surrounding an all-steel barrier gate, continuing towards it. This was definitely the place I needed to be.

Tension in my muscles built the closer I came to the first checkpoint. Stepping out from the guard box was a unicorn in camouflage like that of my recruiter. Around his neck hung a rifle by a strap, which on its own was somewhat intimidating and had me freeze in my tracks for a split second as he emerged.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “May I see your service ID?”

“ID?” I blinked. “No, I…” my hoof gestured randomly. “I’m new here. Sent from the Canterlot processing station. I was told that I would be picked up from the train station, but, it seems that never came.”

“No information you can give me?”

“Well, er, I have this,” I reached for my wallet, opening it to show him my normal identification. He studied it before returning it.

The stallion brought a hoof up to a radio receiver on the shoulder of his vest. “Are we due for recruit shipments today?”

A garbled response that I could not make out the words to returned with static feedback. Evidently the Marine understood what he said. “Copy,” he then looked at me again, gesturing, “Come with me.”

He started down the cobble path, toward the secondary gate that stood between us and the base itself, where more uniformed ponies stood.

My heart pumped, nerves tingling with worry. Something about this did not seem right.

“Ey, Corporal! Get down here, I got a question for you!” he shouted up to a pony on the wall.

Carefully, that stallion climbed down a ladder, trotting up to the both of us.

“What is it, Private?” he shifted his attention to me. “Who is this?”

“Claims the processing station in Canterlot sent ‘im here. Whadda we do?”

The corporal focused on me a second time. “You are from Canterlot, you say?” I nodded. “Where is your pickup?”

I shrugged, not knowing whatsoever. “I do not know, sir. I was told to expect one at the station. No one was there, and none of those in Canterlot made it on the train.”

“Hmmm,” his eyes narrowed. The corporal turned back to the unicorn. “Hold him here. I will have a word with the lieutenant.”

Thus began a long wait while the one Marine wandered off to talk to… someone. To me, none of this made any sense. I know I hadn’t made any mistake on where I needed to go. They had told me Manehattan!

“If they really did send you from Canterlot and nobody here was aware of it, it sounds like somebody done screwed up,” the unicorn joked.

I chuckled lightly, showing much nervousness in the way I laughed, which he didn’t seem to detect. Oh, man. Did I just wind myself up in a heap of trouble on my first day?

Much to my relief, some more time later, the gate opened, and the Marine from before waved for me. The unicorn I sat with turned to me, saying, “Looks like you’re all clear,” before returning to his post at the checkpoint.

Facing forward, I stood up, strolling over to the corporal with a light tremble in my body. He led further into base, toward a large brick building positioned adjacent to a five-story steel highrise, stopping just outside the door, beside a bench.

“My orders are to keep you here until the rest of your fellow conscripts arrive later tonight. Sergeant knows you are here and will collect you when they arrive and take you inside. Is that clear?”

I nodded in understanding. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replied lowly.

I looked around, eventually taking a seat on the bench. Tapping my hooves on my lap, I then gazed up. There were still a few hours left before sunset, and who knows how long until the others were set to arrive.

This was going to be a long evening.

***

Somewhere around three hours into the wait, I had fallen asleep where I sat on the same bench, backpack hugged in my forehooves and placed in my lap. The Marine I was with apparently did not care and left me to my nap.

Snorting as I jolted back to consciousness, I leaned my head forward from the rear of the bench and shifted on the seat to straighten my back. A small groan escaped my muzzle, lifting a hoof to my eye to rub it. Upon a glance around, I took note of the Marine still there, unmoving like his body is purely made of stone. I had to admire his dedication to make sure I would not wander off and cause trouble, not that I would anyways.

My vision remained blurry for a few short moments until it adjusted. The orange glow of a nearby lamp illuminated the area around us instead of the sun. Without a clock nearby, and me not owning a watch, I hadn’t a clue of what time it was. It had to be late judging by my usual sleep patterns.

But, right as my senses returned, the collective noise of hooves clicking on cobble drew nearer with each passing second. My eyes darted off to the left. Silhouetted by many other street lights around the area marched a pack of ponies toward the very building I have been waiting beside.

The Marine, lids slightly bagging beneath his eyes, looked over his shoulder, saying quietly, “I would say that is your queue.”

Nodding, taking my pack and throwing it over my shoulder by the strap, I stood, waiting for the group as they approached. Much like those at MEPS, these mares and stallions wore light clothing or none at all, carrying with them luggage similar to mine. One thing was off, though—neither of them were from Canterlot.

Another Marine, a light-coated mare with a shortened mane came out through a glass door beside us, standing off to the side and holding the door open. In the dark of night, her true colors weren’t as simple to point out.

One by one, the recruits began to silently file into the building. I walked to the end of the line as it came closer and joined up behind them. However, about to march inside, the mare held a hoof in front of my chest to stop me.

“Early arrival,” the Marine who accompanied me said. “He’s with them.”

Nodding, the mare lowered her hoof. I turned over my shoulder to the stallion, nodding once to him in thanks before joining the others inside.

In the center of the halls waited the other recruits, neatly organized into three rows and stretching back five. I filled in as the final piece in the final row on the right. To our left, the mare strolled ahead, joining an oxford pegasus stallion, his cold blue eyes scanning over us individually, criticizing our posture and everything else in between.

“You all want to be Marines?” he asked, though coming off more as a statement than a question.

“Yes, sir.”

“I do not hear much enthusiasm in you. Shall I ask again, do you want to be Marines?!”

“Yes, sir!”

“That’s more like it.” He gave a single firm nod. “Welcome to Joint Naval Station Manehattan. This is where all of you have come to shed your innocence as civilians and unlock your inner potential as warriors. I am Hardstaff, but you will address me as Sergeant Hardstaff, or sir. This is First Lieutenant Wind Fury, but you shall address her simply as First Lieutenant, or ma’am. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Good. Very good. First Lieutenant Wind Fury will be around throughout your time here. I will be here every step of the way. We will be training you, teaching you to be cold blooded killers like your ancestors, bringing your inner killing machine out of you for when the call orders you to.”

“You may have all stepped off of your planes expecting the toughest time of your lives. We can assure you that time shall soon come. This is merely a warm welcome on behalf of the Lunar Marine Core,” a deceiving smirk crossed his muzzle.

“In five minutes, I expect all of you to have collected your gear, but not before a call. It is expected of us to give you sixty seconds to phone home, your marefriends, your coltfriends, somepony you know that is worried about you. You want to make sure they know you made it here safely.”

“Booths are in there,” he pointed to a doorway on our left. “Bits are provided to use. If you have a cell phone, be sure to use it. That may be easier to get a hold of your parents or family. Leave anything of yours right where you are standing. Get a move on.”

Filing into another line, each pony headed into the room one right after another. Those including myself with baggage set it down on the tiled floor and headed in. Ponies inserted coins and picked up phone receivers, or stood off to the side to use their mobile phones, dialing loved ones. Out of the fifteen of us there total, I was among the two to not phone home.

Collected chatter filled the room. Around me, everypony spent this minute to inform whomever they called of their arrival, say final goodbyes until the end of basic, and ‘I love you’s. Only a couple out of the group were unable to reach anypony and sorrowfully hung up without a word spoken.

As soon as ponies finished their calls, we moved back out into the hall, returning to where we previously stood and keeping silent as we did so. But, being one of the final few out of the room caught the sergeant’s attention. He lifted a hoof and pressed it to my chest, stopping me.

I froze, immediately panicking internally. Had I done something wrong? What have I screwed up already?!

“You are from Canterlot, yes?” he questioned in a low volume to direct the query just to me.

I nodded shakily but firm in my response. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“There have been changes to the plan. Your former unit, the other ponies you tested with in Canterlot, have been shipped out west to Los Pegasus due to a change of command. You are to be reassigned to the new 25th Battalion here in Manehattan. Those are these ponies right here.”

A second nod of comprehension followed. He set his hoof down to let me pass, and I returned to formation at the rear.

Shifting his attention to everypony, Hardstaff raised his voice to address us all. “Has everypony made their calls?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“No troubles?”

A few including myself kept silent, while others replied with, “Yes, Sergeant!” once more.

“Good. Now, clothing,” he began to step slowly around the right of us. “For training purposes, we are required to provide clothing. As some of you might be aware, Manehattan weather can change in the blink of an eye. One minute, it is a balmy eighty degrees under cloudless skies, next minute, it’ll be pouring with lightning everywhere around you. That is why we must keep you well stocked on clothing.”

“T-shirts, hoodies, jackets, all of you shall receive two of each! You might ask, ‘oh, my Sergeant, where will I ever get all of that?’” he said in a mocking voice, before stopping in front of us and pointing to the next door on the right, raising his voice. “Through that door. You will come across a couple of Marines in there, and they will size you up and make sure your blouse fits the way it should. Everything else, remember what sizes you wear in normal clothing! That will be what you select for your shirts and hoodies.”

“Should not take any of you more than five minutes. Make sure to grab a knit bag to carry all of it in, they will be on your right as you walk in. Once you are done!” he raised his voice prior to a pause. “You will regroup out here with anything you have brought with you. Make sure to line up properly. Smallest at the front, tallest in the rear. All of you will take a seat and wait for my word, and we will get you to your racks for the evening. Go!”

Like before, one by one, we marched into the room, collecting net-like sacks on our way in. Tall boxes piled up with many assortments of clothing lined up against each other in rows. The line moved along the first, looping around at the end to the next.

In my bag stuffed a couple of dark blue t-shirts that were a couple of shades darker than my coat itself, followed by two thick hoodies and sweatshirts, one a precise color of blue as the shirts, the other a lighter tone of grey. Both on their chests showed the word ‘Marines’ alternating in white or blue with the branch’s emblem—the silhouette of an alicorn with its wings fully extended, a crescent moon in center, and a near-sideways anchor beneath the moon. Each one I double checked its size for good measure.

Next up were uniforms. Ours did not have camouflage and were instead a plain tinge of greyish blue, lighter than the tints of the undershirts. A trio of Marine unicorns held measuring tape, determining sizes by wrapping around waists and necks, before quickly collecting a pony’s pair of jackets from a rack along the wall.

Encasing them with magic, each jacket either drastically or minimally altered in width or height, depending on the pony. That was rather impressive to watch, spells that grow or shrink clothing. These ponies in particular certainly were not new with their job, especially with how quick they had us out in the hall again.

Like clockwork, in those five minutes given, not one pony took too long. By then, fifteen ponies—myself included—sat down on the cold tile flooring with our belongings, having rearranged to account for size differences. Most of us there were practically the same in height, so I was in the middle, while there were a couple of draft stallions in the back. All but one of the mares sat in the front row.

Thus began another uneventful wait. I noticed a few others around me were beginning to doze off. Looking up, the nearest clock along the wall above the phone room read eight past one. Even after a nap for Celestia knows how long, fatigue crept its way for a second round. Sitting in one place for this long—going on twenty minutes since collecting our gear—had me yawning with my fellow recruits. Why is that so contagious, anyways?

But, the bigger question stood on top of all.

Where in the hell did the sergeant and first lieutenant head off to?

Comments

[Thunderblast]

5778422 I'm taking a short break to catch up on reading. My other stories are on hiatus as well.