> The New Blood
>  by Antiquarian
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Newbies
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Scat: noun; plural: Scats

1.  Droppings, especially those of carnivorous animals.
2.  (Slang) Something incredibly disgusting or distasteful; a derogatory term reflecting distaste or scorn.
3.  (Slang) In some cases, a compliment, often of some creature/thing seen as being dangerous or impressive.





Equestrian First Army Encampment ‘Meadowbrook,’ Day 1067 of the Crystal War

My parents brought me to Unicorn Range once when I was a filly. Looking back, I honestly don’t remember if they brought me to try and teach me the history of one of the other pony races or just to try to get me to appreciate the natural beauty of the place. Either way they failed miserably. All I cared about was flying. Was I the fastest? The most agile? The toughest? The quickest to recover when a patch of weather hit or a stunt went wrong? These were the questions that mattered to me. If they’d asked me which of the unicorn legends I liked the most or whether or not I thought the scenery was pretty, I probably would’ve just answered with a blank stare.

No, scratch that, I probably answered with glaring, snark, and flying off to do tricks. I was a cocky little snot. 

I don’t remember any of the history they taught me, if I’m honest. I should probably feel bad about that, especially now that unicorn gunners and infantry have pulled my sorry flank out of the fire more times than I can count (once literally), but, frankly, I still don’t care much about history. The present has enough problems of its own. 

The scenery, though, that I remember. It was one of those things that I totally took for granted at the time, but I can still see the rolling hills and meadows, the lush flowers blooming in colors I didn’t even know existed, the cute cabin retreats that dotted the terrain, the quiet little stands of trees, the streams that just sort of wandered through everything… I remember it all.

Memory’s all that’s left of it. Now, I look out at grassy swells turned to rock and mud by the tramp of hooves, blasted open by cannon fire, and cut through with earthworks and trenches. The bright colors of the flowers are replaced by the glint of the sun off the bits of armor and weapons that the burial details and scavengers missed. The cabins are all either bombed out, cut in half by massive spears and spires of dark crystal, or coopted for command centers and surrounded by tents. What trees there were either got shattered by artillery or cut down for fortifications, leaving those blasted crystals as the tallest things around. 

As for the streams, well, enough bodies have fallen in them that only somepony truly desperate would drink from them. 

There’s a big old boulder poking out the top of the hill at the edge of our encampment – a real boulder, not one of those crystals – and it’s quickly become my favorite spot to just… be away from ponies. Up here I can see whole shattered land. If I close my eyes and ignore the smell, I can almost believe it’s still the way I last saw it as a filly. 

It’s an easy illusion to break. I was too stupid to pay attention to things like beauty when I was young. 

That’s not to say I didn’t care. I did. I cared about it without really knowing that I cared about it or why I cared about it. Now that I do know… it’s gone. 

And that’s a fricking shame.

I snort. Why do I come up here? I always wind up pissed off or miserable. 

My ear flicks automatically in the direction of approaching wingbeats, but I don’t turn to see who it is. There’s only one pony in the camp who sounds like a machine when she flies. It’s taken some getting used to, but that’s okay. I’m just happy she’s back in the air. 

The mare touches down and trots over to stand next to me, her Air Corps armor a muted blue and grey against the brown wasteland beyond. “Philosophizing, Dust?” she asks, a hint of humor in her voice.

I manage half-smirk. “Something like that, boss.”  There’s a rasp of metal, and I turn to see her flexing her metal wing. The sight makes me wince. “Wing playing up?”

Dash grimaces, something she doesn’t do around any of the newbies. “It’s the high-pressure system moving in. Always gets a little stiff when that happens.” Being straight about her pain; another thing she never does around the newbies. Sighing, she shrugs. “Doc says it’s probably just in my head.” 

“Howzat?”

Now it’s her turn to smirk. “It was another high-pressure system the day I lost it. Bad association or something. You know how the shrinks are.” Before I can say anything, she changes the subject. “New blood’s touching down in a few minutes. Time to give ‘em the old Whiskey Charlie welcome.”

Casting one last glance at the once-beautiful hills, I turn my back on them with a sigh, scooping up my helmet as I do. The stupid thing is as clean as it can get (clean kit is a big part of survival it turns out), but it’s so fricking dented and weathered that it looks like dog scat. “How green are they?” I ask, slipping the battered thing on. 

“Green,” replies Dash. “Six fliers. Not one of them has combat time.”

I try to keep the shock off my face. I fail. “Hot dang, LT, none of them?! This isn’t a rear airspace CAP, this is the Wonderbolts!”

Rainbow shrugs as we start walking towards the airstrip. Emphasis walking, because we need time to think. “Best we could do, Dust. You know how strapped we are. Spitfire had to twist some tails just to get us top Academy grads. They’re good fliers, even if they’ve got no experience. We’ll make Bolts out of ’em.”

“If they survive their first minute of combat time!” I shoot back.

“Yeah,” says Dash more quietly. “If they do that.”

I open my mouth to keep shooting it off, but Dash’s quiet resignation shuts me up.  It’s not her fault Command keep sending us green fliers. Heck, it’s not even Command’s fault. All the experienced fliers are either committed, hospitalized, or dead. 

And most of these newbies will die the first time they hit the Furball, an unhelpful inner voice reminds me. I want to shut it up, but I can’t really prove it wrong. Average life expectancy for a new blood flier in full-scale air engagements (‘the Furball’ in parlance), is measured in minutes. 

“How long do we have to get them slotted into the squadron?” I ask, forcing myself to focus on what I can control.

Rainbow’s laugh is bitter. “A whole seven days.”

I want to spit. “Buck.”

“Yeah.”

We take the rest of the walk in silence. 

By the time we reach the airstrip, the new blood’s already touched down. We approach from the back, a move that lets us observe the newbies from a distance and decide how to handle them. 

I don’t like what I see.

The newbies jostle and laugh and brag about how they’re going to take on the entire Crystal Empire by themselves. Dash chuckles dryly, absently removing her helmet to scratch at her torn ear. “They seem… spirited.”

I’m not as nice. “They seem like a bunch of cocky little pissants,” I snarl. “Listen to those shiny drecks bragging like they’re gonna deck Sombra in his stupid face. What a steaming pile of dog scat!” 

Dash snickers. “So, I’m guessing you want a run at them then?”

“Darn right I do! Those shinies need a good grounding if they’re gonna last five minutes out here!”

Rainbow nods, donning her helmet. “So that’s how we’re playing it? Revere me, fear you?”

“Yup.”

“Alright then.” Her wings flare out, and I flex mine to match. “Showtime.”

We take off silently, looping around so that the newbies don’t see where we come from, making it look like we just got back from patrol, or maybe that we were just waiting in the clouds looking down in disapproval. I’ve had ponies assume the latter before; I call that result.

Finishing our loop and tucking ourselves up into the clouds, we align ourselves to the airstrip below. Then we fly. Bolts can be subtle when we want to be, but we sure as Tartarus aren’t known for it. Rainbow hovers for a moment, then shoots downward like a rocket, rainbow contrail in her wake. I’m on her wing, just a shade back, lightning ripping through the air behind me. 

As we come screaming in for a landing, I see the newbies look up, first in shock, then in terror as we blaze right for them. They stumble back in fear, but there’s no need. At the last second, we reverse thrust, dropping our speed enough to land with a shockwave rather than a splatter pattern. The dirt cracks beneath our hooves as we drop to a coordinated stop two yards away from the newbies – just close enough to make our presence felt, and just far enough for me to be able to glare at all of them at once. 

But the show’s not over yet. Two groundcrew appear on either side of us as if by magic, and Dash and I rip off our helmets, toss them to the groundcrew, give our manes a flick, and end staring down our muzzles at the newbies – Dash like an empress, and me like a judge. 

Celestia, I almost crack a smile as their jaws hit the floor. Gets me every time. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s showy and over the top. But if it’s one thing I learned from that crazy captain over at the 23rd Rocket Battery (Tricks or Trixie or something), it’s that ‘shock and awe’ is a legitimate tactic. 

Now that they’re suitably wowed and cowed, it’s time to make soldiers out of ’em. “Ten-hut!” I bark. Shakily they come to attention, forming a line so sloppy that I think Chief Master Sergeants Whiplash and Fast Clip just blew capillaries clear across the camp. This is the top of the Academy? sneers that inner voice. The newbies realize their mistake and shuffle into place, but it takes two full seconds longer than it should have. Pathetic.

“Airponies!” barks Dash, her red eyes taking in the entire line. “I am Lieutenant Rainbow Dash, CO of Wonderbolt Third Squadron, known here as Whiskey Charlie Squadron. Welcome to Camp Meadowbrook and to Whiskey Charlie.” She pauses to let the greeting sink in.

Now that they’ve gotten over their initial stupor, the newbies’ fear gives way to excitement. It’s hard to blame them. This is Rainbow Dash, the Rainbow Dash, the ‘Iron Wing,’ and she’s welcoming them to the Wonderbolts. They’re bursting with pride at the thought that they’ve made it; that they’ve joined the ranks of the best of the best. I remember that feeling. 

The newbies don’t quite start whispering excitedly to each other, but I can tell that they want to. One colt in particular. Blue coat. Red-orange mane. Cocky smirk and enough ego in his eyes to make even me blink. You’re marked, scat-head. 

“As you may know,” continues Rainbow, “combat fliers tend to refer to each other by their callsigns. Bolts are no exception. My callsign is ‘Crash.’ When you have earned your place with us, you may call me by that name.” At the mention of ‘earning’ their place, confusion replaces excitement. “Until then you may refer to me as Lieutenant, Lieutenant Dash, LT, or Whiskey Charlie One.” Several of the newbies risk opening their mouths in front of a senior NCO, no doubt to ask what Dash meant by ‘earn,’ but we’ve done this song and dance before, and she turns the reins over to me before they can get their words out. “Now, I’d like to introduce you to the mare who will be responsible for the final phase of your assessment.”

Showtime. Stepping forward, I let my head dip down enough to shield my eyes behind my mane. When I whip my gaze up, my eyes are blazing. “Listen up you misbegotten, mewling, miserable excuses for enlisted ponies!” I roar. “I am Master Sergeant Lightning Dust, callsign ‘Hot Scat,’ but you putrid little sacks of scat will call me Master Sergeant or Sarge!” 

I step forward and begin pacing in front of them like a lioness stalking her prey. 

“No doubt your tiny brains are wondering what the Lieutenant meant when she said you hadn’t earned your place here. Well, let me clear that up for you.” I stop at the end of the line, setting my back to them. “The Wonderbolts are the best Interceptor Wing in the entire EAC. We have the pleasure of taking the unholy nightmares that weaker ponies laughingly call missions. Which means…” pause for effect, “… that any of you shiny boys who can’t hack it will not be staying.”

Distressed murmurs start behind me, which is bad enough; only an idiot mouths off around a senior NCO. But what really gets my blood up is that some of them sound offended. Out of the corner of my eye I mark who’s making a fuss. Blue Boy (as I’ve dubbed him) is the most vocal of the bunch, with the silver-on-grey stallion next to him close behind. They were yammering before we showed up. Probably wingponies, then. Double the trouble.

I glare one-eyed over my shoulder. “Did I give you maggots permission to bellyache?” I ask, my voice low. The murmurs stop. Turning, I stalk down the line, glaring each and every one of them in the eye. “I heard you creeps were all top fliers back at the Academy. Well, let me be the first to tell you that that doesn’t mean jack all out here. Maybe you thought you were hot scat back in the little two-bit burgs that spawned you, but here…” I stop in front of Blue Boy and give him a long look, “I am the only Hot Scat there is!” I wait until he blinks and swallows before I start stalking again. “If any of you shiny little punks last long enough to call me that, I’ll just have to write the princess and tell her I believe in miracles!” 

There’s yet another calculated pause in the performance – one that lasts long enough for me to gauge their eyes and body language in response to this little rant. Most newbies expect to leave the bootcamp experience behind once they qualify for the Bolts, but that ain’t how this works. In peacetime, getting into a top tier squadron means additional training courses that last months. In wartime, it’s down to a cold mare like me to weed out the weak and stupid. And by ‘stupid’ I mean ‘cocky.’

Blue Boy is definitely stupid. So’s Silver and an orange mare with green mane. All three of them look like they’ll just roll their eyes and laugh off this little speech the second they think I’m out of hearing range, current fear of punishment notwithstanding.

The yellow-and-blue mare on the end of the line looks cowed, which is just as much of a liability, and the teal stallion next to her doesn’t look much better. How they managed to make it through bootcamp without breaking is a mystery if an angry nag like me is enough to get to them. Maybe the fact that we’re on the Front is making this worse, but it’s still gonna take some work to get them combat ready.

The only one who doesn’t have ‘migraine’ written all over is a grey-cream mare with light brown and red hair and a red bow colored on her helmet. She’s clearly intimidated by me, but she’s holding her ground better than the last two. Not cowed, and not cocky. 

Good. I can work with that. 

I gesture to one of the groundcrew, a red stallion with sandy hair, a pleasant smile, and a blue patrol cap. “Specialist Sandmane here is the squadron’s quartermaster. He will show you to the bunks and get your gear stowed. He will also be responsible for any requisitions you need to make. Do not be deceived by his pleasant mannerisms and good nature. He is not your valet, your maid, or your mother, and he will escort you to the infirmary if you make the mistake of treating him like one.” 

The cocky ones all smirk as if I’m joking, the timid ones smile nervously, and Miss Not-a-Migraine hedges her bets with a half-smile. You, my inner voice declares to her, are my new favorite.

“You have ten minutes to get your gear stowed. You will then report to the training field at 0950 and demonstrate to the Lieutenant and I why you think you should stay. Is that understood, newbies?”

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” they reply in a lackluster and un-energetic fashion. 

My eye twitches.

“Sweet tapdancing Celestia, I have been struck deaf for my sins!” I roar. “I said IS THAT BUCKING UNDERSTOOD?!”

“Yes, Master Sergeant!” they bark.

“Then get the buck out of my sight!” 

They beat an energetic retreat, almost forgetting to salute in their eagerness to follow Sandmane. 

From behind me, I hear a sound like sompony’s trying to force the air out of an inner tube. “You’ve sprung a leak, Lieutenant,” I snark, turning to see Dash trying desperately to suppress a snicker. “Does Smirks need to requisition some sealant?”

“‘Sweet tapdancing Celestia?’” she echoes, shaking with barely restrained laughter.

“What?” I chuckle. “They can’t all be winners.”
> Object Lesson
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The impression that many ponies get of their drill sergeants is that these inequine NCOs spend every waking moment considering how best to make their lives a living Tartarus. In reality, a lot of what we do is pretty mundane. Shuffling paperwork, reviewing records, signing requisition forms for new equipment, etcetera.  

For example, I did not spend the minutes between dismissing the new blood and their return for drills selecting my favorite flogging post and putting fresh polish on my blackjack. No, as entertaining as that thought is, what I was actually doing was reading through their personnel files. With our logistics and communications currently being somewhat FUBAR, their files arrived with them, meaning that Dash and I didn’t get the chance to learn so much as their names before they got dropped on us. 

I’d say it’s a Grade-A foul-up and demand somepony’s flank in a sling for that sloppiness… if not for the fact that I’m just glad the files made their way out here at all. We haven’t always been so lucky, and it really kills the ‘NCO from Tartarus’ vibe I’m going for if we have to go around and introduce ourselves like it’s some Celestia-blessed tea party. 

Blue Boy’s real name is Fireball. Apparently, he’s distantly related to the famous/infamous outlaw-moonshiner-turned-Resistance-hero Fire Water. Not sure if that’s where his ego comes from, but whatever the case that scat won’t fly with me. 

I was actually right about Silver’s name (and the fact that he’s Fireball’s wingpony). His full name is Silver Streak. No relation to Lieutenant Silver Streak from First Squadron, but the coincidence still makes me wince. Judging by Dash’s face, she feels the same way. Neither of us are the superstitious type, but unfortunately some fliers are. Hopefully they won’t see it as a bad omen that the kid shares a name with the first of the Old Bolts killed in this war. 

The orange-and-green mare is named Autumnal Zephyr. It looks like Dash finds her name disturbing for an entirely different reason, because the moment I say the name ‘Zephyr’, Dash’s prosthetic eye startes twitching. The mages fixed the feedback problem months ago, so I doubt it had anything to do with the nerves misfiring. I’ll have to ask her about that some time.

Yellow/Blue Mare and Teal Stallion are Summer Sky and Cloudsen, respectively. High marks from their instructors, but notes that neither take the initiative we really want. Workable, but far from ideal, especially with the time crunch. 

Girl-Who-Isn’t-Cocky-Or-Skittish is Angel Wings. Turns out that she almost washed out for a lack of aggression until news about the Bridlebrook Massacre came in. Her drill sergeant noted that she seemed… motivated after that. Not like “out for blood, revenge or die,” just determined to stop the war. If he read her right, that means she’s dangerous in a good way. If he’s wrong, well, that could be a problem. I’ll have to keep an eye on her just in case, but she struck me as having her head on straight. 

Like Dash said, they all graduated with top marks. 

And, like I said, that doesn’t necessarily mean jack. If they can’t integrate into the unit like pinions on a wing, all the talent in the world won’t keep them alive.

Which is why the first exercise when they get back takes us down to the training range, where a few dozen ponies from the 107th Artillery – mostly earth ponies with a few unicorns and a couple pegasi – have set up a scratch battery of light cannons. In place of standard anti-air artillery rounds (‘AAA’ in parlance), the artillery ponies have brought dum-dum rounds (Service-Speak for practice shells loaded with paint). Near each gun team is a dummy team of scarecrows and prop cannons – the targets for this exercise. 

The object of this training is for the recruits to drop four dum-dum bombs, each the size of a grapefruit and weighted like a standard frag grenade, and take out as many gun teams as they can. And to get out without getting clipped, of course. Ordinarily, we’d also provide them with training flechettes, but those are one of the many things that didn’t make it up on the last supply train.

Dash and I lurk behind one of the gun teams so we can eavesdrop on the newbies as they arrive. As expected, they’re bellyaching. This time it’s Autumnal Zephyr making the most racket. “I don’t get it,” she gripes. “Why are we even bothering with these drills? It’s not like we’re amateurs. We’ve all proven ourselves at the Academy. Why are we here?”

Grumbles of assent follow her, even from the more skittish ones. Ordinarily, I’d step in to correct her, but their escort, Specialist Sandmane, has it covered. He gives a good-natured chuckle and says, “Get used to it, kid. Every new blood gets the same treatment.” 

The newbies jump at his words, as though they forgot he was there. They probably did, honestly. It always amazes me how many of the newbies gripe in front of him, given that he outranks them, but I guess lots of fliers just see the groundcrew as being invisible. I know I did.  

Zephyr doesn’t seem impressed. “All due respect, Specialist,” she says in a tone that’s not all that respectful, “We’re Academy graduates. We crushed the competition. We aren’t newbies anymore.”

Sandmane stops short, causing a pileup behind him. Half-turning his head, his easy-going smile not slipping in the slightest, he genially replies, “Hey, Orange Crush, you ever seen combat?”

The mare gapes at him. “W-what did you just call—?”

“—because out here, everypony is a newbie until they’ve seen combat,” he explains calmly, ignoring her outburst. “There are civilians on this base with blood on their hooves, while you’re all greener than a grass smoothie in springtime. Ergo, newbie. Clear?”

His tone is conversational, genial even, but the point gets across. “Clear, Specialist,” she growls. 

“Great,” he says with a winning smile. “Now, let’s not keep the Iron Wing waiting.” 

The prospect of meeting the living legend perks them up, and they enter the training ground without further grumbling. Dash chuckles and indicates Sandmane with a flick of her wing. “Smirks sure is a smooth talker,” she says, using his rather apt nickname.

“A smooth talker with a sharp tongue,” I add. “‘Orange Crush’ ain’t half bad.”

“Yeah,” agrees Dash with a smile. Then, grimacing, “Darn sight better than ‘Zephyr’ anyway.”

“Okay, seriously boss, what is your deal with that name?”

“Ask me when I’ve had a few hard ciders and I’ll tell you the story of the most obnoxious stallion on the face of the planet.” 

“Sounds like a party,” I say as we step out in full view of the new blood. “Let me just demolish these shiny boys and we’ll hit the bar.” I adjust my voice to a proper NCO snarl. “Fillies and gentlecolts! I have the distinct pleasure of introducing you to our resident high-functioning pyromaniacs: 107th Artillery, Echo Battery, led by latent psychopath Lieutenant Earthquake. Say ‘hi,’ Earthquake.” 

The hulking artillery pony waves, smiles pleasantly, and announces, “Get paint on my guns and I’ll eat your legs.”

There’s a nice shocked silence that follows that, as the newbies all eye each other, wondering if he’s kidding or not.  Rainbow Dash manages to make it even worse by laughing like a madmare. “That’s an excellent point, Earthquake,” she chuckles. “I’m glad you brought that up. It is vital in this exercise that you hit only the prop guns with paint bombs. Otherwise Quake here will have you redefining the term ‘live ammunition’ in short order.”

Angel Wings swallows. “You don’t really mean he’ll shoot us out of a cannon, do you? That’s against regulations. Isn’t it?”

Oh, Celestia, that mare must be an easy mark for pranks. 

As far as the exercise goes, it doesn’t matter if Earthquake’s threat is real or not; a pony who misses dropping a bomb on a run like this is a liability to the squadron, a point I rather loudly remind them of. Summer Sky, Cloudsen, and Angel Wings all seem to get that message, but the other three all look bored and act like they’ve heard it all before. 

To be fair, they have. This is a standard drill at the Academy. What they don’t know is that this isn’t the whole drill. 

“Now, I’m sure that even you airheads looked up from giving each other hooficures long enough to learn the standard strafing patterns,” I bark. “But combat isn’t like the firing range back at the Academy. Groundfire will come at you different every time. You could get hit, your wingpony could get hit, and you will still need to finish your run or else everypony behind you could die.” I let that sink in for a beat. “Now, given that you bruise easily, I’ll avoid actually beating you to simulate combat injuries.” 

Not to mention I wouldn’t do that anyway, given that would make me a Bad Pony. Even if I didn’t care about that, the Uniform Code of Military Conduct is a Thing That Exists. 

Details.

“However…” I continue, not bothering to hold back a predatory grin as I whistle for the today’s training assistant. A unicorn mare with specialist’s barding obediently trots up, pulling a cart of what I think of as training enhancements. “…that doesn’t mean I can’t make you feel like I’ve given you a good thumping.” 

Pulling one of the harnesses out of the cart I hold it up for display. “This, little newbies, is a rather uncomfortable invention called an Equine Muscle Inhibition Harness, known affectionately as Corporal Cramper. The spells on it are designed to randomly select some way to make you unhappy. Maybe it will make your left wing crimp mid-turn. Maybe it will make your barrel stiffen on the right side like you’ve been hit. Maybe it won’t do anything to you at all… but your wingpony’s will do something to him. Nothing that experienced fliers like you can’t recover from,” they handled the Dizzatron after all, “but far from pleasant. Bottom line, as soon as Specialist Golden Glyph here activates the magic, Corporal Cramper will be primed to strike you at any time. You will need to roll with the punches and keep an eye on your wingpony and drop your payload on the dummy targets.” I gesture to a set of tall flagpoles that mark the edges of the training ground. “For obvious reasons you will need to stay above the flag marks in case crash teams need to save you from Cramper’s attempt to give you a Bad Day.” My smirk broadens. “So, who’s first?”

Not surprisingly, His Majestic Blueness Fireball and the uncomfortably-named Silver Streak are the first to jam those hooves skyward, with Autumnal Zephyr a split second behind. 

‘A’ for enthusiasm, ‘F’ for reading the room. There’s no way I’d ever make it that easy. “Silver Streak, Fireball, Orange Crush,” I have to hold back a laugh at the horrified look on Zephyr’s face as I use her nickname, “thank you for volunteering to be wingponies for Sky, Cloudsen, and Angel Wings.” 

Oh, Celestia, I love seeing those jaws hit the floor. Orange Crush and Silver just stare in mute outrage, but Fireball is a bit more vocal. “Wha- What?” he sputters. “But, Sarge, we—”

“Problem, sparky?” I ask, my voice low.

What he should have said next was ‘No, Master Sergeant.’ 

What he did say was, “Sarge, Silver and I are both AFCs. The only reason Silver’s a wingpony and not a lead is because he was the only one who could keep up with me.”

Hoo, boy. He’s gonna be one of those ponies, huh? I cock an eyebrow. “And?”

Again, smart play would be to shut up. He doesn’t. “I don’t think it’s fair to the other newbies to ask them to keep up with us.”

Wow. Just… wow. That one actually made me blink. Silver at least has the grace to look a little uncomfortable, but Fireball just stands there, so cocky, so…

I never used to see those looks, the ones like the other newbies are giving him. The hurt. The offense. The anger. And it’s not just them giving him looks; it’s every veteran in earshot. There’s a universal disgust that the loudmouth new blood doesn’t get it. 

I never used to see those looks, when I was the one getting them.

I see them now.

“‘Not fair,’” I repeat, walking up to stand in front of him. I spend a little time looking at the sky, counting back from ten and reminding myself that the Uniform Code of Military Conduct is a Thing That Exists. “‘Not fair.’” Looking him dead in the eye, I ask, “Tell me, Airpony First Class Fireball, is the enemy obliged to play fair?”

He tilts his head in confusion. “What?”

“What, Master Sergeant,” I correct.

He narrows his eyes. “What, Master Sergeant?”

“It was a simple question, Airpony First Class Fireball. I asked you if you think the enemy is obliged to play fair, yes or no?”

“No,” he says. I stare. “No, Master Sergeant.”

“That’s correct,” I say calmly. “Now, you may have been hot scat at the Academy but, as Specialist Sandmane pointed out earlier, you have not had the extreme pleasure of slaying the enemy for Princess and Country. I, by contrast, have enjoyed that pleasure.” 

My eyes narrow. “I have been knocked out of the sky by shrapnel from a AAA shot because the pony in front of me missed her drop. I have had to stitch my own wounds shut with a loose thread from my uniform and a makeshift needle. I have had to crawl bleeding through the mud four hundred yards back to my own lines, pausing only to beat a stallion to death with my bare hooves because it was him or me.” 

Sweat breaks out on his brow, but my voice doesn’t rise at all, even as I lean in. “You think you’re hot scat, but you don’t know the first thing about real war.” I’m now nose-to-nose with him. “So tell me, Airpony First Class Fireball, why should I give a fly’s fart in a windstorm what the buck a little pissant like you thinks is ‘fair?’” 

He swallows and says nothing. 

“I asked you a question, airhead! I said WHY SHOULD I GIVE A BUCK WHAT YOU THINK?!”

“I withdraw my objection, Master Sergeant!” he barks. 

“RIGHT ANSWER!” I shout. My eyes flash to the stoic unicorn who came with the EMIH rigs. “Specialist Glyph, get these newbies ready to fly! I am in the mood for fireworks!” 

While Glyph harnesses them with Corporal Crampers, I move off to talk to Dash who is… irritatingly amused. She shuffles her metal wing when I get close. “Well,” she observes, her eyes on the newbies “he’s certainly bold isn’t he?”

“He’s reckless, arrogant, and insubordinate!” I snap. “He shoulda been busted down back at the Academy, not made lead pony!”

Dash gives me a sideways glance. “Sounds like somepony I know.”

Ouch. “You got a point to make, LT?”

She nudges me with a hoof. “Just be patient with them, Dust. We need fliers, and these are the best we could get.”

I snort. “Yeah, well, maybe we’d be better off going in short-hooved.”

Dash glances at me out of the corner of her eye. There’s a glint of steel in her gaze, and challenge in her voice as she says, “Then I guess my trusty wingpony had better sort their scat out, eh?” 

Well, heck, when she goes full CO like that…

“Fine, boss,” I grunt. “I’ll fix the idiots. But only because you asked nicely.” 

“Oh, is asking nicely all it takes?” she chuckles, her humor returning now that she’s made her point. “In that case, why don’t you pick up the tab when we hit Hooch’s later.”

“Dream on, Crash,” I say with a roll of my eyes before heading back for the newbies. They’re chatting as I close the distance, not seeming to care what Specialist Glyph hears, but they clam up when I’m in earshot. Judging by the looks the cocky ones are giving (or specifically not giving) me, I can guess what they were talking about. The two more skittish ones are borderline glaring at the first three, which is at least an improvement over fear. Angel Wings actually looks like she might be trying to be a middle ground. I mentally flag her for potential NCO material if that translates over to combat leadership.

And, you know, if she lives.

Speaking of. “Angel Wings, Orange Crush, you’re up first. Show us what you’ve got.”

“Yes, Master Sergeant!” they chorus, Orange Crush with anticipation, Angel Wings with a somber frown. They collect their paint bombs and head to the start point. 

Once they’ve reached the start line up in the clouds, I glance at Glyph. “Ready, Specialist?”

“Ready, Master Sergeant.”

“Ready, crash teams?”

Members of the groundcrew, mostly unicorns with slowing spells and pegasi with nets, are spread out in teams of four around the area. Each of them signal readiness to Sandmane, who reports, “Crash teams ready, Master Sergeant.”

“Ready, Lieutenant Earthquake?”

“Let Celestia’s cleansing fire strike me dead if I am ever unready to fire my guns, Master Sergeant.”

I hoist a megaphone to my lips. “Commence Exercise on my mark! Three… two… one… mark!”

Glyph’s horn flares, and the exercise begins. Angel Wings takes off at a dead air sprint, with Crush tucked in close behind. By keeping high, they make a small target for the cannons, with the added benefit of avoiding most archery and magic fire. The main drawback is that it’s a long drop to make. Plus, it only takes one cannon to ruin your day. 

Of course, Angel Wings knows this, which is why she and Orange Crush go evasive not long after their initial sprint, shortly before Earthquake roars, “Commence Fire Pattern Rosepetal!”

The guns speak in succession, spewing shot skyward. The dum-dum rounds explode in technicolor starbursts as gun teams try to blast the new blood from the sky. 

It’s easier said than done. Orange Crush might be full of herself, but she’s a good flier. Angel Wings is no slouch either. They evade the incoming fire with the sort of finesse that I’d expect from top line graduates.

Right up until Corporal Cramper rears his ugly head.

Orange Crush is the first one to feel his wrath. The harness jacks with her left wing, sending her into a veering dive that puts her in the path of a dum-dum shell. She’s quick enough to fold in her wings and dive under the shot before it explodes, but she still gets a misting of marker dye on her back. Had that been a real AAA shell, she woulda gotten cooked a bit. Maybe she’d still be flying; maybe not. Depends on whether or not the shrapnel hit her or just the flame. For the sake of the exercise we’ll assume the latter, but that doesn’t mean she’s safe. 

Crush manages to level off into a fast, semi-powered glide. A glide that’s just at the minimum altitude, far from her wingpony, and right in the path of the forward guns and infantry. 

Angel Wings, seeing her wingpony in trouble, dives into a strafing run that’ll take her over the foremost guns and let her drop her payload before they can fire on Crush. It’s a good move if she can pull it off, but a rough angle to come in on that leaves no margin for error. If she had more experience, she might have made the run perfectly. As it is, two of her four bombs miss. 

Still, two misses mean two hits, and the associated gun teams obediently fall silent. The remaining two forward guns line up on Orange Crush and fire, and the infantry unicorns fire stun blasts to fill the air between the shells. It’s a close thing, but through some exceptionally skilled (or exceptionally lucky) aerial acrobatics Crush makes it through untouched. The Cobalt Corkscrew is an impressive maneuver, especially with a half-numb wing, but it pretty well jacks up her attack run. She drops all four bombs, but all she gets out of it is a partial hit on one of the rear gun teams. 

Then they’re through, no worse for wear but a little marker dye and, hopefully, a singed ego on Crush’s part. Not a bad run, but there’s room to improve. 

“Endex, Endex, Endex!” I shout over the bullhorn, signaling an end to the exercise. The newbies touch down near me, Angel Wings looking embarrassed and Orange Crush swearing like a one-eyed lumberjack. “Problem, Airpony Zephyr?”

“Yes, Master Sergeant! This Celestia-darned harness—” I raise one eyebrow. Orange Crush swallows and shakes her head. “No, Master Sergeant. The harness operated exactly as it should have and I failed to work the problem.”

“Did you?” I ask. Crush doesn’t seem to have a response to that. “Airpony Wings, what is your honest assessment of Airpony Zephyr’s performance?”

Angel Wings snaps to attention. “Master Sergeant! Airpony Zephyr suffered a simulated injury which placed her in the line of fire of the battery! In spite of this, she managed to evade the groundfire and escape! I also believe her flight path acted as a diversion which enabled me to get in close and drop my payload with more precision.”

“That so?” I ask, allowing myself the barest hint of a smile at Orange Crush’s open-mouthed stare. Angel Wings made a good judgment call and a decent attack run, but she gave Crush the credit for it. Interesting. “Crush, you got anything to add to Airpony Wings’ assessment?”

Anything that might show that you’ve got her back too? 

“I… think Airpony Wings did well to capitalize on my distraction,” says Crush. “She also opened a path for me to make my run. If I’d had full wing control, I think I could have hit those targets.” 

“Mm,” I grunt. “Too bad you had a wing cramp.” 

Crush swallows whatever cocky thing she doubtless wants to say. “Yes, Master Sergeant.” 

I give them some pointers on what they could have done better, as well as a couple terse compliments about what they did well. “Not a bad run, either of you. Not great, but not bad. Good hustle on you, Angel Wings – you showed the right instinct going for your partner when you did.” 

“Thank you, Master Sergeant.” 

Acknowledging her thanks with a noncommittal grunt, I order the gun and crash teams to reset for the next run. “Silver, Cloudsen. You’re up next. Let’s see if you can do better.”

They do better. And worse. I shake my head as two shame-faced ponies, one coated in paint, stand before me. 

“Airpony First Class Silver Streak, do you think I like writing?”

He tilts his head in confusion. “Master Sergeant?”

“I asked a simple question, Airpony. Do you think I like writing?”

“Sarge, I… I don’t know, Sarge.”

“Specialist Sandmane, tell AFC Silver Streak how I feel about writing.”

“Negatively, Master Sergeant,” he supplies.

“Negatively,” I concur. “So why is it that you have forced me to write a letter home for you telling your parents that you flew head-first into a flak round?”

Silver swallows. “I have no excuse, Master Sergeant.”

“Darn right, you don’t. You had a brilliant run going, three solid hits and one partial, and then you got distracted by your wingpony and flew straight for three, whole, seconds while Quake was getting you in his sights. Situational awareness, Airpony. Learn it.” 

Even beneath the paint, I can tell he’s blushing. “Yes, Master Sergeant.”

“And you,” I say, rounding on Cloudsen. “You also screwed up. You had a fine run, you adjusted when Cramper hit you, then you got grazed by that stun blast and you jettisoned your brains.” I point to a dummy gun that’s so garishly painted it looks Jackson Potluck threw up on it. “Is there a reason you felt the need to drop all four dum-dums on one gun?”

Cloudsen swallows. “I—”

“You’re maybe an aspiring modern artist?”

“Master Serg—"

“Because you got him, Cloudsen. You friggin’ got him. But that yelp you let out when you got clipped, your erratic flight path, and your severe overkill distracted your wingpony and got him splashed. You plan on choking like that again, newbie?”

“No, Master Sergeant!” 

“I should hope not, because the Lieutenant here hates modern art almost as much as I hate writing.”

“It’s true,” says Dash. “Hate it.” 

“See, you two idiots managed to take what should have been a great run and make both Dash and I think about things we hate. Now go sit over there and think about what you’ve done.” 

“Yes, Master Sergeant!” they bark. 

“Reset the course. Fireball, Summer Sky, you’re up next.”  

While the crews prep the course, I have a few moments to watch the camp around me. Or, more specifically, one part of the camp. I really should be watching Fireball and Summer Sky before their run, but I’m distracted by seeing a group of ponies heading to Graves’ Registry. A big group, shepherded by a familiar chaplain. 

“LT, we didn’t hit any action today, did we?” I ask.

Dash follows the line of my gaze. “No, we didn’t. Those troopers are probably guys from the 85th, back when we hit action at Marker’s Drift a couple days ago. Some of ’em got hit by that new shard shot the blasted Criers cooked up.”

I wince at the mention of shard shot and spit at the mention of Criers. 

Not all of Sombra’s troops are brainwashed victims. Some – especially in his air forces – are mercenaries. Griffons mostly. But some of his troops, all too many of his troops, are ‘Acolytes’ as a certain Ranger captain calls them. The elite mages of these are called ‘Clarions,’ officially. Officers like fancy words, even when they’re good officers who save your tail.

I call ’em Cultists and Criers, and most of the troops – even the good captain – do too. Cultists are just the run-of-the-mill nutjobs that start worshiping Sombra, because some folks just like to spit in the face of the Maker I guess. Chaplain Trench says most of them don’t start off as nutjobs, but are ‘gradually seduced through little inroads of vice, becoming first bullies, then idealogues, then hardened killers.’ I don’t especially care. They worship a mind-controlling maniac of their own free will, they’re nutjobs. 

The Clarions though, the ‘Criers’… those creeps are just cruel, sadistic, psychopathic sons of sin. They do some creepy… melding thing with Sombra’s magic; act as his signal boosters and evil hype ponies. When they’re not dressed in black robes spouting mystic bull scat to terrified townsfolk, they’re keeping Sombra’s control over his mind-controlled thralls strong no matter how far they get from the evil grand poohbah. And when they’re not doing that they’re R&D, War Crimes edition. 

Shard shot’s one of their new nightmares – tiny, magical crystal shards that not only splinter and pierce like regular shrapnel, but also move around of their own accord inside a pony’s flesh. So far, our medics are having a Tartarus of a time digging them out. Even if you get the pieces, the dark magic effects have had time to hurt the victim and, well…

“Ain’t no small burial detail,” I say aloud. 

Dash is silent for a moment before grating, “No it ain’t.” 

There’s a pause before I spit and say, “Buck the Criers.”

“Buck the Criers,” she echoes.  

War ain’t pretty, even when it’s justified. My job is killing bad guys and saving good guys. I accept that. Shrapnel does some pretty nasty things to its victims; so does a blade, a bludgeon, or a blast of magic. But some things oughta be off the table. Leaving something crawling around inside you, after it’s already taken you out of the fight and you’ve been lucky enough to live through the first hit? That’s just a step too far. 

“Lieutenant Dash? Sarge?” calls Sandmane. We turn and see the field prepped and ready. “On your order.” 

Horse scat! Went and got distracted again. Hard not to with dead brothers and sisters down there, even if I can’t say I knew even one of ’em. Family’s family. Still, gotta attend to the living, even if they are cocky scats. 

Turning to Fireball and Summer Sky, I bark, “You heard the stallion. Get set for your run!” 

“Yes, sergeant!” they snap back. 

As they take off, I note their expressions. Summer seems leery of working with Fireball, but she’s working not to let it show. Fireball though…

There’s a gleam in his eye that I don’t like. Something’s up. 

Without any way of knowing what that ‘something’ might be though, the only way to work it out is to watch.

Once they’ve reached the start line up in the clouds, I glance at Glyph. “Ready, Specialist?”

“Ready, Master Sergeant.”

“Ready, crash teams?”

Each team signals readiness to Sandmane, who reports, “Crash teams ready, Master Sergeant.”

“Ready, Lieutenant Earthquake?”

“My guns sing in symphony to the Maker and all that is good upon the earth.”

I hoist a megaphone to my lips. “Commence Exercise on my mark! Three… two… one… mark!”

The two pegasi set off… and immediately things go wrong. 

Summer has barely begun to take evasive maneuvers and the guns are just about to fire when Fireball blitzes past her, dives, and goes for a low-altitude high-speed run. 

Dash lets out a rather mild, “Well, Tartarus.”

My reaction is considerably louder.

“YOU STUPID B—”

*BOOM* roars the first cannon. 

Earthquake’s crews know their stuff. As soon as Fireball splits formation, half the guns move to track him while the other half stay on Summer. 

Summer, to her credit, recovers from the shock of her wingpony ditching her remarkably fast and shifts to follow Fireball in. I have no idea if she was planning a low-altitude run, but that’s what she’s doing now. She moves with speed and agility. Unfortunately, Fireball is faster, more agile, and has a head start. 

He drops down to the lowest permissible altitude, ducking beneath that cutoff line more than once. The gunners have trouble tracking him, partially because of his skill, and partly because they don’t want to plaster him below the line. He makes his run, makes some impressive quick turns and jukes, and launches his bombs. Three clean hits and a partial. 

But I only notice this distantly, because I’m watching Summer Skies. She did her best to follow Fireball in. Made it farther than I might have expected. But she was stuck on the backfoot as the second pony in, far behind the lead, and under the gaze of alerted gunners who missed their first target but are already on-line for the second. 

Summer Skies doges five shots. 

There are six.

Dum dum round hits her dead on.

I watch the crash teams catch her through red-tinted eyes. They know their stuff. Good troopers, my brain absently notes. But I have much more pressing feedback to give out.  

I’m already walking towards where he’ll land before he starts his little unearned aerial victory flourish. 

As he touches down, he looks at me with that blasted, cocky expression and says, “See, Sarge, I told you nobody could keep u—”

*Clang!*

I crack him over the helmet with a gauntleted hoof. Not enough to damage anything, but enough to hurt good and proper. 

“Gah!” he exclaims, staggering back. “What the heck, Sarge, I—”

“Broke every rule in the Celestia-blasted book you scat-eating Blue Falcon!” I finish, jamming one hoof into the top of his uniform tunic and twisting to pull him close. Hard thing to do with hooves, but I’m motivated. “You flew below the cutoff, you took lead away from your partner, violating orders on both counts!” I’m breathing heavily, and force myself to slow it, to calm my voice to a low, grim level. “But your real, crowning, grade-A, first prize, accept-no-substitutes Blue Falcon moment was when you abandoned your wingpony. A wingpony who was, in fact, FLYING LEAD!” 

Incredibly, Fireball is either too arrogant – or too adrenalized – to back down. “I told you, Sarge, nopony is fast enough to keep up with—”

*Clang!* 

He momentarily goes cross-eyed from the hit, and I grab him around the withers and haul him around to see the furious form of Summer Skies approaching, covered head-to-tail in paint. “Look at your wingpony, moron! Look at her!” I shake him hard. “You did that! You got her killed! When you broke formation and took lead, she followed you in, because she’s supposed to have your back, and unlike you, Blue Falcon, she has her squadronmates’ backs! You drew all the guns onto you, but half of ’em couldn’t shoot because you kept cutting below the bloody cutoff! You know who couldn’t cut below the line?” I jab a forehoof at Summer. “Private Skies here! Who you led into a shooting gallery because you are too stupid and arrogant to get it through that thick skull of yours that this isn’t about you!” 

I release him with a push that sends him sprawling into the dirt, more from shock than the force of the push. I address the groundcrew and snap, “Clean those two off,” gesturing to the two painted ponies as I start pacing. 

What will get through to the idiot? How do I make it real to him? 

How do I show him that his arrogance hurts the ponies who depend upon him?

How do I keep him from making The Mistake?

My eyes fall on the Graves’ Registry section of the base, and inspiration strikes. Glancing back at the group, I bark, “Do you all know what a Blue Falcon is?” Without waiting for an answer, I turn and start walking back to them, not deigning to look at Fireball. “A Blue Falcon is a Buddy Fowler, a selfish pig, one who hangs his buddies out to dry.” My gaze falls upon Fireball, a bundle of hurt and anger and defiance and – Maker-willing – shame. “Today, you were a Blue Falcon. Tomorrow, you will do better, or I’ll remove you personally.” Raising my eyes to the group, I ask, “Any one of you brave or stupid enough to call this Blue Falcon your friend?”

Not surprisingly, I don’t see many prospects for Fireball there. Summer and Cloudsen both look ready to throw Fireball a blanket party – a euphemistic phrase for an anonymous beating delivered in the dead of night by throwing a blanket over the trooper so he can’t see who’s administering the punches. Orange Crush looks disgusted, but also nervous; she’d been cheering for him when he began his run. Angel Wings frowns; she seems angry, but not as angry as Summer and Cloudsen. And Silver…

Silver raises his hoof. Not without angry glances at Fireball. Not without shame or nervousness. But he raises his hoof and says quietly, “I do, Master Sergeant.”

Fireball almost starts to smile, but the look on Silver’s face dampens that light quick.

“You do, Silver?” I press. “You call this Blue Falcon a ‘friend?’” 

Silver swallows. “Yes, Master Sergeant. He… just got carried away, Master Sergeant.” 

Privately, I’m proud the kid had the brass to stand by his buddy. But that’s not the point that needs making right now. “Yer darned right he got carried away, Silver. But that won’t be happening again. Fall in, class. We’re going on a field trip. On foot, to keep some of you more grounded in reality.” I look at Earthquake, who has watched the display with his usual equanimity, and say, “Good shooting, Quake.” 

He bows his head slightly. “A pleasure as always to serve Her Fiery Majesty with you, Lightning Dust.”

“Show’s over, folks!” I shout to the other ponies present. “Pack it in! The six of you? Quick march!”

It’s a quiet march down to the Graves’ Registry. Especially as I try to gauge Rainbow’s mood without looking directly at her. 

Throughout my whole dressing down of Fireball, I had avoided even thinking about Dash. I put my boss out of my mind. I can’t be distracted with whether or not the lieutenant will disapprove of the master sergeant’s methods. Sometimes I need her to rein me in, though usually she keeps her comments until later when other ponies are out of earshot, and she can correct me without doing it in front of my subordinates. Right now, I can’t think about that. 

As she marches along quietly beside me, not so much as glancing in my direction, eyes straight ahead and face unreadable, I can’t help but wonder if some corrections are in my future.

Ah, well, the course is set. Might as well hang for sheep as for chickens. 

I order the newbies to hang back a moment while Rainbow and I head up to the main tent of the Graves’ Registry. When we reach the tent entrance, we’re met by a familiar stallion. Army Chaplain Reverend Trench is thinner than when I first met him, not that he was ever heavy. Rations have been relatively steady these last few months, but he’s lost weight anyway. He used to fast from some of his meals and offer it as a prayer for the troops, but Celestia forbade him doing it, lest his health suffer. I know him too well to think he’d disobey her, but, still, he’s thinner.  Stress, fatigue, and long, sleepless nights holding the hooves of dying ponies and giving them their Final Consolations would be enough to make anypony loose weight, I think. Just as well Celestia won’t let him fast; I’d hate to see what he’d look like if he did. 

The thin, peach-colored stallion is wearing dirtied combat fatigues and that red scarf-looking-thing that chaplains wear that I can’t ever remember the name of. He adjusts his glasses and greets us, saying, “Lightnin’ Dust, Rainbow Dash. Ye two are lookin’ weal.” His Connemaras brogue is fortunately not as indecipherable as such things can often be, and I have little trouble understanding him as he lilts, “An’ these are yer new recruits, I wager?”

“Guilty as charged, Rev,” says Rainbow Dash. Glancing at me, her gaze suddenly hooded, she says, “The sarge here has something she wants them to see.” 

There’s a lot bound up in that tone – a tone that says I’ll definitely be getting some correction later – but that’s future Lighting’s problem. “Chaplain Trench,” I say quietly, not wanting the recruits to hear, “I… need the new blood to know their actions have consequences. I need… I need to show them the fallen. Today’s fallen.”

It’s a long, painful quiet while Trench stares at me. Eventually, he takes off his glasses, folds, them, and meticulously puts them in his pocket. “Lightnin’,” he says softly, “I can respect yer need ta teach these wee bairns tha true face o’ war…” he looks me steadily in the eye, “but I cannae jus’ let ya use these soldiers like that. They’re fallen comrades, nae a set piece fer a lecture.” 

“Please, Rev. We’ll be respectful, I… just I don’t think they’ll get the message any other way. You knew these ponies,” I add, gesturing into the tent. “Isn’t there… isn’t there one of them who you think might have been willing…” I trail off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

Fortunately, it seems I didn’t need to. Trench spends a long time studying the newbies waiting behind me, then sighs, scratches his head, and says, “A’right. Bring the bairns wit ye an’ follow me.” 

Signaling the newbies to follow, we proceed into the tent after Trench. He leads us through row upon row of shroud-covered bodies. 

Sometimes, you can guess what sort of pony lies beneath the shroud. 

Sometimes, there isn’t even enough lying beneath the shroud to guess. Artillery’s a beast like that. 

Eventually we reach the bodies that came in today. Trench goes around to the head of the body, where a scraggly brown mane is just poking out from under the sheet. He lays a fatherly hoof on the head and looks down with sadness, his eyes at a disfocus as he sees some point in time far away. “Private Tuft,” the chaplain introduces him. “He made mattresses before the war. Wanted to take over his da’s shop one day. Was sweet on a girl back ’ome. Played tha flute as a hobby, though ’e always said ’e was rubbish at it.” There’s a fondness in the stallion’s eyes, and he suddenly looks much older than his forty winters. What gleam of happy remembrance is there fades as he concludes, “Hit by shard shot artillery couple days ago. Survived the shrapnel what kilt three of ’is fellow troopers. Fought tha shards fer forty-two agonizin’ hours. Died this morning. ’E was barely nineteen.” 

At that, he pulls back the sheet. 

The docs must’ve needed to remove the bandages in a last, failed attempt to get at the shrapnel, and there was no point on putting them back on afterwards, so we can see the fallen warrior clearly.

Half of Private Tuft’s face is immaculate. Green-coated, healthy, with yet a bit of peach fuzz that might one day have become decent facial hair.

The other half of his face is a mess of flayed flesh and blood, traveling down his neck and chest.

“Oh Celestia!” half sobs a female voice behind me. I’m not sure if it was Orange or Summer or Angel Wings, and at that moment I don’t care. All I can think about is Private Tuft.

Forty-two hours. Kid was a fighter. 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” manages another voice. This time I identify it as Summer Skies. 

“Trash can, two rows down on your left,” I say. She speedwalks over to it and begins retching into it immediately. I’m pleased to note that, without prompting, Angel Wings follows her over and holds her mane out of her way while she pukes. Angel Wings is paler than usual, but she’s holding it together, if for no other reason than to take care of Skies. 

The others have mixed reactions. Some are pale. Some look like they could be sick. Some are choking back tears. None can tear their gaze away. 

But it's Fireball I watch the most. I watch the pieces finally start to fall together in his mind. Finally start to hit home. 

I wait until Angel Wings and a rather shaky Summer Skies rejoin the group before I make my final point. 

“There are a lot of things that can take you out of this game. Enemy action. Rogue storms. Freak accidents. Things you may have little or no control over can cripple or kill you.” I gesture to Tuft. “Private Tuft here was lucky in some ways. He was in the 85th. Sharp unit. Good soldiers. His buddies had his back, and he had theirs. If something was going to bring them down, it was going to be something they couldn’t control. He died with his face to the enemy, courageous in the face of enemy fire, and killed by the ponies we’re here to stop. Whoever writes his letter home will be able to say it was nopony’s fault but the enemy’s, and that he fought them with everything he had until the very end.” 

I step closer and look each of them in the eye in turn, ending on Fireball. “But there’s no worse letter to write home than when it wasn’t enemy action that landed them on a stretcher, a gurney, or a slab, but the failure of a so-called ‘friend.’ None of us, no matter how good we are, can be lone wolves. Not me, not Lieutenant Dash, heck, not even Celestia works alone.” I point to each of them individually. “You all look out for each other; you for them, them for you. That’s how you come back alive. The weakest member of the team is not the one who’s physically weakest, or slowest, or least skilled. The weakest member of the team is the one who can’t be trusted to have everyone else’s backs. Because if you are that untrustworthy member,” I gaze at Fireball, then gesture to Silver Streak, “It will be your buddy on the slab.” 

There’s a deep quiet as I let that sink in. “Do you all understand?”

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” chorus five voices as their users come to attention, eyes ahead.

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” murmurs Fireball, his voice barely a whisper as he stares at the dead soldier. 

I tilt my head slightly and say, “I hear you say, ‘Yes, Master Sergeant,’ but we’ve already seen that the lesson doesn’t always take on the first run. So to make sure it sticks,” I glance at Trench, “You seem short-staffed here, Trench. Need extra hooves on burial detail?”

Blinking in surprise, Trench manages, “I, er, yes mum.”

“Then it’s settled. You six are assigned to burial detail for the remainder of the day.” Eyes widen with horror, which I take as a good sign. Better chance of remembering the lesson. “I trust you’ll be respectful.”

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” they shakily chorus. 

“Good.” Turning to Tuft, I throw him a salute and say, “Thank you, Trooper. You rest easy. We’ll take it from here.” I nod gratefully to Trench, and he gently covers Tuft back up. 

After covering up poor Tuft, Trench gathers the newbies, asks them to follow – even though he’s technically an officer, the Rev seldom issues orders – and leads them outside to begin the burial detail. I follow close enough to monitor reactions, but not enough to be in the way. From the doorway of the tent, I watch the chaplain instructing them in the proper manner of laying the fallen to rest. 

The lesson should sink in. If the lesson sinks in, he won’t let his buddies down. If the lesson sinks in, he won’t be second-guessing himself for the rest of his life. 

If the lesson sinks in, he won’t see his friend down there and know it was his fault. 

Dash steps up beside me. She doesn’t say anything. Heck, she doesn’t even look at me. But I can hear her loud and clear.

“That needed to happen,” I snap.

“I didn’t say anything,” she replies.

“Seven days’ drilling won’t make a darn bit o’ difference if they can’t learn to put the unit first.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“If I didn’t step on him like that the others might have thought it was okay!”

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“If he can’t shape up he’s gonna get somepony killed!”

Dash finally looks at me. “Lightning,” she says calmly, “I didn’t say anything.”

My chest heaves as though I’ve just flown a hundred laps. Horsefeathers, when did I start breathing so heavily? 

Once I’ve brought my breath back under control I say, “You give me a lot of leash, LT.”

Dash flexes her organic wing. “Well, these days you usually make the right call.”

These days. Yeah. “You think I went at him too hard?” I ask.

“I didn’t say—"

“Yeah, yeah, you didn’t say anything.” There’s a silence between us for a moment. “At least I didn’t kick his tail up between his ears,” I say finally.

Dash shoots me a glance that says ‘that really shouldn’t count as a victory’ but doesn’t say so out loud. Instead she says, “You’ve still got a lot of paperwork on your desk right now, don’t you? Why don’t you go take care of that while we wait for them to finish?” 

She doesn’t phrase it like an order. She doesn’t say “and cool off while you’re at it.” But neither of us are under any illusions what she actually means.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” I say. I turn to leave, thinking that’s the end of it, but her voice stops me.

“Lightning Dust.” Her tone is deceptively quiet. I look back and see… 

Ah, darn it all, that’s sympathy in her eyes!

“Yeah, boss?”

“This isn’t your first time dealing with ego, recklessness, and stupidity,” she says. “But it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you lose your cool like that.”

“What’s your point, LT?”

“Who are you really angry at, Lightning Dust?” she asks. “Just something to think about.” While I’m still processing that, she adds, “Dismissed, Master Sergeant.”
> Hooch
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Armies run on order. Making sure that the right ponies make it to the right place with the right equipment at the right time requires organization, careful logistics, and regulations to keep things moving smoothly. Armies can’t function without order.

Unfortunately, this means that armies have a ridiculous number of rules. Back when I was a green airpony, I remember feeling like I spent ninety percent any given day just trying to figure out which regulations I could safely ignore. 

As time went on, I realized I wasn’t alone in that. Give a group of soldiers long enough, and they’ll figure out which rules matter, when they matter, and how much they matter, in that order. Some rules, like “maintain your kit,” matter wherever you are. Other rules, you can let slide when the situation demands it, like when you decide to not wait a week for the requisition forms to get filed and just ‘acquire’ the kit you need for a mission you’re going on now. The best officers are the ones who know when to enforce the regs and when to be… flexible. 

Take, for instance, Hooch’s Hooch. Officially, a civilian pony should not be allowed to take over a massive barracks tent, build makeshift benches and chairs out of leftover scrap wood, fill it with booze and food, decorate the place with a haphazard collection of war salvage, and operate an unlicensed restaurant and bar in the middle of a secure Equestrian Army encampment. 

Unofficially, Hooch’s Hooch has become the linchpin of the whole First Army’s morale. And I do mean the whole army. Officers, enlisted, infantry, air corps, support, artillery— heck, I even saw Celestia drink here once. 

In case you’re curious, she had imported Konik vodka with a picklejuice chaser. Downed it without blinking. Bucking horrifying. And she was enjoying it, too. I wanted to yarf just watching. 

Anyway, the Hooch may be technically against the rules, but it’s got its own rules. Rule 1: no drinking when on duty, and no getting plastered even if you’re off duty. Rule 2: only senior NCOs and above allowed. Rule 3: Rule 2 can be broken if a junior enlisted is invited by a regular. Rule 4: if you’re the pony who invited a junior enlisted pony, you’re responsible for keeping him or her out of trouble. Rule 5: always tip Bubba. 

Rule 5 is very important. 

Rumor has it that Celestia personally asked the legendary brewer Hooch to open the Hooch in the name of morale, to give us somewhere away from the structure of Army life to drink, commiserate, and let our manes down. If that’s true, I may just have to kiss the princess’s hooves and offer her my firstborn to be her next protégé because hot dang do I need this tonight.

“What’ll ya have?” rumbles Bubba from my right. The big earthpony looks stupid dressed in his little apron and hat while his skin looks like it’s about to explode from the sheer size of the muscles bulging beneath. I’d laugh, except that I was here the last time somepony forgot to tip Bubba. I saw Bubba throw the guy out.

He cleared six tents. 

“Firewater,” I say. “Double shot. Neighrish Death chaser. Some five alarm chili fries on the side.” 

I hear Dash crack up laughing behind me as she enters the Hooch and swings around the table to take a stool opposite me. “Sweet Celestia, Lightning, are you trying to crap fire all night?”

“Gotta live up to the callsign,” I smirk, tapping the patch on my flight jacket that bears the unfortunate nickname. “Ole ‘Hot Scat’ gotta scat hot. And I got hate to burn off.”

Dash cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah, I got that much on the range today. You wanna talk about what you were—” Bubba clears his throat meaningfully. “Oh, sorry. A Hoppin’ Mad Raging Orchard or whatever’s closest. You got any kind of burger in stock, hay or otherwise?”

“Yup.”

“Do I wanna know what you scrounged up to make ’em out of?”

“Do you wanna know what we’re putting in Lightning’s chili?”

Dash chuckles. “And that’s why they invented ketchup. Burger, fries, and an antacid chaser.”

“Excellent choices, ladies,” rumbles Bubba, lurching off to the bar to fill our orders.

Dash is still laughing as he pulls away. “That guy, I’ll tell ya. Kinda reminds me of that stallion from Groundpounder Echo,” she says, referring to one of our ground support squadrons. “Bulk… something. You know who I mean?”

“Who, Roid Rage?” I ask. “Yeah, now that you mention it. Maybe they’re brothers.”

“Maybe who are brothers?” asks a new voice. I turn slightly to see a pair of mares from the Rangers trotting up – a yellow-coated lieutenant with a blue mane named Lemon Hearts and the speaker, a purple-on-purple captain who just happens to be the Twilight Bucking Sparkle. 

When I first met Captain Sparkle – then a lieutenant – I thought she was a terminal egghead. And she is. She can kill a full-grown yak at twenty yards with a well-aimed lecture. Her mission reports are long enough to be stacked in blocks to build fortifications, and her brain is powerful enough to thaw a frozen river in the dead of winter just by thinking about how heat works. 

She’s also happens to be a total hard case with a rep for making mincemeat of the Imps. She’s saved my squadron (including my sorry flank) more than once, so, terminal egghead or not, she gets a pass. 

Plus, she’s got a really sly sense of humor once you get to know her. 

Twilight pulls up a stool next to Dash. My boss nods to her before glancing up the other Ranger, who’s standing and scanning the room rather than sitting. “You gonna take a seat, Lemon?” she asks. The mare doesn’t seem to hear. 

I roll my eyes. “Yo! Equestria to Lemon Hearts!”

“Hm?” she asks, finally noticing. 

“You sitting or what?”

Lemon Hearts is a genuinely sweet mare. Off the field, she’s basically Battalion Mom. On the field though, she goes full Mama Bear and wrecks scat. Bottom line, she’s usually not the type to get embarrassed, so it’s weird when she blushes and looks away without answering my question. 

Twilight comes to her rescue. “Actually, she’s here to meet—”

“Lemon Hearts!” calls out a stallion wearing the blue-and-yellow of the Wonderbolt Air Wing. My eyes widen when I see it’s the Wing’s XO, Soarin. 

At his voice, Lemon perks right the heck up and trots over to join him at his table. Watching them it’s… pretty obvious they’re an item. Dash and I end up staring long enough that Bubba returns with our drinks, plus Twilight’s usual (a scotch-on-the-rocks in a vintage glass; never anything else) and leaves before we can react. Dash takes a pull of her cider and turns to Twilight. “When the buck did that happen?”

The unicorn shrugs and sips her scotch. “Two months, fourteen days, and six-point-three hours. They’ve just been pretty quiet about it until now.”

“Yeah, no scat,” I say. Twilight frowns instinctively at my language, because that’s the sort of refined upper-class mare she is, but she’s given up trying to better me. “You think you could have maybe mentioned your girl was going out with our XO?”

“I could have, but that would have been gossiping,” she replies, a touch coy. 

I snort. 

“Can they even do that?” asks Dash. 

“No regulation against it,” says Twilight. “Believe me, I checked. They’re not in the same unit. They’re not even in the same branch. So long as it doesn’t impact their conduct on the battlefield, it’s a non-issue. They’re both professionals, and they’re keeping it genteel. Spitfire and I are keeping an eye on it, but we’re not worried.”

I take a gulp of my Firewater, letting the cheap whiskey burn down my throat. “Well, good for them. Nice to see something good come out of this lousy war.”

Twilight raises an eyebrow. “I happen to think that a number of good things have come out of this war. Our continued freedom for one. An opportunity to overthrow a tyrannical regime for another.” I roll my eyes, and Twilight’s narrow in response. “Don’t act like you don’t care, Lightning. I know you’re just as keen as Dash or I to keep the Imperial flag out of Equestria, and liberating civilians from enemy territory is a pretty good feeling.”

“Sure,” I admit. “When we actually get to do it. When was the last time we even saw civvies out here?” Bubba picks that moment to drop off our food. Rainbow grins and opens her mouth to make some smart aleck remark. “And the staff here doesn’t count.”

“Changin’ the rules mid-game, eh?” chuckles Dash. “Alright, if civvie support is off the table then it’s been a while.”

Twilight scowls. “The delay doesn’t make it any less noble when it happens. And in any case my first point still stands.”

That’s true. All of it. I don’t disagree with a thing. 

But I happen to be peeved right now, so I’m being difficult for kicks. I smirk over my cheap whiskey and grouse, “Whatever you say, Twily.”

Rainbow gags with laughter at the nickname (mostly because she was taking a drink when I say it). Twilight just gives me a deadpan glare. “Call me that again,” she says with deceptive calm, “and I’ll tell Bubba you’re sweet on him.” 

Now it’s my turn to gag on my drink while Dash almost falls off her stool laughing. Thanks for the moral support, LT. Twilight’s cold gaze suggests she isn’t kidding. “That’s dirty, Sparkle,” I finally respond, taking a few bites of my painfully hot chili fries to mask my fear. “I never expected a Filly Guide like you to be the first to bring out the big guns.”

Her grin is a touch unsettling. “You know the rules, sky jockey. ‘Rangers lead the way.’ Besides,” she adds before taking a sip of her expensive drink, “only my BBBFF gets to call me ‘Twily.’”

I raise an eyebrow and look at Dash for the translation; as an officer, she sees Twilight more than I do, so whenever the egghead drops some weird term (which is often) I check to see if her fellow commissioned ponies know the drill. 

“Big Brother Best Friend Forever,” explains Dash.

That’s so saccharine that I almost yarf... or maybe that’s the chili and Firewater. Gad, I am gonna be on the crapper all night. “That’s sappy, Twilight. Even for you. Isn’t your brother some badass captain, too?”

“Well, technically the ‘Captain of the Royal Guard’ is a colonel’s billet with the term ‘captain’ being a holdover from medieval Equestrian custom—” Dash and I cut her off with fake snoring, “—which you would find fascinating if you weren’t total foals,” she adds snippily. “But, yes, he is, as you put it, a ‘badass.’ The donkey auxiliaries bestowed that peculiar honorific on him after the Battle of Trotter’s Pass.”

Dash gives the unicorn a light punch in the shoulder. “I guess good soldiering runs in the family.”

It’s funny to see one of the most bloody-minded soldiers I know blush and smile like a schoolfilly at the compliment. “Well,” Twilight says hastily, never comfortable with praise, “speaking of brothers, I believe you two were speculating about who in this army might be brothers?”

Following that mare’s train of thought requires a map sometimes. My eyes glaze over as I play back the conversation Dash and I had been having before Twilight showed up. “Oh, right. Yeah. We were talking about Bubba and that big stallion in the Groundpounders.”

“Bulk something,” says Rainbow.

“Roid Rage,” I correct. “His callsign’s Roid Rage.”

“And his name is Bulk Biceps,” adds Twilight. “I know him. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but good at what he does. He’s covered my unit a few times. And, yes, they do have similar enough facial structures that they could be broth—” her ears go flat mid-word and she blanches.

“What?”

“I just thought… their poor mother.”

Dash winces. “Ooh. That musta been a rough delivery.”

“Yeah,” I laugh. “Serious wonder mom there! Cripes, I’d like to meet the mare that could push out two of those babies. I’d shake her hoof, but I think she might break it!” 

That earns a chuckle from the others. The table falls quiet for a few moments as Dash and I eat, but Twilight has that look. The one where she’s got her eyes fixed on her glass as she swirls the contents around absently, making her seem lost in thought before she says something serious. “You know, Lightning,” she opens, “I think you’d be fine. You’re a pretty tough mare yourself.”

I stop mid-chew. “Um… thanks?”

“It’s a tough job you’ve got, and I’m well aware of the Tartarus you must go through getting green fliers ready for combat. Still…” her eyes drift up to meet mine, “putting them on burial detail?”

Aw ponyfeathers. I swallow my half-chewed bite and cringe as it goes down square. I probably should have considered how Twilight might feel about dead Rangers getting used as a ‘teachable moment.’ I usually don’t give a rat’s rear end about offending ponies, but I’d never deliberately disrespect our dead. Plus, Twilight’s a friend. “Listen, Twi, I’m real sorry about that. I made sure they were respectful and—”

Twilight holds up a hoof to cut me off. “I’m not mad, Lightning Dust.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “The chaplain assured me they were respectfully laid to rest, so there’s no reason to be mad. Heck, it sounds like you were giving my ponies a chance to save lives post-mortem. I doubt they’d object. Still, I was wondering if it wasn’t maybe a bit much for fliers fresh out of training. They are still newbies after all.”

I glance at Dash before replying. Her expression is… hard to read. I know I’m in for a chat with her about this at some point. Is that about to happen while Twilight’s here to back her up? 

If so, they should’ve called for more backup. Like Moon Dancer. I have no idea how to even talk to that mare without feeling stupid, much less how to win an argument with her. 

Folding my forelegs I reply, “I dunno, Twi. Is there a way to prove a point like ‘don’t get your buddies killed’ that’s going too far?”

“Murder?” suggests a voice behind me. 

Nearly jumping out of my seat, I spin to see a staff sergeant who looks eerily like a washed-out photo of Twilight with glasses. 

Moon Dancer. 

My first thought is, Son of Celestia, did they actually plan to ambush me with this? My second thought, upon seeing Rainbow Dash appearing genuinely surprised at Moon Dancer’s arrival, is Gosh dang it, I can’t tell if that’s genuine or if she’s just a really good actress! 

“Say again?” I manage.

“I said ‘murder,’” repeats Moon Dancer matter-of-factly, as though ‘murder’ is a perfectly normal thing to just deadpan behind someone. 

Chuckling, Twilight has some mercy on me and explains, “I think she was answering the question you probably thought was rhetorical. The one where you said, ‘Is there a way to prove a point like ‘don’t get your buddies killed’ that’s going too far?’”

Giving a tight-lipped smile, Moon Dancer says, “Exactly. Murder. That would, conceivably, be going too far.” Shifting her attention to the table as a whole, she says, “Good evening, Captain, Lieutenant, Master Sergeant. Might I join you?” 

“Help yourself,” says Dash, waving her to an empty seat. “Heck, with you giving Lightning Dust a heart attack, you can probably just secure her leftovers and not even need to order.” 

Moon Dancer allows herself an emotion and wrinkles her features in disgust at my choice of food and drink. “I think not,” she says before raising her hoof and saying, “Mister Bubba? A moment of your time please?”

Bubba acts like he’s taking her order. I say ‘acts like’ because, while Twilight never orders anything different, Moon Dancer always orders the same thing. That may seem like I just said the same thing two different ways, but it’s not. Somehow, Moon Dancer is so predictable in her ordering habits, so clinical, so precise that even Twilight’s consistency just somehow seems… less regimented by comparison. 

Moon Dancer orders a glass of water and a bowl of plain oatmeal in a manner that’s somehow more complicated than ‘water and plain oatmeal please’ just like she does every time, and Bubba listens like he’s hearing it for the first time – which is something he somehow manages to do every time – and I sit here wondering how long it’ll be before we get back to the topic of an impromptu burial detail and Moon Dancer’s machine of a brain starts working on me. 

Turns out the answer is ‘not long.’ 

“I assume the object of your discussion was Master Sergeant Lightning Dust’s unconventional enlistment of the morgue as a teachable moment?” says Moon Dancer the second Bubba turns to go put in her order. 

*THUNK*

“May I conclude that Sergeant Dust’s banging of her own head against the table and resting it there should be taken as an answer in the affirmative?”

“That strikes me as a sound hypothesis,” answers Twilight. 

“Neeerrrds!” I taunt. Unfortunately, having my head pressed against the table kind of muffles the whole thing.

Utterly deadpan, Twilight asks, “Did you hear something, Moon Dancer?”

“I did. It sounded as though somepony was casting aspersions upon us.” 

“Indeed. And though it was rather muted, it seemed to be the words of an uneducated peon lashing out from jealousy at the breadth of our own mental faculties.”

“Quite right. ‘Tis a common feature of small minds, though we should perhaps not begrudge them the simple pleasures they are capable of.” 

Bringing my head up to glower at them, I growl, “You know you’re only proving my point, right?” 

“Most assuredly,” replies Twilight with a smile. “But you must not begrudge us certain pleasures either.” 

Rainbow Dash taps a hoof on the table and smirks, “Maybe you just need to use smaller words.” Before I can retort ‘you’re one to talk,’ she looks at me squarely and says, “Like, ‘why did you think a morgue was a good place for an object lesson’?”

Raising an eyebrow, I retort, “Maybe because it was an objectively good lesson. It got the point across, and it stripped away the naivete about what the end of a battle looks like. Win win.” 

“I am inclined to agree with Sergeant Dust,” declares Moon Dancer. “It was undeniably effective, and quickly achieved multiple goals.” 

We other three all turn to her in shock. I find myself smiling. “Why thank you, Moony. Ain’t too often you agree with me on anything.” 

“You’re welcome, Master Sergeant, and don’t call me ‘Moony’,” she says. “Though, I must clarify, I take this position purely because of sound logic and reason.” 

“See?” I preen to the other two. “Moon Dancer thinks I’m logical and reasonable.” 

“Oh, I never said you were logical and reasonable. I just said the actions you took are logical and reasonable. I can’t speak to your motives or mental state, but it strikes me that the concern Captain Twilight and Lieutenant Dash have is for your motives and/or mental state.”

Aaaand just like that she cuts me off at the legs. 

“Bluntly put, Dancer, but fundamentally true,” says Twilight. “Lightning… this isn’t the first time you’ve cut into the new blood heavy enough for word of it to spread around the camp but, even so… you don’t usually lose your cool these days.”

I glare at Rainbow Dash, who immediately puts up her hooves defensively. “I didn’t have to say anything to her. You tore a strip off Fireball in front of an artillery battery, multiple crash teams, and a good section of the camp. Ain’t my fault ponies are talking about you in hushed whispers.”

“Not my problem they’ve got nothing better to talk about.”

“No,” says Dash evenly, “but it’s my problem if my master sergeant starts working out her personal demons on the new blood.” 

My gaze drifts to her prosthetic wing of its own accord. Swallowing, I force my eyes down to my plate and take a bite of my food, barely tasting it. “That’s not what happened,” I mutter.

“Really?” demands Dash, “Because it sure as Celestia seemed that way to me. Seemed that way to the Rev too, and you know he’s better at reading ponies than any of us. Seemed that way to the groundcrew who said it looked like you were seeing red. You didn’t notice at the time, but Sandmane was stepping up behind you in case you started punching Fireball and he needed to haul you off the poor newbie!” 

Sandmane had my back, eh? He’s a good trooper. He wouldn’t let his wingpony down. 

“You saying I was wrong to be pissed?” I ask challengingly. “You want me to just let horse scat like that happen?”

Rainbow rolls her eyes and mutters something that I can’t hear over Twilight cutting in diplomatically. “Nopony’s saying he didn’t need correcting, even harsh correcting. Heck, Moon Dancer thinks you did objectively the right thing to correct him, and I might even agree. Our concern is that your method of correction seemed very personal.”

“It needed to happen,” I grit out through clenched teeth.

“I’m not saying it didn’t. I’m just saying it seemed personal.” 

My hoof slams on the table as I spring up from the bench. “It needed to happen!” It takes me a moment to realize that the buzz of conversation around us has trickled off as ponies either turn to look or very deliberately don’t.

Rainbow Dash, unmoved by my anger, looks up at me steadily and says, “See, it’s horse scat like that that tells me we need to have this conversation.”

I glance around the table. Rainbow, Twilight, even Moon Dancer are all looking up at me like they’re about to have an intervention for me. 

Snorting, I step back from the table and start fishing for my bits. “You know what? I don’t have to take this.” I toss enough bits down to cover my meal – and tip Bubba – and turn for the door. 

“Lightning, please,” says Twilight, seeming contrite. “I’m sorry if we pushed too hard…"

Dash sighs, “Sit back down, Hot Scat.”

“No.”

“I could make it an order,” she says, her voice sharpening.

My laugh is bitter as I walk away without slowing. “Rule Twelve, Crash: you can’t pull rank in here.”

“Technically,” Moon Dancer interjects, “she could just follow you outside where she can give you orders, and order you to come back in here.” 

I stop without turning around, staring ahead at the exit. 

Moon Dancer continues, “You could then be stuck in an infinite loop of leaving the Hooch while she cannot give you orders, exiting, being ordered to return, and then repeating the process. As interesting as that would be for me as a sort of impromptu study in the psychology of stubborn alpha mares, I hypothesize that you would become irritated rather quickly.” She pauses. “Well, more irritated than you already are at any rate.” 

I stand there staring at the exit for a while. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe I’m torn between wanting to prove Moon Dancer wrong and being afraid she’s not wrong. Maybe I’m contemplating if I could get out the door and away before Dash left the table and caught up to me. Maybe I’m thinking about how neither Twilight nor Dash got me to stop but Moon Dancer, Moon Dancer, did just that. 

Maybe I’m just peeved she has a good point. 

I guess I should finish my food. 

Wordlessly, I return to the table and resume eating.

Dash smirks. “Glad I didn’t have to chase you.”

Ordinarily I would have shot back a quip to the effect of ‘you couldn’t catch me if you wanted to,’ but that just brings back those blasted memories again. Instead, I just shoot her a look that says ‘bite me.’

Glancing at Moon Dancer, still not sure if I’m angry or impressed, I say, “Your train of thought’s all engine no brakes.”

“Thank you,” she says, dipping her head in acknowledgement of what she’s taking as a compliment. “But I apologize if I overstepped.” 

I shrug. “Don’t sweat it. You I’m not mad at.”

“Yes, that would be yourself you’re mad at, wouldn’t it?” asks Dash innocently. I stop mid chew. Dash leans across the table. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You’re angry at the newbie, sure, but this is really about you still being mad at yourself.” 

Forcing myself to finish chewing at a slow rate to give myself time to think, I try to come up with a way out of answering that question, or at least a convincing lie. 

Judging by the look on Rainbow’s face, a half-chewed mouthful of fries isn’t going to buy me enough time to come up with either. 

Swallowing, I take a moment to breathe before I say, “Brilliant theory, Sherclop. Care to run me through how you came to it?” 

“I’m not an idiot, Lightning,” snaps Dash, not rising to the bait. “You never stopped blaming yourself for what happened. No matter what I say, you still blame yourself.”

“And just who should I blame, boss?” I shoot back spreading my hooves wide and gesturing around in a circle. “Who else could I possibly blame?”

Rolling her eyes, Rainbow Dash replies, “Gee, Lightning, I dunno, how about… the fricking enemy?!” 

I snort. “Dash, you and I know darn well that the enemy never would have had that shot if it hadn’t been for my screw-up.” She opens her mouth to retort, but I don’t let her. “My screw-up got you hurt which put you in that position, and everything else flows downhill from there. I did that. Me.” I look her dead in the eyes, one real, one prosthetic, and ask, “Is anything I just said untrue? I don’t care how you feel about it or who you blame; is anything I said factually untrue?” 

Rainbow Dash opens her mouth to snap back, then slowly closes her lips, clenching her jaw and sitting back with frustration stamped upon her scarred features. She sits that way for long, quiet moments before finally grating out, “No.” 

With a bitter, smirking laugh, I conclude, “Then I guess I got good reason ta be peeved, don’t I?” Pointing one fry at her like an officer’s pace stick, I say, “Fireball is exactly the kind of cocky hotshot to get his wingpony hurt or killed if a mean nag like me doesn’t come down on him like the wrath of Celestia. And if I’m still carrying the fire of my own inexcusable screw-up, at least it’s keeping me focused. He is not going to make that kind of Grade A foul-up on my watch. And that, ladies, is the end of this discussion.” 







The discussion really does end after that. Evidently deciding I can’t be reasoned with, the other mares drop the topic entirely and move on to other subjects. Or at least we try to. Twilight in particular tries to shift the conversation in a more light-hearted direction, but despite her best efforts it’s pretty stilted and forced.

Or maybe they’re having a better time and I’m just a wet blanket. I kinda hope it’s the latter. It’d be a bad sign on my end, but at least only one of us would be bitter and not all of us. 

Twilight does eventually share a little bit about her reaction when she first found out that Soarin and Lemon Hearts were dating, which to her credit does lighten the mood and even gets some laughs out of me, but I still feel like I’m not enjoying it as much as I should be.

Though maybe that’s just one of those self-fulfilling prophecies – I assume I’ll be a bitter little nag, so I am. 

Or maybe the cheap-whiskey-and-beer-and-hot-chili-fry slurry mixing in my stomach is the problem. Honestly, that’s a pretty safe bet. 

Celestia that was a bad idea. 

I’m at least able to share a few laughs with the other mares before leaving the table, citing an impending appointment with the toilet as the reason. The three of them remain at the table to continue their conversation. 

I hope they spend their time chatting and having fun instead of wasting it talking about me and my ‘issues.’ 

As I walk vaguely in the direction of my tent – and the direction of the latrine, not quite sure which I’ll need first – moving slowly so as not to disturb the slurry, I find myself thinking about Fireball. 

That dumb kid seemed to take the lesson at the morgue, but how can I be sure it’ll keep? Lots of lessons don’t really set in on the first try. Sure, a big, unforgettable lesson like the morgue should do it all in one go… but what if it doesn’t? Where do I go from there if it doesn’t stick?

I feel my lips curl in a frown. If burying dead brothers and sisters doesn’t drill that point through his thick skull, in one end of the brain, and out the other, then I’ll probably have to cut him loose. Doesn’t matter if he is a top-notch flier. A pony who can’t take that heavy of a lesson to heart after handling corpses all day is a liability to his entire unit. 

So engrossed am I in thinking about Fireball that I almost trip over the idiot as I round the last corner before reaching my tent. 

“Li- Master Sergeant Lightning Dust!” he barks out, scrambling to his hooves and saluting. 

“Sweet curb stomping Celestia, Airpony, what are you doing sitting in the road?!” I snarl. 

“I…” he swallows and braces more fully to attention. “I was waiting for you, Master Sergeant.” 

An awkward silence stretches between us. Sighing, I prompt, “Because…?”

I see his facial muscles working as he tries to formulate his response. “I wanted… I wanted to apologize properly, Master Sergeant.” My eyes widen with surprise. “My behavior was… inexcusable, and unbecoming an Airpony. I understand now that I was out of line, insubordinate, and above all, careless about the lives of my fellow soldiers.” 

That sounded more scripted. I wonder if he rehearsed it by himself or if the others ‘suggested’ he do this. Given the lack of bruising, I’m guessing that if there was any suggestion, it was merely verbal. Maybe Angel Wings or Silver. Maybe all of ’em. I’ll have to keep my ear to the ground, maybe ask Sandmane to look into it. 

Whether they put him up to it or not, though, he did apologize, and… looking at his eyes…

“It was inexcusable, Airpony,” I say bluntly. He winces, but doesn’t slacken his at attention posture. “Insubordination hurts discipline, which hurts unit cohesion, which hurts unit survival. But even that is nothing compared to the callous disregard you showed for the lives and safety of your fellow soldiers. If you’d pulled a stunt like that in combat, I would have busted you out of the Air Corps and you’d be lucky if that was all I busted before I sent you home.” There is an almost imperceptible tremble in his legs, and I can see his breathing become more rapid. Good. He's listening. “But…” I say slowly, “the fact that you now seem to realize that means there’s some hope for you yet.” 

I stand there in silence for a moment, looking him over. 

After letting him sweat for a while, I say, “Make it up to me – and up to your squadronmates – by taking this lesson to heart. Your apology is accepted. I expect to not need another one. Are we clear?” 

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” he replies, managing to keep his voice from trembling. 

“Good. Dismissed, Airpony.” 

He salutes again. This time I return it. As he turns to leave, another thought bubbles to the surface. “Airpony Fireball?” I say.

Turning, he answers, “Yes, Master Sergeant?”

“Look me in the eye, Airpony,” I order. Once I have his gaze, I continue, my voice quiet, “Nothing I could do to you would ever compare to the feeling of knowing that somepony got hurt or killed because you mucked up. If that fact doesn’t seep into your bones so deep that it’s not even a thought anymore but an unquestioned fact of life… then you’re not a Wonderbolt, or an airpony, or even a proper stallion.” I pause. “Don’t make that muck up.” 

I see his lips quiver, and his voice is husky as he replies, “I won’t, Master Sergeant.” 

Oh sweet Maker on high, I hope that’s true. “Get some rack time, Airpony. You’ll need it.” We exchange salutes again and he leaves. 

Was he telling the truth, I wonder? He certainly seemed to think so. And maybe he’s even right. As I stand in place for long minutes after his departure, I can’t help but turn the possibilities over in my head. 

An ominous rumble from my stomach at least clears one possibility up for me. 

I’m definitely visiting the toilet before the bunk tonight.