Core

by totallynotabrony

3: Could Be Worse

Chapter 3: Could Be Worse

Source

“I assume things got better after the first week?” asked Twilight.

Rainbow shrugged. “In a way. We got rid of the poopy suits, we were allowed to send and receive mail, and were actually treated like living things, but extra was expected, and they started testing us more often.”

“Oh!” Pinkie exclaimed. “Speaking of mail, did you get my care package?”

“Uh, yeah,” answered Rainbow. “I remember that.”

“What sort of tests?” questioned Applejack.

“Little things, mostly. We had a couple of PFAs – Physical Fitness Assessments. Academic classes started, and the DI’s were always pushing us to do better at everything.” Rainbow paused for a moment, her tone changing. “The two biggest things, however, were the RLP – Room, Locker, Personnel – inspection, and the drill competition.”

“How did you do?” asked Rarity.

Rainbow chuckled. “Could have been worse.”

“Is anyone else’s crap blue?” asked Taylor, one of Dash’s fellow Officer Candidates.

There was a moment of silence. “Uh, yeah, actually,” Rodriguez hesitantly admitted.

“Oh good,” exclaimed Leest. “I thought I was the only one.”

“What could be causing it?” asked Dash.

A few people had ideas ranging from overhydration to diluted dye in the terrible sports drink. Then a Candio shouted at them from the end of the p-way and they fell silent.

Each Officer Candidate sat on their issued chair in the p-way polishing their boots. The black leather had ridges and pores in it, and took quite a bit of polish to get smooth. To actually get a surface shiny required the OC’s to put in a lot more effort.

Dash had never owned anything that needed polish. Fortuately, OC Rogers, who lived in a lived nearby hatch, was prior enlisted and knew the best methods for the procedure.

Rags had been passed out, which were not the best for the job, but would provide a place to start. Rogers seemed confident that better supplies would eventually be obtained.

Dash spent what seemed like forever working a polish-smeared rag over the surface of her boots. She and Leest were lined up on either side of their hatch, facing each other. The two of them were quizzing each other on gouge.

Leest whispered, “What’s the sixth general order?”

Dash thought. The answer was on the tip of her tongue, but she shrugged in defeat. “What are the General ranks of the Marine Corps?”

Leest immediately answered, “Brigadier General, Major General, Lieutenant General, and regular General.”

Dash blinked in surprise. “How did you learn that so quickly?”

“A little mnemonic device. “Brigadier, Major, Lieutenant, General. BMLG—Be My Little General.”

While they still had three weeks to learn the material, there was a still a lot of boring memorization to do. At least getting shiny boots shouldn’t take that long.

Dash sighed and tried to focus on her task. A few exceptions had been made for her, such as not being required to use silverware, but she wasn’t going to be able to get out of polishing her boots.

They didn’t fit very well, and she only had one pair. However, cinched over her back hooves, the boots provided a little more stability when standing upright. They also made her look ridiculous.

Dash wondered what her family and friends would say. After completing Indoc Week, the Candidates had been allowed to freely send and receive mail. There had been a few letters for her, but they were more “thinking of you” type messages just to make sure the address was correct.

Everypony Dash knew had been mostly supportive of her joining the human military, but now she was not only wearing people clothes but boots designed for feet. She sighed. At least clothing didn’t instantly change who you were on the inside. That would slowly happen over the course of OCS.

The best part so far about being promoted to Officer Candidates was ditching the poopy suits. While there was nothing terribly wrong with the green uniforms that didn’t have to be kept looking pristine, it was the principle of it. The class was no longer Indocs and no longer wore the Indoc uniform.

The NWU’s were made of somewhat thicker, stiffer cloth. The blouses and trousers fit more loosely than the one-piece poopy suits, which Dash was thankful for. Her tail and wings were slightly less uncomfortable now, even if the trouser cuffs were held tight to her legs with elastic boot blousing straps. Due to the summer weather, each OC was instructed to raise the sleeves to above their elbows. It was more like folding the material rather than rolling. The technique ended up with a better look and was able to be pulled down quickly if long sleeves were needed.

The covers—not hats—were made of the same material. They had eight points, unlike a baseball cap. No particular reason was given for the unusual shape.

When allowed to, like when polishing boots, the class could remove their blouses, leaving them all in blue undershirts. The summer weather wasn’t too hot, but it helped.

“Attention on deck, stand by!”

Every OC shot out of their chairs and stood at attention. “Good afternoon, sir!”

The OC nearest the door had called attention on deck. An RDC—not theirs—was walking through the p-way. The man glared at them. “Louder, and together!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

As he departed, they all sat down again. Such things were common. DI’s and RDC’s were always passing through. Sometimes several at once would appear, demanding to be addressed collectively as “gentlemen” rather than “sir.” It was always difficult for those who weren’t near the door. They were expected to give the proper greeting simultaneously with the OC’s that actually saw who had entered the p-way.

It seemed that whenever the class had down time, they would be studying or preparing for the RLP inspection. There was a thick book each Candidate was issued called Officer Candidate Regulations, or OCR. It contained everything that they would need to know about the workings of OCS. Inside was about fifteen pages related to RLP.

“Attention on deck, stand by!”

“Good afternoon, sir!” Dash automatically replied.

“Do I look like a sir to you? Get on your faces!”

This was Chief Harper, a woman who could scream and deal out RPT with the best of them. As the class began to exercise, she shouted over them, “You need to have situational awareness and know what is going on! Don’t just be a robot going through the motions!”

Dash quickly realized that a lesson is always learned more effectively when combined with screaming and pushups. Like the class team said, everything at OCS had a purpose.

Sunday morning was quiet. The OC’s were woken at 0615. It seemed slightly ridiculous that it was the OCS version of sleeping in. The Religious Body organized those who would be attending services.

“If you aren’t worshiping, you’re staying here to work on RLP!” called a Candio. The line for church quickly received more traffic.

“Come on,” said Leest.

“I’m not a subscriber to the whole monotheism thing,” Dash answered.

“I’m an atheist,” replied Leest. “I just want to get out of the building.”

There were several kinds of services held at the nearby chapel. Candios escorted groups over. The chapel building was shaped like an octagon, and was furnished much, much nicer than any other building on base. There was a three-person band playing soft music among the scripture and sermons. It seemed that Leest was right; it was a good place to relax.

The day was sunny, and it was nice to take a short walk after services, even if it was only between the chapel and Nimitz. Dash caught a glimpse of the bay bridge, the water sparkling beneath it. She was also struck by the number of sailboats. It almost appeared that every person in Newport owned one.

The rest of Sunday was fairly relaxed. Candios informed them that class teams did not usually show up on Sundays. There was also the feeling of accomplishment of completing the first week of OCS.

It was a good thing Dash had gotten some time to relax, because the next morning was terrifying. It was the first time as President that she had to report to Gunnery Sergeant Johns.

Together with Vice President Oberta and Arlen, the first scheduled Section Leader, Dash stood in front of the DI’s door at 0500. To wake up early enough to get to the door by that time, she had been granted special permission to wear a watch. Dash was unused to having a timepiece strapped to her fetlock, but glad to finally know the time.

She knocked on the door three times. “Sir, Officer Candidate Dash reporting to Gunnery Sergeant Johns, United States Marine Corps, as ordered.”

Of course, the line was delivered at a shout. She had practiced the procedure the night before. She had also memorized the plan of the day, as had Oberta and the section leader. At any time, someone could ask her to recite it, and it wouldn’t be good if she didn’t know.

“Enter!” answered the DI. He looked up from his desk as the three of them came in. After a moment, and for no reason Dash could discern, he ordered, “Get on your faces.”

Perhaps a minute of pushups later, the three of them were ordered out of the office. “Ugh,” Oberta muttered. “Nothing like a pre-workout before morning PT.”

The three of them met up with the Adjutant and Medical Body who by the looks of it had just had a similar meeting with Chief Valdez. They returned to the class and formed up for PT.

After an hour’s exercise, the class went to breakfast and then collected the black knowledge bags they had been issued. After being formed up, the class was marched to Callaghan Hall for their first academic class.

Gunnery Sergeant Johns had given them a guidon, a flagpole that was carried by a Candidate he picked to be the Guide. When the DI decided they deserved it, they would get a 19-12A flag to go with it.

The guidon was important to the military. Not only did it let others know the name of the class, it was good for morale. In competition with Bravo Company, achievement streamers to hang from the guidon were up for grabs.

The Guide put the guidon down when they entered the building for academics. The class was taught by a Lieutenant, who advised the OC’s that they could relax. Not only wasn’t he in their class team, but it helped the learning process. They could even removed their blouses if they chose.

The format for most classes would go that way. Subjects included Naval History, Engineering, Navigation, Operations, and Seamanship. Dash felt confident that the learning wouldn’t be too hard. Her degree in Aeronautical Engineering would help, as would the basic pilot navigation she’d studied. The other things didn’t sound terribly difficult.

Classes would occupy four to eight hours per day. The rest of the time, the OC’s would either be training with their class team or Candios.

And so a routine was begun. Dash got up every morning at 0430 to prepare herself for the day, waking up Oberta and the day’s section leader. After meeting with the DI, which didn’t always involve beating, there was PT, class, training, and three meals a day. Just because things could be expected and planned for, however, didn’t mean there weren’t surprises. The schedule changed unexpectedly at least twice a week, and Dash had to re-memorize it.

One thing that always remained constant was PT. The class would do various workouts, sometimes running-based, sometimes strength-based. When they went for runs around base, there was typically some sort of cadence called to keep them all in step.

Gunnery Sergeant Johns had a few favorites.

Little yellow birdy with a little yellow bill

Landed on my windowsill.

Lured him in with a piece of bread

Then I crushed his little head.

Blood and guts

Everywhere!

Blood and guts

In my hair!

I don’t care!

I like it there!

Others were less graphic and more personalized.

One-nine

One-two.

Alpha-

Comin’ through!

It was interesting to see different parts of the base, even if they had to do pushups and situps once they got there. To the north of the OCS training area was a cove that wrapped around to an old set of piers. Across the water, Dash could see a rusting aircraft carrier moored there. Based on word from Candios, she learned that it was the old USS Saratoga, awaiting scrapping. To travel around the perimeter of the water to the carrier was about four miles and the OCS classes rarely came close.

It was on one of these early morning jaunts that Candidate Rogers mentioned a Grateful Dead song to Dash. They way they were screaming near the ocean and who their DI was, it was a reasonable fit to the tune Uncle John’s Band. “Come hear Uncle John’s Band, playing to the tide…”

Dash was not ready to accept the Gunnery Sergeant as an uncle, but it was entertaining to think about.

In a few days, a clinic for immunizations was held. The class formed up in King Hall’s medical facility for shots. There were a few standard ones. Dash, of course, got species-specific ones.

As the Candidates waited for various injections, they were ordered to sit cross-legged, left over right. The same posture had been specified several other times. Other than being annoying, Dash wasn’t sure why.

Swim qualifications were held at the pool near Callaghan. Dash had no problem with diving or treading water. Struggling out of wet articles of clothing and using them to fashion a life preserver was challenging, but she figured it out.

There was a lot to deal with as Class President, but Dash was managing – barely. Along with memorizing the schedule in the night after she was supposed to be in bed and getting up early, her sleep was dwindling. In addition, there was always something else to do besides her Presidential duties. Preparing things for RLP, for example.

At the end of the second week, the OC’s were marched to the Navy Exchange on base. The NEX had a barber shop—a real one—as well as everything the class might need to make RLP prep easier. And also plenty of things they didn’t. Candios kept a sharp watch to make sure no contraband was purchased.

Every Candidate was required to get a haircut every two weeks. Dash skated by with just a slight trimming to make her slowly-regrowing mane a little more presentable and hopefully not any shorter than it already was. The males were required to have another buzz-cut.

They all left the NEX with shoe polish, toiletries, academic supplies, and a few other odds and ends the Candios approved. Extra PT shorts were a popular item. Two pairs were required to be folded carefully and put on display for RLP. It seemed easier to get some for that purpose rather than to be short two pairs from the three they were issued.

As OCS progressed, the Candios had been growing more lenient. Part of that was class 19-12A becoming more capable and organized. Another reason was preparation to turn them loose.

At the end of week three, the class was gathered in the NAPS Classroom. Rainbow had learned that NAPS was the Naval Academy Preparatory School, also located in Newport, who had moved out of Nimitz sometime in the past.

The Candios were talking candidly and joking. They told the class to relax.

“It’s a big day. We graduate tomorrow,” said one. “You guys will be on your own. At the same time, there’s no one to go between you and the class team. You’re getting all the responsibility.”

It sounded like a challenge. Once again, the bar had been raised and all of them would need to meet the new standards. Dash smiled to herself. She still held her position as President, despite the odds. Her grin faded as she realized how much more she would have to do now that the class was being turned loose to run themselves.

They were responsible for getting from place to place as the scheduled dictated. They had to feed themselves. They would have to practice drill alone, something their DI insisted they do when he wasn’t around.

“Any questions?” asked a Candio.

“When do we get our own cool PT shirts?” someone asked. “How are they designed? What is the typical cost?”

“Don’t nuke it. The answer, though, is that you’ll need to form a committee to design them and get permission to contact a company to get them printed. You’ll also need to start coming up with nicknames.”

While they were talking about committees, a group to plan Hi Moms—the family get together the day before graduation—was needed.

Party planning wasn’t really Dash’s thing. She kept focused on the shirts, noticing that the Candios all had two of them. One with their name, one with their nickname. Some of them were obvious, like “Big Bird” for a tall man, but others less so, like “Lucky.”

The class went back to their p-way, talking among themselves. Some members of the class had rather obvious monikers coming their way. In fact, Leest had been christened “Butch” before she and Dash got back to their hatch.

More nicknames continued to appear now that they were being actively searched for. “Hot Gasses” got his rather questionable name from being so good at Engineering that he practically taught the section on propulsion systems. A wayward comment got him named. “No matter if it’s nuclear, jet, or diesel, they all produce useable power the same way. It’s all about the flow of hot gasses.”

The story of “Playboy” was a little more complicated. OC’s were permitted to receive mail without restriction, but packages required observation by Gunnery Sergeant Johns when opened. Anyone that got a package had to attend the 0500 meeting. Dash was standing next to the unfortunate Candidate when the incident in question happened.

“Who’s it from?” asked the DI.

“My brother, sir.”

“Open it.”

Ripping open the thin box, the Candidate’s face went white at the stack of magazines inside. The DI leaned forward, staring at the contents. “Porn, huh? Toss that in the trash and then get on your face.”

Playboy was not happy. As the group retreated from the DI’s office, he swore that his sibling had gotten him punished on purpose. Dash thought it was hilarious, but kept her comments silent. Still, word got around and the nickname stuck.

The pony had yet to do anything to get herself a nickname. Most humans had a hard time coming up with something more creative than “Rainbow Dash” anyway. At least they didn’t pick up on her old flight school nickname, “Crash.”

Nicknames took a backseat to everything else, however. Especially with RLP getting so close. Horror stories filtered down from the upper class about how torturous it was. Now that Dash had had so much time to prepare—and still wasn’t quite ready—she began to believe that this might be the hardest part of OCS.

“It definitely is,” agreed a Candio. Class 17 had been promoted into the position. While not in charge of Class 19, they were around to receive the incoming Indoc class. Soon, 19 wouldn’t be the freshmen anymore.

The Candios had agreed to do a mock RLP to help facilitate preparation. Each OC stood waiting by their door and waited for an inspector to come to them. After squaring off, the Candidate was expected to greet the inspector and render a salute when ordered. A uniform inspection would follow, and then the Candidate would be ordered into their hatch. The inspectors would check everything in the room while asking knowledge questions and RPTing the Candidate. The whole thing would last about ten minutes.

The mock inspection was rather light, and Dash knew it. Still, it was nice to have a rehearsal. Since all the Candios were there, they gathered the class for a talk.

“The new Indoc class is coming in. Sometimes we’ll come by and tell you guys to vanish into your hatches. The code word is ‘avalanche.’ We’re trying to give the impression of an empty building to make the Indocs feel all alone.”

Dash thought back to her own first-week experience, realizing the same trick had been played then. Once again, the phrase everything we do is for a purpose was applicable.

That Sunday, the Indocs came. Class 19 listened to them scream incoherently. While Gunnery Sergeant Johns was still of the opinion that the sophomore class was uncoordinated, it was obvious that they were better than the bare civilians they used to be, even with only three weeks of training.

The p-way could be cleared in seconds when ordered. The OC’s gained lots of practice when “avalanche” was called several times per day over the next week. It made preparing for RLP more difficult.

The class had Sundays mostly activity-free. The last weekend before RLP, Dash made a Presidential decision to skip drill practice in order to create more time for inspection prep.

There was DI-led drill in the morning. The class formed up in the gym on the hardwood floor. Their boots slid easily on the surface, which made it easy to do right, left, and about faces.

Gunnery Sergeant Johns had already run the class through the drill card several times over the previous days. The routine for the drill competition was already set and written down on an index card for the OC’s to practice.

The first few orders were not perfectly coordinated. The DI had instructed them all to slap and crack their weapons during movements with as much intensity as possible. It sounded impressive, but only when they all were in perfect harmony.

As hands and hooves worked their respective weapons, it sounded more like popcorn than anything. The DI shook his head angrily. “Come on, it isn’t that hard! I thought you were all practicing.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the class. “Did you practice? Well, President?”

Dash gulped. “No sir, I—er, this Officer Candidate— thought it would be better to use the time for RLP preparations.”

“Did I tell you to do that?”

“No sir.”

“Did you disobey an order?”

“Y-yes sir.”

“You’re fired, President. Get on your face.” The DI looked around. “Actually, all of you get on your faces.”

While they did pushups, Gunnery Sergeant Johns screamed at them about following orders and integrity. They were made to scream the Discipline Ditty, in the hopes that the words would sink in. All Dash could think about was how badly she’d screwed up. One missed hour of practice and she’d been stripped of her position. She had the sinking feeling that the DI wouldn’t accept any appeals, either.

There was no time to bemoan her interrupted authority. After the beating, it was straight back to drill practice. Dash tried her hardest to be perfect in her movements. More punishment was not what she needed.

Oberta was surprised and not entirely pleased to be promoted. He would have to learn his new duties as well as pick a Vice President and bring them up to speed.

“At least now you don’t have to go see the DI every morning,” he said, trying to bring some levity to the situation.

Dash shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

The rest of the day didn’t provide much time for sad reflection, either. In a way, Dash was grateful. She fell into bed and tried to focus on happy thoughts. With RLP coming up, there weren’t many to be had.

The day of the inspection began at the usual time, but the class was given a break from PT. That gave them a precious extra hour to make sure everything was ready to go. Dash and Leest made their beds carefully and pulled out all drawers to the precise measurements requested by the Officer Candidate Regulations. Their rifles were laid on top the beds, their lockers were open and the clothing inside arranged carefully. They quizzed each other on knowledge.

With twenty minutes before inspection, all the Candidates had their uniforms on and were carefully checking themselves and others for IP’s and contraband.

The IP—Irish Pennant—was effectively just a thread or other bit of loose material. Contraband could be anything that wasn’t supposed to be there, like small particles or fuzz.

“I feel like we’re gorillas grooming each other,” murmured Leest as she ran a lint roller over the pony’s front to catch anything too small to see. Dash brushed a stray hair and some dust off the woman’s shoulders.

Five minutes before the inspection, they all were lined up and ready to go. Dash shook out her hooves nervously and waited. In front of King Hall the US flag began to rise accompanied by the National Anthem. The whole class came to attention.

As the last few notes of the song died away, the door at the end of the p-way opened. A dozen DI’s and RDC’s entered, moving in almost total silence. Dash gulped, recognizing the calm before the storm.

Seconds passed, and then from down the p-way she heard someone shout, “Good morning sir!”

One by one, the Candidates each received an inspector. There were only so many to go around, but Dash’s inspection began shortly. A Senior Chief named Anson squared up with her.

After the salute, the man snatched Dash’s cover and checked it. “Minus two for two IP’s,” he reported to a Candio standing beside him. The assistant marked it on a clipboard.

I thought I checked that! There was no time for Dash to see anything in hindsight. She flicked one ear nervously.

“Minus one for bearing.” Even a simple, unconscious reflexive movement was grounds for loss of military bearing. Dash did her best not to react, that would only lose her more points. She was ordered into the room.

The rest of the inspection was unpleasant, loud, and strenuous. Still, it seemed to pass in a blur. As quick as she could reply, Dash was ordered to name the fourteen members of her Chain of Command, describe the insignia of a Surface Warfare Officer, recite the serial number of her rifle, and sing the Marine Corps Hymn. Meanwhile, the Senior Chief kept interrupting to point out the flaws with her room prep. There was dust on the shelf in her locker, a wrinkle in her bedspread, the folds in her shorts were a fraction of an inch off.

Throughout it all, Dash was on her face doing pushups, on her back for situps, or running in place. The RPT made it much harder to remember her knowledge and she faltered on a couple of answers.

Finally, she was ordered to pick up her canteen and get out of the room. Everything she had so carefully arranged was haphazardly piled on the bed, which had been untucked and flailed.

Dash stood in the p-way listening to other inspections in progress and taking sips from the canteen. She’d worked up a sweat and was glad for the rest. After making a few last notes on the inspection sheet, the Senior Chief came out of the room. The Candio turned to a new page on the clipboard and Leest’s inspection began.

It was almost more painful to listen to someone else get grilled. Dash winced as she heard Leest make a few mistakes. Minutes passed before she emerged, shaken and breathing hard. Dash felt nervous about the results of the inspection, more about Leest’s than her own.

The two of them waited, sipping water while inspections finished. The last of the shouting died away and the remaining inspectors filed out of the p-way. Gunnery Sergeant Johns stood at the end, arms crossed. “Bravo Company had zero failures. Alpha company had two. We lost! You lost! Go to the SUYA, now!”

The whole class reluctantly stampeded out the door to enter the sand pit. It was not the first time they had been RPT’d there. As they rolled over and over, doing exercises of all kinds, the DI shouted, “You know who put you here? Candidates Leest and Dash! Their re-inspection will be Saturday. If they fail, they will be rolled! It is the job of the rest of you to keep that from happening!”

A shot of panic ran through Dash. Had she really failed? How was this possible? And worst of all, what would the rest of the class think of her now that she’d failed as a President and at RLP?

Ten minutes later, the class was released to clean the sand from their uniforms. It was made more difficult by their trashed rooms and dark moods.

Dash spent that night writing a letter. She felt terrible, and knew that communicating with her friends back home would help. While she’d never seriously considered quitting OCS, even at the tough parts, that didn’t mean she wasn’t weary of it.

“I could have sworn that I deserved to fail, but you didn’t,” Leest said after the lights were off that night. “I spent so much time helping you that I might have neglected some of my stuff.”

“I told you that you didn’t have to do that!” In the darkness, Dash couldn’t see the woman, but that didn’t stop her from glaring.

“Anyway, I guess all we can do is try harder.” The two of them were quiet after that.

There was no RLP preparation time built into the next few days leading up to the re-inspect. Time had to be found between everything else. To Dash’s surprise, everyone she asked for help responded. A crew of OC’s descended on the room and whipped everything into shape. Dash actually found herself shoved out of her own hatch as someone brought in an ironing board to work on her shirts. This was so much more than she’d expected. Maybe there wasn’t as much animosity following her as she thought.

On Saturday, Dash and Leest were lined up in the p-way. The new class’s Welcome Aboard had happened early that morning, but the two of them hadn’t gone to greet the latest addition to the regiment with their own class. They had been ordered to prepare for the RLP re-inspect.

Just as before, when the National Anthem finished, the door opened. It was Gunnery Sergeant Johns, all alone. His inspections were conducted similarly to the originals. Dash tried her best to stay cool under pressure and answer every question while being beaten. Her items to be inspected received less criticism than before.

She traded places with Leest and the second inspection began. Dash’s stomach didn’t like the water she was sipping, but there was no helping that. The moment of truth would come shortly. While getting rolled to the next class wouldn’t be the end of her career, she might die of embarrassment. She was better than that.

Leest stepped out, panting but looking confident. Her inspection had definitely gone better this time. The DI stepped out and faced the two of them. “Well, it looks like Class one-nine-one-two Alpha is good for something after all. It took all of them to get you two in shape. Of course, this is my fault. I mentioned to Senior Chief Anson what a terrible President you were Dash, and I think that made him mad.”

He shrugged. “Or maybe he did it for some other reason. Everything at OCS has a purpose.”

Dash held her stoic expression, but it was difficult. What are you saying? We were failed on purpose so the whole class would be forced to cooperate and learn teamwork?

Gunnery Sergeant Johns walked away. “All right all of you, get your stuff upstairs.”

The rest of the class, who had been barricaded behind closed doors, quickly came out and began carrying their belongings up to the third deck. Passing RLP came with a change of scenery, and the gloomy atmosphere instantly brightened.

That afternoon, while they were settling in, the order attention on deck, stand by was called. It was Chief Valdez. The class was ordered outside into marching formation.

No one seemed to know where they were going. The OC’s were marched towards the bay and out onto a slender spit of land that projected out about an eighth of a mile near the athletic field. There was a small park with a gazebo at the end. There, surrounded on three sides by shimmering waves and guarded by the bridge in the background, the Chief told them why they had been assembled. His voice was calm and quiet.

“You’ve all passed RLP. Most people consider it to be the biggest step at OCS. You’re starting to come together as a cohesive unit, even if there are still kinks to work out. I’m going to present you with your first collar device.”

He held up a small pin. It was an anchor with a rope wrapped around it, made of gold-colored metal. “This is a fouled anchor. It’s long been a symbol of the Navy. Even fouled in rope, it’s still useful in its purpose. It reminds us that we aren’t perfect, but we can still do good work and always be improving ourselves. I’m going to pin this on each of you, on the right collar, and I’d like you to tell me someone who inspires you to improve yourself, someone who would like to see you do well at OCS.”

Dash already knew who that was. The letter she’d written after failing had not yet been replied to, but just sending it had helped. Her friends wanted her to succeed.

That Sunday, with RLP over, the class did nothing but practice drill. Bravo marched by with the streamer for winning RLP on their guidon. It inspired Alpha to train harder. The whole day was practically a blur of weapons movements. As the next week carried on, the practice didn’t let up.

The night before the competition, Meyer stopped by. “You’ve got this huge package, Dash.”

He handed over a large box. It was heavy and the return address was from Sugarcube Corner in Ponyville. Did Pinkie send a wedding cake or something? Gunnery Sergeant Johns is going to kill me!

The next morning, she dutifully reported at 0500 with the box. The DI looked surprised at such a large package and ordered her to open it.

Tucked inside the first flap of the lid was a note. She cleared her throat.

“Hi Dashie! You sounded sad when you wrote the last letter so I decided to make you some cupcakes! Then I thought about all your friends and all the angry Marines around you and thought that maybe they would like some too, so I kept making them and maybe things got a little out of control. Anyway, I think there are about five hundred in the box.”

“Are there really five hundred cupcakes in that box?” asked the DI.

Dash opened the box fully and showed him a large collection of carefully stacked pastries with blue and gold icing. She gulped before replying, “It looks like it, sir.”

“You owe me five hundred pushups.” Before ordering her to drop, however, he thought for a moment. “Actually, you’re lucky the drill competition is today. I wouldn’t want you to be tired. I’ll make you a deal. You win, and I’ll forget this.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Dash did not know what happened to the cupcakes, but judging by the crowd of DI’s that showed up to grade the competition that weren’t on a sugar high, they were probably thrown away.

“Keep your movements tight and together,” Gunnery Sergeant Johns told the class in a low voice as the stood in the center of the gym floor. “No popcorn noises.”

Stepping back, he lifted his parade sword to salute the Master Sergeant in charge of the competition. After a brief conversation, the DI turned around and began.

“Port arms!”

As one, the class jerked their rifles up and slapped the foregrip, holding the weapons in front of them.

“Inspection arms!”

Charging handle back and forth, clack clack, raise to examine the chamber.

“Port—!”

Release the bolt, clack, close the cover, click.

“—arms!”

Pull the trigger, click, slap the foregrip, smack.

Dash almost smiled. Everything had gone in perfect sync. Now they had to complete the rest of the movements.

The class swapped the rifles to their right and left shoulders and then moved on to facing movements and marching in place. In minutes, the performance was over.

Alpha Company retreated to the back of the gym behind a curtain to listen to Bravo. Gunnery Sergeant Salucci’s voice could be heard issuing commands. “Port arms!”

Dash strained her ears to listen for the next part. “Inspection arms!”

…Popcorn. Everyone behind the curtain looked like they were working hard to hide smiles.

After seeing what both companies had to offer, the Master Sergeant accepted a few final notes from the grading DI’s and called all of 19-12 to assemble.

“I’ve seen worse. Heck, I’ve actually seen companies of Marines do worse. Both classes have come a long way from bare civilians in just five weeks. Still, there’s only one winner, and that’s Alpha Company.”

“Get on your faces, Bravo,” shouted Gunnery Sergeant Salucci.

Gunnery Sergeant Johns shook his head. “I don’t understand, Alpha. You skipped some drill practice to work on RLP, fail that, and end up winning this. You’re making my head hurt. You get on your faces, too.”

It was the first time Dash smiled while doing RPT.

That evening, Dash was doing situps and some wing pushups. She hadn’t gotten a single opportunity to fly since coming to OCS, and wanted to keep them strong.

Leest watched with an interested expression. “I would have never thought lightweight bones and feathers were capable of that.”

Dash shrugged. “Whenever I try to explain it, both me and the person who asked usually end up confused. Let’s just say it’s magic. Don’t nuke it.”

Oberta stopped by the open door, showing off the streamer for winning drill competition. He said, “Dash, what happened this morning at the DI meeting was probably the biggest stroke of luck I’ve ever seen anyone get. I’m still surprised that I didn’t get to see my first cupcakes-related heart explosion.”

“What happened?” asked Leest. Dash told the story about the package. They all had a good laugh.

“Well, at least you’ve found your nickname,” said Leest.

“Huh?”

“Cupcakes.”

Comments

[Lesolan - Rest In Peace]

That nickname. So messed up.

[Piquo Pie]

Best nickname ever.

[Unwitting Brony]

Oh the irony. It's delicious. Like cupcakes.

[sockeye101]

Could've been "Butch"...

[Lordmiak]

“Cupcakes.”

You went there. You dared to go there.
I laughed

[Ink_25]

While they still had three weeks to learn the material, there was a still a lot of boring memorization to do.