Victories come in all shapes and sizes. Most of the time the small victories in my life consisted of simply rolling out of bed every morning with the resolve to fight even harder the next day. Today’s victory was much, much bigger than that. Over the course of twenty hours, the influx of so many fresh troops had allowed us to push the Zebs out of their holdings near the mouth of the valley. The Badlands, once rather isolated and quiet arid farmlands for hundreds of miles, was a complicated mountainous desert of tan sands and potable red clay. South of Appleloosa, the the Ember mountains that extended from East to West funneled in a rough V shape. In the center, ancient Dragons had carved a relatively wide channel into the mountains all the way through to the other side with a massive, hollowed out bowl somewhere near the middle. Once upon time it had been the ancient breeding season hangout but now housed the majority of the Southern Front's encampment and equipment. With the Far South coming under Imperial control over a decade before, the fight here had been one brutal, glorified game of tug-of-war or capture-the-flag. With Mareseilles and their damned refusal to take part in the War with their advanced naval power, the oceans South and Southwest of the Continent were free real-estate for the Imperial Navy and Airforce to patrol as they pleased. Troops and materiel was flowing into the Imperial 3rd Army freely from the Far South far beyond our ability to fuck up; even the Pegusi and their age-old bravado held no sway South of the Pass. Word was, not even Shadowbolt operatives had been able to adequately disrupt their supply chain let alone their deep entrenchment of the region. Now if we had been spared more of the Greifenländer's wonderful mechanized attack vehicles...

Becoming a Ranger had been a no brainer for me from the moment I was offered placement in the Corps training camp. Not only was the pay considerably more comfortable to subsist on in the current economy, but it got my ass out of having to lead more soldiers to their somewhat inevitable demise in the defense of the homelands. I wasn't all that great of an officer to be honest...while I excelled at in-field tactics and active combat scenarios, being a part of the GA meant that unless the chain of command approved your decisions, you were bound by law to follow your orders. Was easy enough for anypony to fuckin' play chess in computerized war rooms far removed from the boots on the ground and make decisions that way. Left little in the way of options for officers like me who at least tried to bring every mare and stallion home safely whenever the orders from on high stood in stark opposition to the realities of the situation on the ground. So...when then Major Horn interrupted my brief stint behind a desk to offer me the chance to join the Desert Rangers, I jumped on the opportunity to leave all those problems behind. Desk jockeying had never been my career goal in the Army anyway...

Working for the DRC was a dream come true for me, even during the brutal eight-week, wheat-from-the-chaff kind of training. I found myself bunking with four wonderful, if jackass-ish, Recruits who would be my closest family from that day forward. No longer was I being called upon to direct and watch over platoons and whole companies once I had earned my Captain's pins. Here, my rank in the GA was just as meaningless as Second Lieutenant Huckleberry Crisp, Sergeant 1st Class Buck Beak, and Warrant Officers Rain Dancer and Pennies Worth. In the eyes of the Rangers Corps, we were all Recruits. Rough hewn statues of war that showed potential to be true works of art if only we didn't break during the process. Your Squad was your family, the single mobilized body of death formed of five-to-six parts and the only lives that really mattered were theirs for without them, you were incomplete. Four lives plus my own...daunting but...manageable to live with and facilitated the greatest levels of teamwork I had ever had the pleasure of working with during my career. Even as Recruits, our word and decisions carried weight and we found ourselves with previously unheard of freedom to command in the field. If we wanted a piece of the action taken up by a Platoon from the GA, we could either replace them entirely or take direct command, each of us taking charge of fourteen soldiers each as doublewide Squads.

Of course, taking charge of such quantities of soldiers had once been considered an occasional indulgence for those of us who really missed the GA days (*cough* Buck and Rain *cough*). However, as the 'easily winnable War' dragged on into the next decade, mounting casualties forced every Ranger with any sort of sufficiently high rank, NCO and CO alike, to step back into their old command boots. Despite our own internal promotion scheme of three ranks which determined our relative value to the war effort, it had been deemed necessary for all of us to retain the ranks we had left behind in the General Army. In fact, we were still slated for GA level promotions despite our work as Rangers outweighing anything in the GA save for Generals. While we had enjoyed a good five years of relative isolation allowing for us to work exclusively in Ranger Squads, the good days of working 'solo' came to an end. Squads Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta and Epsilon were all deemed of too much importance to waste on patching up holes in the GA's hierarchy which meant the doom and gloom of returning to the stress of the old days was on much more favorable grounds. Even after becoming a Major, and equivocally a Veteran of the Corps, the threat of gruntwork was kept to a minimum for me. If there were to be soldiers other than my Squadmates involved in my day-to-day fieldwork, it was going to be those I chose and led as I saw fit. Naturally though...I preferred to work with other, less experienced Rangers and Recruits who would actually benefit from learning from my team and myself. Though not as polished as Veterans quite yet, they were still professionals comparative to most of the newer recruits funneling into the War. But...who better to teach fresh blood than us? Those that had lived to see more than one winter while in uniform.

“Ma’am? We finally got the official casualty report in order for you here.”

I looked up from the maps on the wobbly field command table at the Corporal sent to me from the General Army to report the number of casualties the Rangers suffered. The eye I could see was wide and bloodshot while the other was wound firmly with bandages stained red with recent blood. His uniform was as ragged as the body wearing it, painted in Badland red with the old recipe of blood, sweat and time in the great fucked outdoors. The ballistic vest rig worn over his uniform protecting his torso and back had seen some punishment today too it seemed. Amongst the obvious impact impressions left behind in the black material's tightly woven fibers, I thought I could see the bases of a few projectiles still stuck in the Kevyarn weave. It was no M-CAP but Kevyarn was still no slouch and it always humbled me to see it.

"Thank you, Corporal." I replied simply, trying not to stare for any longer than my armor assessment addiction needed to get off. "You are dismissed."

"Ma'am." He grunted painfully with a salute before making it partially through the tent flap until I stopped him once more. He had earned some rest from the day and I was pretty damn sure I outranked whoever had sent him; if there was an issue they could kiss my furry grey ass after my lapel pins.

"Corporal? Head back to the Armory and get your equipment repaired, after that you are relieved for the night." I said in a light, but authoritative tone so he knew I wasn't just pulling his tail.

"E-excuse me, Ma'am...?" He stammered, obviously confused as I was just some Major to him.

"Re-outfit and report back to your quarters. The rest of the night is yours." I ordered more firmly this time. "You look like shit soldier, and more than likely feel like shit too. Won't be of any use to anyone in the state you're in and I don't want another Runner dying of exhaustion tonight. Stop by the M.O.P tents as well to see to that eye, soldier. They'll ensure you get a Red Heart for that injury."

His eyes widened at that and with another much more enthusiastic salute, he left me alone in my dinky little command tent to read over the information stored inside the holotape he had given me. It was probably more leniency than he had ever gotten from his own superior officer seeing as they had made him run errands while looking the way he did. The quarter-pound weight of the little orange and yellow storage device was misleading...the weight in KIAs alone within its binary brain was enough to equate to a metric ton. Even in the weightlessness of my telekinesis, I could feel the strain on my heart looking at the tape floating in my baby blue aura. There were always names you recognized from one time or another in your career contained in these reports. Someone you met in the Academy, a dude from Trottingham that transferred from their regional defense forces, a fine ass that you could only remember being from Manehatten. Sweet fuck it was the absolute worst part of my job. I'd take Trench Running over this shit any day, anywhere...

With a sigh, I brought it over to the corner of the tent where I kept my own personal, and deeply bugged, computer terminal. Pushing in on the base of the thick, boxy keyboard, a holotape drive popped out on springs eager to accept another tech thing stuffed inside it. While the gold Major oakleaf pins on my uniform could afford me a place higher on the supply chain's list of necessaries, it hadn't been enough to get me one of the new computers coming outa StableTec and the M.O.W. The boring, monotone green display was just as bland as the screen of my PipBuck; an unfortunate coincidence since both items shared the same manufacturer and thus operating system. Couldn't fucking go anywhere without seeing the StableTec cog logo on everything mechanical or digital these days...

"Alrighty Sparky...bring out your dead." I chuckled halfheartedly as I accessed the holotape and opened up the file directory.

The green display was so damn hard on the eyes damnit. Letters tended to blur when they were in large paragraphs and it made an excruciating task even harder to bear. Some names I would have to read six or seven times because the letters from the preceding or following name in the list fucked with my eyes. I was so numb there just wasn't enough fight in me to give the job at hand more than a third-effort. The upcoming meeting with the General was pressing down hard on my mind from the moment all officers got the call. The damned dead list was going to be read by six different secretaries in a day or two anyway...

General Olive Leaf, now with four stars instead of three, was the ever so 'brave' and 'wise' be-all-end-all commanding officer of the entire Southern Front. From what I knew, Olive was one of the youngest members of the Old Boys, those officers who had served as the founding members of the new Equestrian Armed Forces. With the rapid development and production of firearms and other technologically advanced gear revolutionizing the country and the world in the 2030s, the outdated weapons, tactics and armor of the past were discarded and a new military was necessary. It wasn't like Equestria had much experience with war before the reforms, but with the tools to wage war becoming ever more lethal and widely available, anyone with a nose could have smelled the trouble brewing. Industrializing the way we did, gobbling up coal like starving wolves, had proven to be both a blessing and a curse. We had overestimated the reserves of the material residing within Equestria and had underestimated how quickly demand would rise to devour it all. Earth ponies, so naturally attuned to the idea of thinking their way through problems rather than just magicking them away, had been set loose on the country. No fancy arcane flame was needed to forge out steel tools and machines, just regular old unadulterated fire, something those lacking horns had mastered years ago. The discovery of the usefulness of coal as a potent fuel source for mass industry replaced the inefficiently hot wood fires of old and allowed for expansion of foundry work.

Though ponies today were led to believe that the War was a battle between ideologies, cultures and identities, anypony who actually read the history books with an eye on economics and trade knew that was a late addition to the conflict. The whole damned Zebra-Equestrian War was, at its core, just another Resource War like those of the 2050s and 60s. While Equestria dabbled with dirty black coal and land pollution, Zebras dabbled much more with arcane pursuits. Their Voodoo allowed for a vast array of enchantments, hexes, charms and curses which were cast onto a myriad of talismans and fetishes suited towards different purposes. Naturally, the discovery that technology could be used as augurs of magic spurred on an industrial revolution of their own developing advanced robotics to assist in sophisticated manufacturing. All this fancy arcane tech came at a cost of its own as well. While they had no need for their much larger reserves of coal within their lands, what Zebras required above all else in their spellwork were gemstones and a fuck load of them at that. The trade deals in the past had been advantageous to both nations as Equestria abounded in gemstones of all types and qualities while the Empire had access to significantly more coal deposits. Gems for coal, rocks for rocks essentially.

Magic had always been Equestria's strong suit on the global stage of arcane capable nations. With Unicorns forming a little over a sixth of the population, we had a significantly dense population of magic users relative to others in the defense pact nations. While the Ministry of Arcane Science made some significant advancements in that field, they were in fact the only large-scale arcane R&D division in existence. Even without employee numbers being public record, it didn't take a genius to know the amount of Unicorns employed there was a drop in the bucket of the total population in the country. So...where did the rest of these idle horns end up? In the factories, the manufacturing plants, into the very open arms of four of the other Ministries. The Ministries of Peace, War, Image and Morale all wanted as large a slice of the remaining demographic as they could buy, bribe and blackmail into their service. Telekinesis, despite being a universal skill to anyone with a horn, was still capable of much finer levels of manual control than anything the Earth ponies could brew up for themselves. And so, by virtue of the coal we so desperately depended on, magic was relegated into a supportive role with conventional engineering. Four out of every six Unis spent their days soldering microfilament crystal wiring or some other sort of detail-demanding blue collar job. The remaining two were either in the military or worked in some part of the government sector.

"Fucks' sake, get ahold of yourself bitch..." I groaned at myself after the sound and feeling of my horn thunking against the monitor woke me from my contemplative doze. "General catches ya napping at the desk and I'll probably end up posted to the Zulu Campaign..."

From time to time there came the crack of an AMR or the roar of a missile launcher in the far distance as the roaming patrols of Tin Heads and Rangers took potshots at stragglers or scavengers from the Zebras trying to collect ordinance. All it served was a reminder to me that though the day had ended in victory, there was always the chance a Zebra in one of their damned invisibility cloaks could slip into my tent and slit my throat. No matter how many times I went through the Crimson Dragon Awareness training I still felt unprepared for an assassination attempt if it were to happen. The cloaks had been baffling the top minds in the Ministry of Wartime Technology and the Ministry of Image for years, both of whom had their hooves in the scramble to reverse engineer their invisibility spells for our own use. No matter how many working specimens we captured and sent them (which was admittedly few considering they seemed to have a self-destruct spell of sorts) they didn’t seem to be able to crack the spellwork yet. Least...that was the official story. Could never tell what the top-tier classified programs were up to holed up in their triple buried R&D labs.

The Crimson Dragons. A potentially comical term to a civilian but any fucking sap who had any decent time under their belt here feared that name like nearly nothing else. To equivocate them to a Veteran Ranger would be simultaneously correct and a notable understatement. If the intelligence reports were to be believed, Dragons were personally selected by their greatest combat mentor at the age of but a few years to a maximum of ten. From there, there were property of the Empire and subjected to a brutal training program that supposedly put our own Rangers to shame. Deaths were common in the program but those who survived to graduate were as close as anypony could come to producing super soldiers without extensive use of very dangerous magic. Granted the infamous invisibility cloak woven from something called Zephyr Silk, these master assassin spec-ops units slipped in and out of seemingly wherever they pleased bringing with them incredible sharpshooting and explosives ordinance skill. What set these bitches apart from anyone else in particular though was their complete mastery of CQC. The fact these bastards considered a fucking sword as an optional primary weapon was telling enough in my book. I actually envied their skill with them and secretly wished to learn how to beat them at their own game. Sadly, the age of the sword had passed all too quickly in Equestria and I had been born a few decades too late it seemed. Of course...then I would be missing out on beautiful weapons like the AMR-25.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting for the inevitable, the flap to my tent was opened by a tall and thickly armored stallion wearing a version of Power Armor I had never seen before. Before I had a moment to assess it, the stallion commanded, “Major Crete, the General has called the meeting to order and you are summoned to be present for the proceedings. Follow me at once.”

“Rude much ya tin-assed fuckwad?” I mumbled to myself as I set my helmet to the side and replaced it with my formal dress cap, pinning the gold leaf insignia of a Major to my combat duster’s lapels in lieu of more formality. Just wasn't the time or place to dress up in non-armored garments, even if it were for the gratification of a by-the-book General.

Without another word he briskly led me away from my tent through the camp towards the command center further up the valley towards Appleloosa. In the meantime as we walked, I had ample time to observe the new armor my asshole escort was sporting. It was visually a tad thicker than the T-45 model I was all too familiar with but seemed composed of something other than plain old riveted steel. Shoulder pieces were smaller, the long single pauldron of the 45 was now replaced with a smaller main pauldron and an accompanying lower piece which added supplemental protection for the upper-leg rebraces. The breastplate was less pronounced as well forming a far smoother single piece across the chest while the abdominal region was formed from a set of telescoping lames underneath. Other pieces like the legs, flanks and hooves were relatively unremarkable featuring the same smoother design over the T-45's jutting edges. She was definitely not a model in the 46+ quintet. This had to be a new quintet of the heavy PoA series...this was a 50 something. Could only wonder what the semi-powered 'lite' PoAs of this generation would look like.

The helmet itself was by far the most visually different piece of the new model trotting along beside me. While there is only so many ways to design a helmet around a muzzle, beak or snout, the shape of the new helmet was...certainly different from the visually appealing 45s. For starters, the bulletproof visor was no longer two separate pieces for each eye but rather one continuous slit of black that gave the helmet an even more pronounced sneering look to it. Coupled with the new headlamp placement, which went from the left side of the helmet straight to the center of the forehead like a miner’s helmet, the overall look of the new helm left a lot to be desired in my opinion. The shape reminded me just too much of something like a gum drop or a toothpaste cap with something to go over the muzzle. The helmet notwithstanding though, the new model scraped out a B- by my metrics and I was intrigued to see what the boys and girls of the M.O.W brewed up for us doing the grunt work. Of course...this being the Southern Front, we were the last on the list to get jack shit when it came to any of the new tech. Was anyone's guess when this new model was going to hit mass issue down here amongst the lovely Tin Heads shaking their dicks around with their enormous egos...

I wasn’t stupid enough to try and ask him what specifically the armor was called. Even at my rank, I knew for a fact he would try to push the whole 'classified information' bullshit excuse I always got whenever I tried to ask a question about anything that wasn’t a part of the Desert Rangers arsenal. The Tin Heads could keep their bullshit secrets for all I cared. I had other ways of finding out these sort of specific questions I tended to have. If it protected the body and was in decently sized production, I had to know about it. Not even the itch for Red Berryl was as intense an addiction to satisfy as my obsession with personal defense equipment. If it came out in the last 20 years, odds were I knew everything you'd need to know about the damn thing. The Modular Combat Armor Platform, or M-CAP for short, was the darling of anyone deemed important enough by the brass to protect with more than Kevyarn and hopes and dreams. You had the all-in-one Model-3s pulled on like a Kevyarn jumpsuit with attached Celestium and ceramic impact plates and the newer Model-4s which had separate pieces of varying size and defenses that could be quickly strapped over any sort of clothing, or none at all in a pinch. 3s were more expensive and arguably more protective but lacked the modularity, ease of use and range of motion the 4s had. Gods...it didn't take much to get me on a tangent about ArmsTech products.

After a twenty-minute walk we finally arrived at our destination leading up a bluff to the hill where the Command Tent stood. Though the military was sure to claim it as coming from their own supply depots, I knew for a fact the tent they had commandeered was one of the Ministry of Image’s fancy pavilion tents once used for massive events like weddings. There was no way it couldn't be with finer trappings like semi-fanciful lamps on every post, modest chandeliers in the offices and an on-site cook's galley that could have passed for the catering pavilion included with the event tent. Standing guard by the entrance door (the damn thing came with a fucking wood-framed glass door!) as well as along the perimeter of the tent were more Steel Rangers clad in the same new Power Armor my escort was wearing; a fact which meant they were all likely the General’s personal guard. The door was opened curtly by the one closest to the door and I was led through the brightly lit interior past room after room of offices, wall-to-wall terminals and communications posts to the large meeting hall at the center of the hoofball field-sized tent. I gratefully left my tight lipped escort at the door and entered into the large conference room within, taking a seat beside Colonel Horn at the ridiculously huge wooden table filled with officers and non-commissioned officers alike. Decent number of at least halfway recognizable faces in attendance, including a few exceptionally large Gryphons towards the head of the table that could only be the Plague Birds. Of course being Tin Heads themselves, even a well-known racist like the General wasn't about to kick them towards my end of the table; probably here to run suicide missions for the General's delight and amusement for all I knew. They were essentially on-lease from the King of the Gryphons and so didn't technically answer to anyone present but did so anyway far as it suited him.

A quick headcount of the room guesstimated there were at least eighty in attendance with standing room for many more along the fringes of the room. COs and NCOs without a single Enlisted fuck in sight...the whole room reeked of impending field promotions. There were just too many names in that list from earlier... The general murmur in the room was hushed and tense with conversations even right next to me nigh-on impossible to hear. The days' events had reshaped the Front and with so many recalled to action, it was only natural that this meeting had to be called in order to establish the chain of command again. A twisted, knotted chain that felt almost as unwieldy and full of missing links as it was a force to be reckoned with by the Empire.

At the head of the table, flanked by six more upgraded SRs and sitting before a microphone, sat who I assumed to be General Olive Leaf. Despite seeing his name attached to the bottom of nearly every piece of paperwork I interacted with, this was the first time I had actually seen the guy for myself. Needless to say despite the four silver stars on the epaulets of his uniform, I didn't find myself all that impressed as I had expected to be in the presence of one of the last surviving Old Boys. I certainly did feel relieved to see most of the other officers present were dressed similarly to me with just the bare essentials to indicate their respective ranks pinned to their armor and desert camo fatigues. It was quite easy to tell who had a desk job and who didn’t. Nopony out here had the fucking time to shower let alone bring out the finely pressed dress uniform for every goddamned moment of the day. Maybe in the offices they demanded that sort of professionalism bullshit still but boys and girls in the field were permitted to give much less of a fuck about that nonsense. Least most of the month.

I knew it was stupid to get inwardly resentful of them but I couldn’t help but feel...bitter towards the desk jockeys in attendance. These yuppy fucks had landed desk jobs right outa Academy, their careers usually accelerated to the top artificially by some contact or another with the powers to facilitate such shit. Sure, some of them knew the horrors of war themselves having risen through the ranks in the field and getting to essentially retire out of active service. A lot of the top jobs were still held by the last remaining vestiges of the Old Boys and their protégé, a cult to the idea of 'do things like we always have'. When they had first formed, the largest brushes with 'war' Equestria had experienced were the fucking proxy battles fought in disputed territories with the Empire; a time when we fielded no more than a few hundred or maybe even a thousand or so. The Old Boys were working from playbooks they themselves had written when the average number of soldiers fielded rarely broke 10k and the complexities of the new face of modern warfare were only just beginning to be understood. But hey...I'm sure the E.A.F was dying to have these deluded cultists and their acolytes in their top jobs calling shots for a War they don't fucking seem to grasp with open eyes and concerned minds. Hadn't stopped them so far.

“Fillies and gentlecolts, I thank you all for gathering here today at my request.” Declared General Olive, his voice surprisingly deep and gravelly like an old stallion’s even though he looked no older than his mid-fifties. “As you are all well aware the last few weeks here on the Southern Front have seen their fair share of changes and rotations in position.”

Was he fucking serious? ‘Changes and rotations in position’?! The fucking asswipe couldn’t even say it like it was. People had fucking died and now we were present to patch up holes before shit hit the fan once more. Already I could hear the faint booms of artillery roaring out shells towards the Zebra’s camp far to the South...this meeting would add nothing but the fancy titles given before the names of the deceased. What we needed were tactics, not...well...anything better than this shit. This was the umpteenth meeting I had attended in recent years and barely anything changed. It was either 'hold the line' or 'over the top and down the line'. The Meat Grinder was always cranking in the South.

“As of now, the following are being promoted in the field by the report of their commanding officers and the final decision of Princess Luna of the Acting Wartime Council. With our safety in question at this location, I would like these proceedings to be as expeditious as possible so that we all can get back to work. Would the following please stand as your names are read and remain standing until we have finished the list.”

Or in other words, so you and your posse can hop back on the train headed out and away from the danger zone... The list was rather extensive and unsurprisingly began with the Steel Rangers with many present hailing from this league of heroes. Amongst the promotions, most of them in the NCO category, there were also a bevy of assorted awards and commendations too. A Distinguished Red Heart for a combat medic here, a Bronze Crescent for some Tin Head there, two Silver Crescents for great acts of valor for even two of the fucking Plague Birds. None of these things really fucking mattered when the bullets started firing and it still felt defeating knowing these medals and promotions could mean nothing in twenty minutes when a rouge bullet or bit of shrapnel ends everything for you. As the list continued through the GA and Airborne, it was glaringly obvious the General was also a member of the goddamned Steel Ranger cult. Putting us at the very end of the meeting was a visible power move and explained all too painfully why we kept getting sent on the most life intensive offensives first. He was bleeding us dry and dragging our name through the blood soaked sands for the fuck of it.

“Lieutenant Colonel Big Horn.” The General declared as the Colonel stood up to my left, straightening his cap and the tie on his uniform. “In light of Colonel Phoenix Quill’s untimely death two weeks prior, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Colonel in the Equestrian Armed Forces and will continue to retain your command of the Desert Rangers Fourth Brigade stationed at Camp Macintosh in addition to Third and Fifth Brigades in light of their recent mobilization and lack of available Desert Ranger personnel. Further orders to follow pending re-established contact with the Hexagon on a secured hardline channel.”

Horn kept a straight face like a good soldier but I had worked with him long enough to see the shock and awe coursing through his body by the way his eyes widened ever so slightly. It was a huge promotion after all...especially in a War where anypony can die and they usually did so much younger and at far lower ranks than he. I could only wonder how I would handle such a jump on the paygrade. Nearly a third of those present had yet to be called to attention and being a Major was pushing it for someone rubber stamped for frontline combat. No way in hell they were gonna boot me up another level. Majors were always shoved behind a desk so it was only by virtue of being a Veteran in the Corps that I was even allowed to stay and fight like a real mare, not end up as one of those pansy fucking desk jockeys.

“Major Athena Crete Minuette.” The General continued before I even had a chance to recognize what he was saying, Colonel Horn kicking me in the leg under the table to get me to stand. “With the promotion of your commanding officer you are found qualified enough for promotion to Lieutenant Colonel in the Equestrian Armed Forces and will retain your former place in the field of combat. However, due to unfortunate casualty spikes in recent weeks, you will be put in command of the Desert Rangers Second Battalion of the Fifth Brigade and may delegate responsibilities to those you deem qualified. Further information will be provided by your commanding officer within seventy-two hours and further questions are to be reserved for Colonel Horn alone. As stated previously, I have no time for questions.”

Wait, what? I was...no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. I was hearing shit for sure. That damn Howitzer must have done more damage to my hearing than I had thought. Right, that made sense. No way in hell was I just put in charge of six-hundred soldiers and given leave to designate my own subordinates. The Colonel had earned his promotion and I was just tripping some major balls for the first time in my life. I was just a Major in name only, I would be the first to admit that publicly because I knew I just wasn't cut out for leading so many lives at once. The five of us in Beta, (damnit), Alpha Squad were more than enough gung-ho murder machines to coordinate and lead as it was. I became a Ranger because of that fact for fuck's sake! Less life coordinating and more life taking!

The list continued without much of my notice as I was still reeling with the shock of responsibility that had just been dumped on my shoulders. He didn’t really mean it did he? I was just a high ranking Veteran Ranger only in charge of a small team of four badasses who were also rather highly ranked themselves right? I prayed to Celestia and Luna it was just a formality like with my promotion to Major and that I wasn’t actually being given command over a fucking Battalion. My bewilderment lasted all the way through the rest of the meeting and I was slowly being pushed and jostled outside by the crowd of ponies all wanting to get to bed or whatever. A fucking Lieutenant Colonel. The silver oak leaf pin I had grown so accustomed to Horn wearing was going to be mine. In a sense I was inheriting his position...but that was completely stupid and a bad idea on their part. I clawed my way into the top five Squads of the Corps just to get out of the responsibilities of a Captain and spend more time kicking ass as was my pleasure. For the love of fuck guys...whose bright idea was this bullshit?

“Athena! Hey, Athena!”

I looked up from my wandering hooves to see Huckleberry as well as Buck Beak, Rain Dancer and Pennies Worth all clamoring for my attention through the crowd, Buck Beak being the most notable being the only Griffin in the meeting and thus being a head taller than most ponies. I blushed softly at my own stupor and made my way through the crowd over to where they stood waiting in a quiet corner of the tent all looking giddy with excitement.

“Fucking knew you’d be able to pull it off!” Buck Beak exclaimed as he scooped me up into a bear hug and I noticed he too seemed to be wearing a new patch on his uniform. “Lieutenant Colonel for the win, bitches!”

He set me down just long enough to catch a glimpse of Huckleberry who was proudly displaying the dual gold bars of a Captain’s rank on her duster’s lapels before Rain Dancer tackled me in a hug of his own. Everyone it seemed got a promotion during the meeting. Rain Dancer and Pennies Worth were both promoted to Warrant Officer Grades 3 and 4 respectively, Buck Beak to First Sergeant and my dear Hucks got promoted to a fucking Captain.

“So that’s it then?” I said finally after everyone had a chance to calm down. “We’re just promoted in the field and that’s it? Back down into the trenches so they can do this again in a few weeks after everypony in there winds up dead save for the desk jockeys?”

“Oh common’ Athena, don’t be such a pessimist.” Chided Penny, beaming down at the little steel bars with four distinct black marks now pinned to her lapels. “We each got a pay raise today! Think about that eh? And since we’re such badasses, we’ll have a nice hefty paycheck waiting for us at the end of this tour!”

Hucks looked at me with glee as she said, “Maybe there’ll be enough between us for a down payment on that house! That would be amazing!”

“And a nice reloading station to go with it?” I grinned as she hugged me again, thoughts of having a small place of our own running through the happy flowery fields of my mind.

“Whatever works for you as long as I get my library with the little bay window seat looking over the Moors.” She replied with a giggle.

Everypony in the group was more than well aware of the remodeling plans we had been designing for months for a small cottage on the Trottingham Moors. Mom had found it while on a wine tour of the overseas Kingdom and immediately set to putting the owner in contact with the two of us as it was absolutely perfect for two mares seeking respite from the War. It was a quaint little place with two bedrooms (one for us and one for guests) and bathroom, a kitchen/dining room combo, a cozy little living room with a large fireplace and a large attic room for storage or as a crafting room. Out back, there was a most beautiful little garden with a stream and a small pond running through it that lead down into the Moors amidst all the lush greenery of the region. It was very prone to raining in Trottingham but neither of us minded the rain in the least. Besides...that’s what cuddling in front of the fireplace was for right? I had never been overseas, hell neither of us had yet to leave the Continent thankfully, but all the pictures of Trottingham and wonderfully accented mares I had come into contact with painted a lovely little Kingdom to hide away from the world in. Least they had no laws preventing Hucks and I from marrying there and gaining citizenship wasn't too difficult.

“You are going to have a guest bedroom right?” Rain Dancer asked in an almost serious tone as if we would forget all of them as soon as our time as Rangers was ended. “I mean, I’m fine to crash on your couch but you wouldn’t let your best friends wake up with a tweaked back would you? Crashed on enough couches in college, me want bed.”

“Why of course not!” I replied, making a mental note to get as large a bed for the guest room as possible for Buck's enormous body. “No, you’re all welcome into our home anytime you want. I’m afraid those kind of additions would cost out the ass to build, especially with Trottingham’s stupid ass land and construction taxes but we’ll spare no expense for you guys to live comfortably while you stay with us.”

"Just no permanent move-ins k?" Hucks laughed while also giving a serious stare at everyone, particularly Buck Beak. "Our home is your home of course but it's still ours at the end of the day. Help slap down money towards it and maybe we can talk then about it."

We started moving as a group back out of the Command Tent and back towards the main camp where all of us were bunking out together in a private tent of our own, courtesy of the Colonel’s orders. It was nice to feel loved and cared for by your CO to the point we weren’t all randomly assigned tents but were allowed to bunk together unlike some other groups who got separated from their friends due to their CO’s orders. The main camp stretched on for what seemed like miles as there were easily over forty-thousand troops assembled for battle, crammed into tiny green tents that reminded me all too much of the boring suburbs of Las Pegasus where I used to live for awhile. Every single house was a cookie cutter replica of its neighbor with only minor differences in paint color, yard maintenance and landscaping to help you tell the difference between your house and your next door neighbor. Even ponies who had lived there for years still sometimes ended up walking into their neighbor’s home thinking they had their own home’s ‘distinguishing’ appearance memorized. That is actually how I first met my neighbors was by accidentally walking right into their place and getting halfway through tossing all my shit on the floor as I usually did when first coming home. Needless to say we all had a good laugh over it after the confusion and shock had worn off.

Together we all ditched our dress caps and some of us our armor in our tent before heading to the galley for dinner. With the massive airdrops myself and the other Rangers dropped in with, there was more than enough food to go around and not just the simple MRE’s we usually got. By the grace of our victory, a large shipment of fresh fruits and vegetables was brought in from the farms in Appleloosa as well as several other towns including PonyVille way to the North meaning we were getting a true hot meal prepared from scratch. Something the boys already serving on the front were probably dying to taste after weeks of fighting. For the rest of us just arriving in the field well...it was just a nice treat and a sendoff.

As we made our way to the galley tent which more or less stood in the center of camp as the hub of everything social, we began to pass the strikingly white tents of the Ministry of Peace with their signature cream yellow cross with the little pink butterflies in the crook of each arm of the cross. The medic tents that everypony secretly hoped they would never have to enter while in the field. I had spent more than my share of time inside their brightly lit and cheery interiors laying on a padded cot that was far more comfortable than any other cots in the camp, waiting for one of the white robed mares or stallions to administer healing potions or spells. The M.O.P lived up to its name by mopping up the aftermath of any engagement, taking in the wounded and accounting for the dead. Of the Six Ministries that formed the Hexagon, the governing body of the country really, the Ministry of Peace was by far the least intimidating. Even their internal motto of 'Do No Harm' was as unintimidating as a fucking teddy bear. However, I did appreciate those with senses of humor like Buck Beak that had graffitied the slogan on their helmets only to cross out the 'No' in dripping red so it read 'Do Harm'. Needless to say, the Peacekeepers were NOT amused but I found it fuckin' hilarious.

I was continually dumbfounded how many ponies had decided to join their ranks as healers and peacekeepers when it seemed the whole of Equestria was caught up in a mutual hatred of the Zebras and their assorted gaggle of odd creatures. M.O.M. certainly had done wonders in inciting the public to join the crusade over the years while the other Ministries had either remained silent or actively participated in the indoctrination. All save the pussy-hoofed pacifists who believed in the mission of Peace or those just too self-righteous to recognize the War was only going to end with one side entirely obliterating the other.

“You know, I think I might look into seeing if they’d be willing to train me in some of their mystic healing arts.” Huckleberry said to my surprise as we passed the last row of pristine white tents.

“Oh…? Why…?” I asked slowly, looking at her with a tad bit of apprehension that she was considering renouncing her badass ways to become a pussy-hoofed healer far away from the front lines.

“I know what you’re thinking and it ain’t that.” She replied with a small giggle. “I want to learn since we both know just as good as anypony here that healing potions and bandages can only do so much in the field. It would be smart of us to have a certified combat medic of our own actively working with and well...why not me? I mean I did take a year and a half of medical school before I decided to apply to EastPoint after all. My medic skills are already above adequate keeping all y'all crazy bitches alive and I could really benefit from the advanced training. If ya want the simple logic version, boosting the pages in my medical playbook will allow us a bit more versatility and longevity. I know I'm the de-facto medic of the Squad but I'm not certified as one. Yet.”

I thought over her proposal carefully, not just as a lover but as a leader of our small Squad. We were all given basic first aid training and were taught carefully how to administer the basic potions and wound dressing kits found in our trauma kits. However, come a scenario in which one of us suffered massive injuries beyond the power of our trauma kits to fix...well, our only option was emergency exfil to one of the M.O.P docs. In an active warzone, that meant either getting dragged on a stretcher through the chaos or flying up and away from it; not exactly conducive to reducing casualties as any of your rescuers could end up on a stretcher themselves trying to move yours. It was such a good idea that I actually hit myself (much to her amusement) for not thinking of it earlier. To have somepony who could mend bones, pull out bullets and shrapnel and just heal our asses when we were out of meds at our side 24/7 was going to be nothing but a win for us. It would be the most practical choice since ponies decided it’d be a great idea to slice bread and slap some butter on it after frying it on a pan.

“Get right on that.” I said firmly though with a smile. “We need all the help we can get out here and fuck knows we ain't getting enough down South.”

“Yes Ma’am!” She laughed with a salute. “Oh, and there’s an added bonus to it too!”

“Oh?” I asked, trying to think of what other bonuses could come in conjunction of being a competent combat medic certified by the M.O.P. “What bonus?”

She drew very close and whispered in her familiar sultry tone, “I’ve always wanted to do a sexy nurse roleplay...wink, wink.”

Ohhhhh. That kind of bonus. Hell, that was probably going to be better than her usefulness in combat but then again that was probably my horny brain talking. Either way you sliced it, it was a hell of a good idea all around. If they refused to train her because reasons, my new promotion would ensure they would be forced to do so and do so well. Just because we weren’t peace loving sissies like them didn’t mean we didn’t have a definite need for a combat medic. A real combat medic who wielded a fucking .338 Luna Magnus Barnette marksmare rifle and kicked major ass like my Hucks did. Even hinting at something sexy got me riled up and I was going to skip on dessert at the galley. I had my dessert ready and walking by my side dressed in an imaginary nurse’s outfit with garters and fishnet stockings. Things were going to get messy in the tent tonight and I hoped the others wouldn’t mind too much as we tended to each other’s needs. They had shiny new promotions to nurse their attention on anyway.

Next Chapter: Chapter Nine: The Cost of Feigned Ignorance Estimated time remaining: 28 Hours, 20 Minutes