“Guys.” Bren entered the room. “Guys- who’s in here?” Both Red Field and Siplinski called to him. Bren stepped into the gap between their bunks. “We need to get to the med building, Full Wing got hurt and I need you guys there.”

Both jumped off of their beds and followed Bren out of the barracks. They galloped into the darkening base.

“It’s not good, he almost had his wing taken off.” Bren said. “Somepony hit him with a chariot during an exercise. He’s in surgery now; where the fuck is Black Rain?”

“He should be at Maremont, his shift ends in an hour I think. Who hit Full Wing?” Said Siplinski.

“Some cocksucker from Barracks Thirteen.”

The medical building smelled like ether and old bed sheets. The receptionist, a bored-looking MP, sat reading a paperback behind the desk. He looked up as the group burst into the waiting room.

“You’re going to have to wait out here.” He said to Bren as they attempted to round his desk and enter the medical unit.
“I’m guessing you’re here for the colt that’s in surgery.”

“He’s been in there for an hour.” Said Bren, more to the rest of Squad Six than the MP.

“When did it happen?” Siplinski asked. “Where were they?”

“He was out in Airborne training. I think they were running an escort drill. They said somepony clipped him with a chariot,
his wing got tangled in the axel.”

“Oh fuck.” Siplinski squinted in imagined pain. Bren swallowed again and ran his hoof through his mane.

“Somepony said it was that fuckin’ kid from Thirteen. I don’t know, I was at work when Scuttlebutt told me.” Said Bren.

“Where the fuck is he?” The front door bounced open. Black Rain’s body and hooves were stained with grease and oil. His mane, also greasy, fell into his eyes like a patch of black reeds. He caught sight of the rest of Squad Six. “What the fuck happened? Somepony give me a sitrep.”

“He got hit by a chariot during a close escort-” Bren said.

“How, what kind, where?”

“I don’t know what they were flying. They said the driver banked over him and he got his wing caught in the axel.” Said Bren.

“Fuckin’ bitch- who was driving?”

“I don’t know. Somepony said it was that kid from Squad Thirteen.” Said Bren. Red Field saw that this information should have been withheld from Black Rain as Black Rain took a sharp breath through his nose.

“Has he been in there long?” Black Rain asked, staring at the doors to the surgical ward.

“Like an hour I think, I don’t know, it could be a long time before he gets out.” Bren said.

“I can find out who is on the operating staff.” Said Siplinski.

“All right, let’s go.” Black Rain grabbed Siplinski by the shoulder.

“What? Where we going?” Asked Siplinski, taking an unsure step after him.

“We’re going to get that little bitch.”

They walked towards Barracks Thirteen. A full gallop would have been less frightening for Red Field. The short stark steps of Black Rain as he led the posse toward the barracks reverberated through Red Field as he followed behind.
Flashpoint’s threat of expulsion lingered in Red Field’s mind and he nearly bolted as Black Rain turned to face them.

“Let me do the talking, you stay behind me.” He shoved open the door and they entered.

The lights of the long barracks were dimmed and a heavy-duty fan pumped a gale through the building. Dirty uniforms and various articles of clothing were strewn about the floor. The sour, musky odor of sweat wafted into Red Field’s nose as he entered.

Two ponies were playing cards on a table set up near the door. They looked up as Black Rain stormed in.

“Where’s that little fuck?” Black Rain asked.

“What? What the fuck’re you talking about?” One, wearing nothing but dog tags and a pair of stained camo pants stood up.

“Shut up.” Black Rain pointed to the other pony. “Where’s that little cocksucker?”

Somepony awoke from their bunk further down the row.

The card playing ponies argued with Black Rain as Agent Orange climbed out of bed and walked over to them. Both Bren and Siplinski inched back as the captain caught sight of them.

“The fuck?” Agent Orange yawned and wiped his eyes. “Rain? The hell’s going on?”

“That little cocksucker, don’t know his name. He’s part of your squad.”

“Uh, okay?” Agent Orange yawned again. “What are you even talking about?”

“He hit one of our guys with a chariot and put him in the hospital. Nearly tore his goddamn wing off.” Agent Orange blinked, then rolled his eyes in thought. He smacked his lips several times, trying to place Black Rain’s accusation.

“I heard something about it, sounds like Shadow Wings banked right and clipped their guy’s wing.” Said the pony wearing the dog tags. Agent Orange frowned.

“Damn, sorry about that.” He cracked his neck. “You can borrow one of our guys for the team exercise-”

“Where’s that little shit?” Black Rain spoke in a darker tone and drew closer to Agent Orange.

“Now what would you want with-” Agent Orange began with a chuckle. Their snouts nearly collided as Black Rain grabbed the orange pony by his shoulders and pulled him forward. Both of the poker playing ponies rushed forward.

“I asked you where the fuck he is.” Black Rain said. Agent Orange shoved Black Rain back.

“You really want to pick a fight with an officer? I’m going to give you one more chance to walk out of here Rain.”

“I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me where that Shadow fuckhead is before I kick your teeth in.” Siplinski and Bren were standing beside Black Rain and the pair of card players matched this position behind Agent Orange.

Red Field still stood by the door.

“What the fuck Rain? You can’t be serious about this.” Agent Orange grew serious as Squad Six, save for Red Field, faced him. He narrowed his eyes at Black Rain. “You really want to do this?”

“Where’s that colt?” Said Black Rain.

Agent Orange didn’t respond.

Black Rain rushed into Agent Orange. The pair of card playing ponies folded in on him and Siplinski and Bren both shot into them. The group had just hit one another when the door opened.

A copper-colored workhorse filled the entirety of the doorway and his mane brushed the eave of the door. Red Field scampered away as the horse entered.

“Whoa what is this?” The horse’s voice rose out of his thick chest and filled the room in a baritone.

“Shadow Wings hit these guys’ friend with a chariot.” Agent Orange pushed Black Rain away. “They were about to get into some trouble over that.” The giant pony looked down at Red Field, who stood closest to him.

“Is that so?” He asked.

“What’d I do wrong?” Red Field recognized Shadow Wings, he was the same pony who’d “cleaned” him during the first war game. The Pegasus stepped around the horse in the doorway. He’d grown since Red Field had seen him last and he reminded Red Field of Beet.

“You hit one of our guys with a chariot.” Bren started toward Shadow Wings but one of the card ponies caught him by the shoulder.

“Oh my God, you mean this afternoon? That was your guy?” Shadow wings sounded genuinely surprised and Red Field’s fear relaxed. “Heh, well, not my fault he can’t fly in formation.”

“Oh fuck you you little piece of shit!” Siplinski shouted.

“Hey!” Shadow Wings saw that Squad Six was outnumbered. “I was flying just fine, it was his fault he couldn’t break right.”

“I swear to God you’re-” Black Rain moved toward him.

“No you’re not.” The workhorse stepped between Black Rain and Shadow Wings. “You’re not going to do anything.”
At best Black Rain was two-thirds of the height of the stallion. Bren and Siplinski stood shoulder to shoulder against Agent Orange and the other two stallions.

Shadow Wings looked on with anticipation.

“We’ll take you guys on in the next war game.” Everypony looked to Red Field. “Next one, the one where it’s squads against squads.” Red Field looked around, not sure which side he needed to convince more.

“What?” Asked Agent Orange.

“The next war game, our team will eliminate yours.” Said Red Field. “Then you give us a full apology.”

Shadow Wings was the first to laugh.

“What the fuck are you talking about? We butchered you guys last time, or don’t you remember?”

“I’ll be a sniper by the next game.”

“No way.” Said Agent Orange. “You’re a clopper.”

“Ask Flashpoint, or Belligerence.” Red Field felt a rush of satisfaction as Agent Orange grew stupefied with disbelief. “Whoever loses this game goes to every barracks and tells them the other squad took them out. Sound like a plan?” He had no idea if this was fair recompense for Full Wing’s injury and he thought for another condition to add.

“Fine.” Shadow Wings stepped in front of Red Field and looked into Red Field’s face. “And I’ll be looking forward to adding sniper tags to my collection.” He started to make a sweeping motion at Red Field’s throat but Red Field caught his hoof.

“Red’s going to put you down before you know where he is.” Siplinski said.

“Is that it then?” Agent Orange asked. “We’re going to meet in the next game to settle your stupid vendetta over an accident?”

Everypony waited for Black Rain to reply. Black Rain looked from Red Field to Shadow Wings.

“When he kills you, you’re quitting Gale Force.” Black Rain said to the Pegasus. Shadow Wings shrugged.

“Sure.”

Black Rain shoved past the workhorse and led Barracks Six out of the building.

Nopony spoke as they returned to the medical center. Black Rain told Siplinski and Bren to go inside and check on Full Wing. He waited until the doors closed, then turned to Red Field. Black Rain placed his hoof on the wall.

“So you’re actually a sniper?”

“Yeah. I finished UAT basic and I’m training with Belligerence now.” Said Red Field. A couple soldiers jogged past and a few called to Black Rain.

“I’d heard you were- guess I didn’t believe it.” Black Rain kicked a tiny rock under his hoof.

“I know I’ve been a shitty team player this far-” Red Field said.

“Shoot that piece of shit in the throat.” Said Black Rain with all of the certainty that had pervaded his declarations of Red Field’s ineptitude and incompatibility with Gale Force. Red Field smiled, then saw that Black Rain was waiting for a response. He nodded.

“I will.”

The next day at sniper training, Belligerence moved the targets out to two hundred meters. Red Field didn’t know what doubling the distance to the target would do since he was still shooting badly at one hundred meters.
He tried not to think of his recent bet impinging on his competency as a sniper.

“Just do what you normally do.” Belligerence was nearing the bottom of his bag of sunflower seeds and he ate each salted apostrophe slowly. Red Field fired a few rounds and saw that his group was double the size of the one at one hundred meters. At two hundred meters he couldn’t even hit a normal pony reliably. Belligerence dug out another seed.
“What do you think on when you shoot?” He asked.

“I just focus on the target sir.” Said Red Field and Belligerence frowned.

“You don’t think on anything?” Red Field shook his head. “Well then this’ll be the first building block of your personality. What’s your favorite, most peaceful place? Doesn’t have to be a five star resort, just somewhere you like.” Red Field tried to think of somewhere peaceful. “You’re a smart pony, what about your library?

Red Field envisioned the old machine shed in Rockvale. It smelled like old motor oil, the books were manuals, Mr. Whittaker was sleeping. He couldn’t superimpose the image over the desert before him and wondered why he even ought to try.

“The reason I could go out with Fudd and crawl for days in the mud and the trees wasn’t because I had no brain, it was precisely because I had things in my mind that I could go to that I could keep going.”

“You went to a happy place?” Asked Red Field. Belligerence grew more and more bizarre as Red Field knew him.

“Ha, well, yes I suppose. Everypony has their limits. Right now yours is two hundred meters. Whenever you hit your limits, you can do one of two things: You can muster your strength, push through the pain and give it your best shot, which might or might not miss. Or you can slow things down, go to your library, and make that shot from a comfortable armchair. Sniping isn’t like normal fighting, it’s about controlling your mind. When you’re at your limits, you need to get comfortable and let your body do the work.” He pointed to the target. “Now go to your happy place and shoot from there.”

Red Field understood the theoretical concept of inner peace during stress. But he did not understand how it could possibly make him a better shot. He picked up the reticule and drew a bead a few inches above the target. He imagined himself inside of the library. He was sitting on his haunches, scanning the first pages of a book. He never found any real books inside of that library.

Thonk.

“Where were you?” Asked Belligerence as Red Field squinted down the scope.

“Few minutes to the right.”

“No, where did you go?” Asked Belligerence.

“Library.”

“So you do like to read.”

Red Field couldn’t qualitatively claim that imagining himself within the library aided his marksmanship. His next group was still within the mean for his two hundred meter shooting and he felt any improvement was placebo.

Belligerence joined him on the walk to replace the targets.

“So, is that library where you read about guns?”

“Yeah.”

“Must have been quite the library to have books on such an esoteric subject. How big was it?”

“It wasn’t big at all. It was a machine shop turned into a library. All of the books were manuals and catalogues for farm equipment. I guess somepony’s old gun books got in there.”

“Ah, I see.” A small breeze drew a few grains of sand from the dunes flanking them. “So, you’re from a small town then?”

“Yeah, a little town called Rockvale, my dad is a rock flipper and my mom picks cabbage.”

“So you’re poor?” Red Field looked over at Belligerence. “I’m teaching you to be the deadliest soldier on the battlefield; I want to get to know you.”

“Yes, my parents don’t make a lot of money.” Red Field said.

“Same for mine." Said Belligerence. "Dad was a carpenter, mom couldn’t get a job.”

They reached the line of targets. Belligerence inspected the papers, then stopped at the last one.

“You know what this means?” He pointed to the paper. The group was the smallest of Red Field’s. Five holes sat within five inches of one another, roughly two inches down and to the left of the bulls-eye. Red Field studied the group. “Means you’re learning.” Belligerence poked the paper, making it crinkle. “You’re getting used to the gun and your groups are only going to get smaller from here.” He noted the distance between the grouping and the bulls-eye. “But this means you’re also integrating your flinch into your routine. If you aimed up and to the right of the target you’d be dead on. Never do that. Never include a bad habit in your plans.” He cocked his head at the paper. “I have a plan for how we can take care of that.”

Back at the shooting station, Belligerence sent Red Field inside for a bag. Red Field spent five minutes wandering the empty bunker, searching the tables and shelves. Eventually he found a cloth bag about the size of a football and returned to Belligerence.

“Will this work?” He asked. Belligerence nodded.

“Now fill it with sand.” Red Field obliged and then tied off the bag. Belligerence pointed to the DMR, which he’d set atop Red Field’s shooting table. The bipod had been removed and the magazines had been reloaded and sat in a neat pile. “Rest the forend of the rifle on the bag, we’re going to go to a more stable shooting position from now on.” Red Field did so and as he drew up the rifle he noticed the added stability. “Eyep, most ponies think the bipods are the most stable rest to shoot from. But the more contact you have with the surface of the rest the more accurate you’ll be. Sand is nice ‘cause it conforms.” He pointed to the stack of magazines. “Use that top one.”

Red Field loaded the first magazine and chambered a round. The scope was now only sluggishly looping and twitching around the bulls-eye and Red Field tightened up for his first shot.

“Rest your supporting hoof around the rear of the stock, that’s what that little beavertail cut out is for.” Red Field eased his hoof under the stock. His hoof contacted the plastic and the rifle sank closer to him. The bulls-eye came to rest under the scope reticule. He let his breath out, then squeezed off another thonk.

He fired four more rounds. Red Field stared at the target. The cluster of shots couldn’t have been more than four inches in diameter. The impacts were still two inches down and to the left.

“Try another mag Red, this time go back to the library.”

He was again sitting below the M shelf looking for something besides machine maintenance and masturbatory remedies.
The rifle gave a castrated click and Red Field saw the crosshairs of the scope dip down exactly two inches from the center of his group. He looked over at Belligerence.

“Dummy round. It lets you see your flinch.” Said Belligerence, standing and walking over to Red Field. “Guess inner peace won’t cut it for you. Flinches are just fear, but the thing is, they’re the weird sort of fear that can’t be overcome by toughing it out. Our brain is afraid of getting hurt and- well, it’s like a reflex I suppose.” He pointed to the DMR. “Now we could get a longer suppressor and make your shooting even softer. Heck, we could drop you back to rimfire and you’d still pull your shots. The way you get rid of a flinch is by making it so that making the shot is more important than that fear. You make a more important reflex for your brain to follow.” He popped the sweaty cap off his head and fanned himself. “We’ll need to figure out what your brain thinks is more important than getting clocked in the eye with some glass.” He looked downrange. “Let’s switch to maintenance.”

Belligerence taught Red Field the basics of maintaining the DMR. How to clean the bolt, how to check the gas rings and why it was pointless to check the gas rings. He showed Red Field the gas tube and pontificated for some time about why it was idiotic to think shoving a piston in the tube would solve everypony’s problems. He showed Red Field where to oil, where to never oil, where to never care about cleaning.

Belligerence never asked any normal questions. As Red Field scrubbed the chamber of the DMR, Belligerence inquired as to why he’d had never had sex.

“I guess because I never wanted to.” Said Red Field.

“That’s a first for a young stallion.” Belligerence chuckled as he handed Red Field another patch. “Was it because you knew everypony in your town, or did you really not feel like sex.”

“I never felt like sex.” Belligerence didn’t sound like he was mocking Red Field like Black Rain had. Belligerence spoke a lot like Mr. Whittaker.

“So you want to go to Cantorlot, get a fancy degree in chemistry?”

“Yes.” Red Field’s head swam a little from the noxious, banana-smelling solvent and he decided to consider alchemy a form of chemistry.

“Have you taken the entrance examinations?”

“No but I know I can pass them.”

“I bet you can.”

Belligerence asked a series of such questions. Red Field, though not overtly offended by the rather personal and assuming line of inquiry, eventually sought to turn the tables on his instructor.

“Did you ever marry?” He asked, reassembling a cleaned magazine.

“Yep, married twenty years, had two sons, now I’m getting grandkids.” Belligerence said, searching the shelves above them for oil. “Would have liked to skip the kids and head straight to grandkids.”

“Does your wife live on base?”

“She died ten years ago.” Belligerence said, setting the oil beside Red Field. “Make sure you dry lube those mag springs or they’ll bind.” Red Field grew quiet as he oiled the springs. He’d learned at a young age he should wait several minutes before continuing the conversation.

“You ever consider the deaths you might be responsible for Red?” Belligerence asked.

“No.”

“Everypony thinks it must be hard killing people through a scope.” Belligerence shrugged. “They think we get some terrible, personable feelings looking at somepony through a scope. I never could understand that. Sniping was a hunt for me, not just shooting good. The crawling, the planning, the movements and adjustments.” He smiled to himself. “The surprises.”

“It was that easy?” Red Field asked.

“My reasoning was that the people I shot were going to hurt my friends and me,” he frowned and wiped some spilled oil from the stock of the DMR, “and peaceable negotiation and free chocolate bars weren’t going to fix things. If you ever have to take a shot on someone, you are going to be completely fine with it, or you’re going to have messed up in your preparation. The most bloodthirsty thing you could say I did was ask ‘why should I kill this guy and friends?’ when I was doing prep work for a mission. For a good soldier, killing is only difficult if it’s wrong.” He was quiet a moment. “You don’t ever want to be there.” He knocked his hoof against the spiked flash hider of the rifle. “This gun is just a tool in the hooves of a normal pony doing a job for his country. The minute any of those things becomes any bigger to you, you stop being a sniper.” Red Field wanted to ask what he would become if that happened, but felt he knew the answer.

They left the range at 1400. Full Wing was getting discharged from the medical center and Belligerence was fine with cutting their day short.

“I know what it’s like to have a friend in the med bay and the worst thing my C.O. ever did was make me wait to see him.” Belligerence dropped Red Field off in front of the medical building. “Make sure you bring a notebook and some paper tomorrow.” He winked at Red Field. “We’re going to test your math skills.”

Full Wing had been in hospice for three days. He’d been drugged up for two and was supposed to resume cogency sometime during the day of his discharge. Squad Six was prepared to take him back to their sweating barracks and give him a hero’s welcome. He didn’t know about the bet that had been made in lieu of vengeance for him.

The base was mostly deserted during the day. Nearly everypony was either at training for, or serving at, their post. The grounds were patrolled by ponies who’d make a mistake at either place and a few officers walked between the buildings on their way to meetings.

Red Field was the first to arrive at the medical center.

Full Wing and the receptionist were sitting in the waiting room. The receptionist, a lanky blue and white stallion, stood as Red Field entered.

“Hey there, I take it you’re here to pick this guy up.” He said, the eagerness of being relieved of actual duty evident in his voice.

The chairs faced away from the door and Full Wing turned to look back at Red Field. His blue face was lined and grey, as if he’d been sleeping for all three days. His eyes were sunken and his shoulders slumped.

He smiled upon seeing Red Field.

“Hey Red, good to see you.” He rose out of his chair with the receptionist’s help.

“Good to see you Full Wing.” Said Red Field, his stomach turning at the sight of the withered Pegasus.

“Now then.” The receptionist transferred Full Wing to Red Field and jogged over to the desk. He pulled a white wax paper bag from a drawer. “His meds are in here. No alcohol and no physical exertion for at least another week.”

Full Wing’s muscular frame sank down into Red Field and Red Field nearly toppled over trying to support him. He braced himself and held up Full Wing’s right shoulder. Full Wing laughed softly.

“It’s okay dude, I got this. I just wanted to see if you guys would actually give me a hoof.” He stepped away from Red Field to prove he was ambulatory.

“Just make sure he doesn’t move that wing at all.” The receptionist held out the bag to Red Field. “The rest of the instructions are written here.” He stuffed a memo note into the bag.

“Thanks Nicollet.” Full Wing turned to Red Field. “Are we good to go?”

“Absolutely.” Red Field offered to support Full Wing. “Are you sure you can walk?”

“Psh, yeah.” Full Wing walked around Red Field and to the door. Without pause he pushed the doors open and walked outside.

“Hope you get well soon.” Nicollet resumed his seat at the desk and looked for his place in his book.

Red Field felt uncomfortably helpless. He followed Full Wing back to their barracks, not sure if he should go back to the medical building and leave a message for the rest of Squad Six. Even when they reached the barracks, Full Wing insisted on helping himself into bed and getting everything he needed on his own. Red Field, who’d never nursed any injury not his own, stood by, looking for something to say or do.

“So, what’s new with you?” Full Wing asked, then sighed as he sank into the harem of pillows he’d amassed behind his shoulders. Nearly all of his upper body was wrapped in thick white bandages. Red Field sat on the adjacent bunk, trying to keep from staring.

“Oh, not much, just doing training.”

“Sniper training, way cool dude.” Full Wing said, his casual manner now amplified by a general sleepiness.

“Yeah, how did you know?” Asked Red Field.

“Siplinski told me like the day after he found out. He thought it was the coolest thing ever. You’re going to do awesome by the way.”

“Uh thanks- are you sure you don’t need anything?” Red Field started to get up and Full Wing smiled.

“I’m so high right now, it wouldn’t matter what you got me.” He sighed again and sank into the bunk. “Where the heck are those other guys?”

“I dunno.”

“Betcha anything Rain’ll forget I’m hurt and like hit my wing or something tonight.” Full Wing said, smiling tiredly. “Still though, we’re a good group you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Doctor’s say I’ll probably be flying in a few months.”

“Oh.” Red Field wasn’t certain if this was a bad thing or a good thing and he kept his response as neutral as possible.

“Yeah, yeah.” Full Wing said, nodding. “Guess I’ll have to do Airborne training later or something.” He seemed strangely detached from the issue and sat thinking for a bit. Finally he looked over at Red Field and grinned. “So you want to hear the story of how this all happened?”

“If you want to tell it.”

“Well, we were doing like an aerial protection thing.” Full Wing propped himself up and grew a little more animated. “I was I think, like right to the left of this guy in the chariot. Anyway, he banked hard left, which he was supposed to do, but like, I totally spaced and he just plowed into me. Not his fault really.” He pointed to his wing. “I felt it pop and I was like ‘aw shit’.” Full Wing laughed in that same detached manner.

“Damn.” Said Red Field, sticking to neutrality.

“Yeah bro, it was crazy, didn’t feel a thing.” Full Wing let out a long breath and looked up at the bunk above him. “But I so missed this place, and you guys, no homo. Did Bren and the guys come visit at all? I can never tell if those guys really care about you, you know? Like I dunno.” He shook his head. “I was worried they’d just be like ‘oh he got hit by a chariot whatever’.” He looked to Red Field. “Did they like notice I was gone?”

The door opened and Black Rain entered. He carried a plastic trash bag. Behind him were Siplinski and Bren.

“Hey! What’s up!” Black Rain caught himself before he gave Full Wing a punch across the shoulder. “Whoa forgot, got sand up that pussy, don’t want to make you cry.” He shook the bed instead, which Red Field didn’t think was much better.

“Hey dude, how’s it been?” Full Wing asked, his smile returning.

“How’s it been? How’s it fuckin’ been?” Black Rain seated himself on the bed beside Red Field, crowding out the smaller pony. “Fan-fucking-tastic. You got hit, first thing we did: rallied the team, marched right over to that asshole’s barracks and I was about to blade at 45 but then Red,” Black Rain turned and grabbed Red Field by the shoulders as if he were some sort of reliable pack animal, “Red steps in and challenges that motherfucker to a battle next war game.” He slapped Red Field on the back, making Red Field go cross eyed for a second. “I talked with the doctors, by the way. You’re going to be good to go in like a month, like running and shooting and shit.” He poked Red Field. “Maybe I can have this killer hold off and you can kill that son of a bitch yourself.” He tossed the trash bag onto the bed next to Full Wing. “Oh, and I got you this. I got a hookup at the med bay.” He opened the bag and removed a vial. “They give you like one needle for two doses of painkiller and that shit gets filled with blood and gets stuck half the time so I brought you some extras. Also a prescription for some shit that’ll knock you the fuck out if you need to not be around for a bit. I pulled my tendon last year and I needed that shit a lot.”

Whenever Black Rain stopped talking, Red Field felt like a boulder had been dredged out of the conversation and everypony else needed a few seconds to fill in the gap.

“Hey, glad you’re okay.” Bren said, leaning on the side of Full Wing’s bed.

“Yeah me too, you have no idea how long it took to get your feathers out of the axel.” Said Siplinski. Bren cuffed Siplinski. “And yeah, really glad you’re fine, I mean, you know, okay I mean.”

“Guys, I’m high as shit, and I don’t want to sound any gayer than I have to. But I freakin’ love you guys.” Full Wing laughed again. “Like, I don’t care what happens honestly, so long as we stick together.”

“Totally.” Bren said.

“Fuck yeah we’re staying together.” Black Rain nearly pulled up for a hug with Full Wing, who nearly accepted. “And next war game we’re gonna kick Thirteen’s asses.” Everypony cheered to this, including Red Field.

Another two days of training passed. Red Field had lost count of how many rounds he’d fired on the second day. Belligerence continued to ask him odd and probing questions about himself that never led anywhere. By the end of the second day Red Field could hit easily place all four rounds within the same svelte group that sat two inches down and to the left of the bull’s eye. They still hadn’t found what Red Field’s brain thought was more important than getting hit in the eye with a scope.

For the next day, Belligerence told Red Field to be ready by 0600. They were going to do some “twilight” shooting. Red Field awoke at 0530. The room was still blackish and he carefully eased himself out of his bunk. Something like a pine needle pressed into his hoof as he touched the floor. Feeling in the dark, Red Field realized he’d stepped on one of Full Wing’s needles. He sucked in a disgusted breath as he eased the bent needle from his hoof. He threw the needle in the trash and hastily scrubbed his hoof in the sink. He slipped out of the barracks and into the early morning.

He couldn’t blame Full Wing for being careless with his medical waste. The barracks could soon tell that Full Wing was still feeling the effects of the sedatives. After two days of intermittent sleep and mumbling, Full Wing was still as loopy as ever.

He’d paid no attention to when Red Field and Siplinski had discussed electrical terminology.

Red Field yawned, he was growing used to his new circadian rhythm of rising late and one early morning felt like drawing out of a coma. He dragged his hooves through the gravel and to the mess hall. The cooks had gotten used to serving him after the other ponies and Red Field hoped he wouldn’t agitate them by coming early.
He’d talk to the one whose name he knew.

Red Field spoke with the cook, who begrudgingly agreed to serve him a plate of hay and yogurt. Red Field took a seat and stretched the sleep from his body. The mess hall was empty and the sluggish stirring of the cooks emanated from the kitchen. Their deep voices were rich and growling. Red Field eased himself onto the narrow length of the bench. He laid on his back and laced his hooves across his chest. He shut his eyes. Was twilight shooting going to be any different than normal shooting?

He heard his tray set with a clatter atop the table above him. Red Field opened his eyes and shook the sleep from his head.
“Hey thanks, Spam Can.” He said as he drowsily pulled himself up.

Flashpoint sat across from Red Field. The tray of food was between his polished hooves and he pushed it politely to Red Field.

“Sorry sir, I thought you were the cook.” Red Field took the tray. “Thank you for bringing me this.” He took a quick bite of the hay.

“I heard something regarding a near-altercation between your barracks and Barracks Thirteen.” Said Flashpoint. Red Field tried to swallow the hay but it caught in his throat. “I understand your barracks is upset over the recent accidental injury of one of your ponies.”

“Yes sir.” Said Red Field. Flashpoint cleared his throat.

“I understand there is now a bet of sorts over the outcome of the next war game?”

“Yes sir, I apologize if such bets are not-”

“You were personally responsible for negotiating this bet?”

“Yes sir.”

“As opposed to what would have no doubt been a violent and certainly unsanctioned brawl.” Said Flashpoint.

“Sir, I apologize.”

“Not everything need be an apology private.” Flashpoint bowed his head slightly to Red Field. “Your ‘bet’, though the probable cause of a lot more bets and unsanctioned activities, was a very intelligent and safe detour for you and your barracks.”

“I was trying to avoid trouble, that’s all.”

“I’m sure you were not in the mood for any confrontation private.” Flashpoint said, his voice becoming condescending again. “At any rate I am very pleased you managed to avert a catastrophe of tempers. Recruits very rarely make my work easier.” Flashpoint’s stern face was unsuited to smiling and the expression looked garish and unnatural.

“You’re, welcome.”

Red Field waited for Flashpoint to say something else. The chilly pony set one hoof atop the other and looked out the window behind Red Field. He appeared to have forgotten Red Field. Far too uncomfortable to move, Red Field began to nibble away at his breakfast.

“Do you play chess private?” Red Field’s snout sported a line of vanilla yogurt as he looked up.

“Yes sir.”

“I noticed your Cutie Mark was a chess board. How you did earn it?”

“I was playing chess and it appeared. I don’t know when sir.”

“So, it IS related to chess. I had thought it might be some sort of abstract mark relating to your thought process.”

“Oh, well, actually that’s very close sir. I think in a very linear and systematic manner and I think my mark ties in very closely with the game of chess.”

“Would you mind playing me private?” Flashpoint slung his felt chessboard and box of pieces onto the table. The force knocked Red Field’s carton of yogurt onto his plate. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Said Flashpoint hastily.

“No no, I was done anyway.” Red Field pushed the tray away. He was both perturbed and relieved by Flashpoint’s sudden onset of friendliness. “I would enjoy playing you.” Red Field was startled by the speed with which Flashpoint set up the game. Flashpoint’s horn glowed and pulsed as he lined both rows of pawns, then worked inward from the rooks. In just under three seconds he’d placed both kings.

“White or black?”

“I don’t mind, I mean care- I mean you can choose.” Red Field said.

“I’ll play black then.”

Red Field had not played chess in several months. He was too nervous to recall his standard opening and he made several missteps in the early stages of the game. Flashpoint on the other hoof, played like he’d been practicing for the game, and Red Field found that notion less and less absurd as the game progressed.

Flashpoint waited for Red Field. He took trades, made a few advances, but shied away from demonstrating his plan of attack. He never looked up from the board and Red Field wondered if he ever saw Flashpoint blink.

Red Field won by a pair of stepped rooks. He didn’t say anything as he tried to inoffensively ease the small plastic tower into the corner of the mat, sealing the end of Flashpoint’s king. He didn’t dare say checkmate, or anything for that matter. He returned his hoof to his lap and sat looking at the board.

The end had been coming for a few moves and Flashpoint gave a little shake of his head.

“Checkmate.” He looked up at Red Field. “Good game.”

“Good game sir.” Red Field replied as good-naturedly as he could.

“You are certainly a talented player; would you mind giving me a rundown of the game?”

“I’m sorry.” Red Field was late by a minute and he got up from the table. “I have training.”

“I have spoken with Belligerence and asked him to give you another five or ten minutes this morning.” Flashpoint said. “Would you mind indulging me private?”

“Uh.” Red Field reseated himself. “No.”

He gave a rundown of the game to Flashpoint. Red Field was thoroughly perplexed as to what was going on while he demonstrated the intricacies of the game to the officer. He clumsily explained, as best he could, why he’d won. Flashpoint didn’t seem to notice that Red Field stumbled over his words or repeated himself a few times. When Red Field reached the last few moves, Flashpoint nodded.

“Yes yes, I think I see it now.” He paused, then started cleaning up the pieces. “Thank you for your time private. You may now attend your training. I appreciate your competition.”

“You are welcome sir.” Red Field moved to pick up his tray.

“Oh I got that.” Flashpoint pulled the tray toward himself. He looked up at Red Field and offered his misshapen smile.

“Good game.”

“Good game sir.” Red Field repeated uneasily.

Red Field didn’t know what to make of Flashpoint’s sudden geniality. Perhaps he was trying to coax a confession or a slip of words from a trainee on probation. That wasn’t the case; Flashpoint could have chosen to end Red Field’s career over his “compromise” with Barracks Thirteen. Red Field grew uncomfortable with the thought that he knew nothing about what Flashpoint had planned for their meeting.

Flashpoint couldn’t possibly have only wanted to play chess.

“Well, I wanted to start doing some harder shots today.” Said Belligerence as Red Field reached the chariot. “But if your C.O. has some official business to discuss with you then I guess we’ll work on that flinch some more.” He shrugged as they pulled into the sky, which was turning a light shade of pink from the rising sun. Flashpoint had told Belligerence their meeting was official business.
Red Field grew only more uneasy.

Red Field had fired so many rounds from the DMR and had become so accustomed to the gentle thud of the suppressed rifle in his shoulder that thought he saw his flinch reducing in his first several groups. All were an inch higher than usual and he grew excited at the prospect of actually hitting where he was aiming. He focused as hard as he could, paying close attention to imagine himself in the library back home, and fired the last five rounds.

“How did I d-”

“What’s your most prized possession in the world Red?” Red Field hesitated. Belligerence had been looking down the spotting scope.

“Uh, I don’t know that I have one Belligerence.” Said Red Field. Belligerence chewed his lip and adjusted his cap upon hearing this.

“I’ll bet you fifty bits you can’t hit where you’re supposed to.”

“What?”

Belligerence nodded and unzipped a pouch on the side of his rucksack. He took out a small tube of bills.

“You said your parents could use some money.” He slapped the bill down beside Red Field. “Fifty bits for every group of five you make. I’ll bring it up to a hundred for every round after ten you keep on target.” He set the rest of the money beside the spotting scope. “Think you’re up to the challenge?”

Fifty bits bought quite a few dinners for Red Field’s tiny family. A hundred could buy them a better home. Without another thought, Red Field knocked free the empty magazine and locked in another. Slinging back the charging handle, he drew the scope up into his view and stared at the distant target.

“Midlothian’s parents weren’t rich either.” Belligerence said as Red Field steadied himself. “First time that colt ever shot sub minute of angle was when I offered him twenty five bits for a group of ten.” He adjusted his cap. “You’ve got inflation and modern weaponry working for you Red.”

Red Field pressed off the first shot, then took a breath. He rubbed his neck and prepared for another shot.

“Okay then.” Belligerence said shortly. He walked over to Red Field and flipped the scope covers down. Leaning over the table, he looked down at Red Field with an expression of exhaustion. His cap slipped down to his snout and he pulled it off. “There aren’t a lot of things that matter to you, are there Red?” Red Field, who had just minutes prior felt optimistic about his progress, now shrank back.

“I’m sorry?”

“You want to go to that academy of magic in Cantorlot or some such, correct? That’s your plan if you make it here right?”

“Yes sir.” Red Field said quietly.

“Not going to be such a good plan if you aren’t a sniper and have no post here.” Red Field felt his cheeks starting to grow warm. “Right now I’m running out of carrots to hold in front of you to make your brain forget about a pain that doesn’t exist.” Belligerence pointed to the rifle. “This thing can do it, the ammo can do it; this shot is nothing for a sniper. I’m at the point where I think you’re going to need to pick up the responsibility for getting your skills to work.”

“Yes sir.” He was doing his best, why was Belligerence suddenly impatient with him?

“Good, now hit the dang target, and don’t jerk the shot because you’re afraid of something that isn’t there.” Belligerence stood and walked back to his table. He picked up the spotting scope. “Target two, hit it.”

Red Field felt his nose burn as he drew the scope up once more. He couldn’t stop the frown from creeping over his face and bending his mouth downward sharply. Belligerence had been so kind before, now he was as bad as Agent Orange. Had all of his kindness just been an act? He squinted at the pair of dotted lines before him and held their intersection over what he thought to be the center of the target.

Thud.

“What’s it going to take?” Belligerence was beside Red Field before he even had time to bring his sights back on target. The brown stallion stood on two hooves and pointed downrange. “That’s two hundred meters private, that’s less distance than I have to walk in the morning to get my breakfast. You’re shooting for a tuition worth tens of thousands of bits, and heck,” He tossed the tube of bills into the air, “a thousand bits of spending money. You’re taking a shot that wouldn’t stress a lot of experienced cloppers. How can you care that little about something?” Red Field could no longer look up at Belligerence and looked at the rifle. Belligerence shook his head. “The reason you didn’t get anywhere with any of the other posts is that you don’t have the will to finish a project. You only read a few books on guns and thought you could come-”

Red Field yanked the stock into his shoulder. He glowered at the scope and smacked open the covers of the lenses. He focused on a random target on the left side of the row.

Belligerence didn’t pick up his spotting scope; he didn’t move from Red Field’s side. He said nothing as Red Field forced the sights back down to the target.

Red Field held his breath. He wasn’t supposed to hold his breath. He was gripping the stock much too hard and that would probably pull him off target. He squeezed the trigger.

The scope barely moved. Red Field clutched the rifle so tightly that the weapon could barely muster enough force to press into the pocket of his shoulder.

“Let me see.” Said Belligerence. The next four rounds thudded from the suppressed DMR in the time it took Belligerence to return to his table and pick up the spotting scope. The casings tinkled over the scattered bits. Belligerence paused as Red Field let loose the rapid string of fire. Red Field let out his breath. His entire body had cramped from holding his breath for so long.

Belligerence steadied the spotting scope.

“I don’t see-”

“Third from the left.” Red Field said thru clenched teeth.

Belligerence counted along the line of ten targets.

“Well.” He looked up from the scope. “I’m glad I’m finally getting to know that personality of yours.”

Belligerence accompanied Red Field to the targets and helped him pull down the first nine.

As they took down the papers, Red Field glanced at his last target. A tiny honeycomb of five holes were scattered in the midst of the red circle in the center of the target.

The group was under two inches.

Joining Red Field at the final target, Belligerence pulled his cap off and squinted through the bright sunlight at the pony who’d told him to shut up.

“Every sniper I’ve ever known has had something that can turn on their focus, something that pulls them to make shots. I always cared about my buddies in the field. Midlothian said he fought for his fiancé. You’re a poor pony from a tiny town and you’re too young to have any real friends yet.” He pointed to the paper. “You know you did everything wrong when you were shooting this.” Red Field didn’t reply and Belligerence poked the center of the target. The red circle, shredded by five close holes, gave way and drifted into the air. “I’ve never seen anypony shoot a group like that, making as many fundamental errors as you. There is something you care about Red.”

They ended early that day. Red Field sat in the back of the chariot, his hooves folded in his lap.

“There’s a lot I need to teach you Red.” Said Belligerence. They flew over the trees of Macmillan forest and were greeted by a cool updraft from the shaded woods. “You still have a lot to learn about stalking and camouflage, which is quite a bit more important than punching out tiny groups on the range.” Belligerence slowed the chariot to a halt and they hovered over the trees. He turned to look at Red Field. “But today was important. What you showed me back there was much more than just ironing out a little flinch.” He chuckled. “In case you couldn’t tell. I tried to hit as many nerves as I could. A pony without drive doesn’t have any nerves. You have a lot of both. You shot your best group after I made you think I doubted you.” Belligerence started the chariot again. “It meant enough for you to want to prove it to me. Enough that your brain thought it acceptable to get clocked in the face with a scope to prove me wrong.”

“I suppose.”

“Red, you are bad at most everything until someone drives you into a corner and forces you to fight. That’s the impression I got from your performance at Beast.” Belligerence said. “You want things but you don’t believe in yourself. It’s only when you’re faced with humiliation, defeat, or resignation that you get confident.”

“So, if that’s true-” Red Field had never considered anypony’s impression of him, but Belligerence’s words caught him deeply.

“Red you need confidence.” They began to descend toward Gale Force. “You need to start getting your act together before it’s all or nothing. You have the ability, just make yourself understand you can use it whenever you want.”

He could think of several different reasons as to why he’d shot the group. Maybe confidence had a little relevance to his issues, but Red Field didn’t feel like everything had to do with confidence.

“All right, thank you.” He said as he climbed out of the chariot.

“Confidence Red, start working on that.”

“Yes sir.”

Red Field entered the barracks and greeted the bedridden Full Wing, who laid on his back, doodling into a notepad he’d found. Red Field climbed up on his bunk. His shoulder hurt from clutching the rifle.

Confidence. Every achievement in his life had been born of his outrage at being thought inept.
Fabricating Appleseed’s crimes.
Joining Gale Force.
Staying at Gale Force.
Joining the UAT.
Midlothian entered his mind.
Trying to get revenge on his instructor.
He’d passed UAT training. Months prior he’d been incapable of defending himself against an insect; now he was a member of the deadliest group of soldiers in Equestria.

Something was responsible for the change. That something had only come into play when he was pushed into a corner.
Belligerence was right. He could be just as able as any other stallion. It wasn’t a weak body or an overpowered mind that had made him different than the other stallions in his life.

He’d never been confident in himself.

All he needed was confidence. Up until that moment he’d only been confident out of anger. He needed to believe in himself all of the time.

He laughed aloud.

This misunderstanding of himself proved to be Red Field’s greatest mistake. Without exaggeration, I can say that if Red Field had known himself better, none of this would have happened. If Red Field had known his problem as well as he thought he did that afternoon, he’d have died in Mohs.

“Hey, what’s so funny?” Full Wing gave Red Field’s bed a little kick.

“Oh, nothing, just thinking on something funny.” He said. “How are you?”

“Psh, I’m fine dude.” Full Wing held up a vial of morphine. “Shit’s wack dude. This is my last one though, so I gotta make it count.” He giggled, his entire upper body jerking with his laugh.

Siplinski entered through the door, his hooves were coated with mud and he shook some leaves from his mane.

“Sweet, you’re back early.” He said, seeing Red Field. “Can you get the book? I want to finish our recap.” He turned on the sink and began to scrub his hooves.

“Uh, yeah.” Red Field dug the textbook out from under his mattress while Siplinski dried his hooves.

“I want to finish up that chapter so we can skip ahead to chapter twelve.” Said Siplinski.

“Well, most textbooks are written in sequential-”

“Oh I’ve read it don’t worry. The first few chapters are like that but if you know this one and the others before it, you can skip to twelve.” Siplinski jumped up onto his bed. “So, the two types of current are alternating and direct.” Red Field flipped open the book as Siplinski sat on his bunk. “Alternating is currently used in residential, commercial, and industrial applications. Currently, direct current is used in smaller electronics.”

“The current current is currently current with the other currents.” Said Full Wing loudly. Red Field and Siplinski had grown accustomed to his delirious banter.

“Yeah something like that.” Said Siplinski. “Anyway, alternating is basically just a cheaper way to send current a long way so that’s why it gets used more.” Siplinski looked to Red Field to see if he’d gotten this right.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Red Field turned the page.

“Now, alternating current is more dangerous, so there are a lot of precautions you need to take before you work on them.” Said Siplinski slowly.

“That is correct.”

Siplinski stabbed hoof into his pillow.

“Dude, I was born for this.” Red Field thought to mention something. Here was a time he could be more confident. He shouldn’t let fear of being a wet blanket keep him from giving Siplinski some help.

“You know, you will need to read a lot more books than just this one. This is just a primer.” He said gently. Siplinski nodded.

“Yeah I know dude, but like, I’m actually starting to get somewhere now.” He smiled. “Thanks to you dude.”

“Heh, well, you’re welcome.” Red Field smiled back as he saw his confidence rewarded.

“You two are soooo gay.” Full Wing shook Red Field’s bed. “Get a room.”

“Hey, why don’t you stick that shit in your neck already?” Said Siplinski.

“Dude, I was gonna save it for tonight, it’s my last one.”

“Oh.” Siplinski said quietly. “Sorry.”

“Butcha know what?” Full Wing kicked the metal support of the bunk. “Let’s do it now!” He flicked the tiny spear of the needle and poked it into his shoulder. He leaned his head back and took a deep breath. “Yolo, right?”

“So, chapter twelve.” Siplinski said, pointing at Red Field. “It’s about how big the wires have to be to support the different current loads and stuff.”

“Let’s start by using the correct language.” Red Field said, confidently.

“You’re the teacher!” Said Siplinski.

They worked through chapter twelve for an hour. Siplinski saw it was time for dinner.

“Shit.” Said Siplinski. “Wish we could just get some MSRPs for here.” Red Field felt a tinge of guilt at this. “I’m sick of listening to everypony in the mess hall.”

The news of the epic bet between tiny Barracks Six and juggernaut Barracks Thirteen spread around the base within the day. Many ponies sided with the oversized team of Thirteen, in part because many were members of Thirteen. However, just as many wished Barracks Six to win. The pathetic group consisting of a pony who talked too fast, an apathetic team leader, the base burnout who couldn’t make UAT in a thousand years, and a grounded Pegasus who was so offensively mismatched to Squad Thirteen that a sort of underdog aura surrounded them. They were all going to die, but maybe they’d pull off some impressive tactics.

Red Field was the only wildcard in the entire bet, and the focus had eventually drifted to him. He’d be a sniper, but no sniper could stop an entire squad alone. All predictions had him dying last.

The martyr and the pony who talked too fast entered the mess hall and slid their trays down the line and took their steaming piles of freeze dried clover to a mostly empty table. Their privacy was gone and they rarely ate alone.

“So, what kind of books should I look for?” Asked Siplinski as they seated themselves.

“Red, buddy! What’s going on?” Blue Streak galloped across the room to sit beside Red Field. “What’d you learn today in sniper school?”

Blue Streak would make a giant bet on the battle. Only he didn’t know who he would bet on. For the past few days he’d been inquiring of the instructors and tacticians of Gale Force Company on what a sniper could be expected to do.

“Not much, just did some shooting.” Red Field said.

“Psh, of course!” Said Blue Streak. “Are you learning like how to shoot like an entire group of guys in under a second?”

Confidence.

“Do you have something else to say or can you leave us alone?” Blue Streak raised his eyebrows, then gave Red Field a punch on the shoulder.

“Damn dude, this is new.” He pointed to Siplinski. “You should have seen this guy before he went UAT, don’t be surprised if this colt flips shit and kills you guys first.”

“I’d worry about him hunting you down first. Don’t forget you’ll be out there too.” Siplinski said.

“Hah, I’m not, that’s the thing. I got a job as a ref.” Blue Streak said.

“You’re sure that’ll stop him from looking for you?” Siplinski asked. Blue Streak became very still. He poked Red Field.

“Dude, you wouldn’t do that.” He said quietly.

“Do you have anything else to say?” Red Field asked. Blue Streak swallowed.

“No, just,” he got up, “no dude, good seeing you.” He backed away from the table and Red Field began to eat.

“Come back if you have anything else to say to him.” Siplinski called.

“You should get books on the basics of electrical stuff. If you don’t mind some overlap, a few introductory textbooks would have you really prepared for college.” Red Field said. “Thanks for that by the way.”

“Hell yeah.” Said Siplinski.

Red Field and Siplinski discussed how Siplinski ought to go about going to college for a time. A few other ponies came by their table to discuss their game plans and the pair cooperated a defense against them as well. Bren and Black Rain found them and the team had their first uninterrupted meal in some time.

That night, Red Field sank into sleep, savoring the rewards of just a few hours’ confidence.

“So, what makes you upset Red?” At three hundred meters, Belligerence’s questions grew larger. Red Field tried not to squint too hard at the target. He swallowed and the tiny reticule burning into his eye slowed around the center of the target.

Thunk.

“Hit, two inches high.” Said Belligerence.

“Not a lot of things. Unreasonable ponies I guess.” Red Field wiped his brow.

“You guess?”

Belligerence had noticed Red Field said he “guessed” about things he probably wasn’t guessing about. Belligerence specifically told his pupil that anytime he said he guessed about something that he’d have to take him at his word and disregard the statement.

“No sir, unreasonable ponies are truly something that upsets me.” Red Field said, shouldering the rifle again.

“Now that’s a common dislike for colts, and really nopony at all likes dealing with unreasonable ponies.”

Thunk.

“Two high, you know you’re shooting one-seventy-fives and not two-twenties?”

“Yes sir, sorry sir.” Said Red Field. Belligerence shook out his cap.

“Let’s let the barrel cool for a bit.” He pointed back into the bunker. “Water?”

As they took shelter from the desert heat, Red Field took a long draught from his canteen while Belligerence rifled through his rucksack.

“Unreasonable ponies.” Belligerence repeated. “Once again your vocabulary evades precision. I’ll take that to mean jerks.” He pulled a few spare magazines from the sack. “Good thing you chose the military, certainly don’t have a problem with them here.” He looked up and Red Field realized he was making a joke. Red Field laughed politely, then grew uncomfortable.

“I didn’t mean I have a real issue with it, I-”

“Red, I think it’d be good to stop putting disqualifiers on the things you say.” Belligerence pulled out a notebook from the bag and looked through it. He set it on the table and continued to root through the bag. “So far, the only consistent thing about you and your shadowy personality is that you don’t like making definitive statements about it.”
Confidence did not protect Red Field from embarrassment.

“Sorry sir.”

“So what kinds of unreasonable ponies have you dealt with in your life?” Belligerence took a thick book from his pack and set it beside the notebook.

“There were some brothers in my hometown. Apple family, they picked on me a lot.”

“You are the kind of pony who’d get picked on.” Belligerence said, sliding a pen from out of the pack. “Come over here.” Red Field walked over to the table. “Every good sniper needs cheats.” Belligerence flipped open the notebook. “We call them range cards though.” He looked at Red Field. “Were those colts one of the reasons you came to Gale Force?”

“Yes sir.”

“I see. Well, anyway, let me school you on range cards.”

Belligerence had yet to issue a formal evaluation of Red Field, or at least hint at one. He seemed content to probe, slightly annoy, then discard his conversations and return to teaching. Red Field wondered if this quality was native to all snipers, or if Belligerence was simply slipping into early senility.

Range cards did seem like a cheat. They were a clever idea: maps of a field of fire could exponentially expedite the process of accurately assessing the needed compensation for a shot.

Belligerence shared in Red Field’s enthusiasm.

“I was never really good at the 'rithmetic part of my three R’s,” Belligerence pointed to the first page of the notebook, which Red Field saw was a collection of all of his range cards, “at least, not when hamburgers are shooting at me.” He nudged Red Field. “This first one took me two hours to make. Didn’t even get to use it for anything.” He tugged out another notebook from his rucksack. The book was a light tan and its pages and cover were still firm and sharply edged. “This is yours.” Belligerence pushed it to Red Field. A pen was caught up in the spiral wire binding. “Use pen, don’t get used to easily fixed mistakes.” He pointed to the ladder on the wall opposite them. “Let’s head up to the observation deck. Grab the rifle.”

Red Field winced at the brightness as he followed Belligerence onto the roof of the bunker. They stood above the firing line and could now see over the berm. The vast burning waves of the desert stretched out all around them.

“You ever do any drawing Red?” Belligerence asked, taking a seat on a stone bench that faced out over the shooting range.

“No sir.”

“Well, looks like it’s another opportunity for that personality to come out.” He pointed out off of the deck. “There’s about thirty flags out there in the desert, all sorts of ranges.” He flipped off his cap and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Tossing it to Red Field, he leaned back in his chair. “That’s the key for what each of those flags stands for. Figure out the correct range for each of those flags, then mark down what they correspond to on your range card. Some of them are buildings, some are natural landmarks.” He laid his cap over his face. “Wake me up when you’re done.”

“Uh, sir.” Red Field had absolutely no idea how he should range the flags.

“There’s a formula on the page. Should be easy for you.” Red Field unfolded the page. His eyes went to the top of the paper.

D=(S/100)/milx1000.

“Flags are all two meters high.” Belligerence said, adjusting the cap on his face. “Mils are-”

“The dots in the scope.” Red Field said, a smile creeping over his face.

“There’s that personality.”

Red Field didn’t have any particular love for math, any more than other kinds of thought. Yet after months of constant physical exertion, Red Field couldn’t help his elation at the prospect of using the part of himself that mattered the most.
He spotted all thirty-three targets within a few minutes. He flipped open the notebook and looked down at the empty range card. He marked a tiny dot in the bottom center of the page to indicate himself. He paused, then drew an infinitesimal smiley face next to the dot. He picked up the rifle and drew his sights on the first flag. Resting the forend on a sandbag, Red Field carefully measured the tiny bowing pole from which fluttered a green flag. He marked down the range on the paper.
Math in intense heat was the most fun he’d had in a long time.

He ranged the other thirty-two flags in about twenty minutes. Slowly he filled up the range card with dots and numbers. The scope only gave a modest magnification and he had trouble making exact measurements. He made a few utilitarian icons and symbols for each of the objects, then stopped to survey his work. He’d marked everything and it looked fine. Red Field felt a little cheated, since he’d gotten less than an hour to think.

“You’ll need to learn to do this a bit faster.” Belligerence had risen from his chair and took the notebook from Red Field. “What’s this?” He pointed to one of the icons.

“That’s a stream sir.” Belligerence gave the notebook back to Red Field.

“Get some better icons, I want that personality to come out in them.” Red Field spent about ten minutes drawing a few superfluous details on the tiny marks, then called Belligerence back over. “That the best you can do?” Belligerence asked, studying the icons. He still hadn’t checked the accuracy of the measurements.

“Yes sir.” Red Field wanted Belligerence to see how accurate and fast he was at a task he’d only just learned, yet Belligerence only cared about the appearance of the icons.

“These are going to be the marks you use from now on.” He turned to one of the last pages in the notebook and pointed to an empty legend. “Are you sure those are the ones you want?”

“Yes, of course.” Red Field began to hastily fill in the legend with his symbols. He waited for Belligerence to check his numbers.

“Those colts that made fun of you, they must have really gotten to you.” Said Belligerence distantly.

“Uh, yes sir.” Said Red Field.

“All right, grab the rifle and let’s get back to shooting.” He turned away from the table and lifted the hatch. Red Field waited for him to say something. Belligerence grunted as he fit into the tiny chasm, then climbed out of sight. Red Field followed him, clutching his notebook with its accurate measurements.

Belligerence said nothing about the range card for the rest of the day.

Red Field liked Belligerence mostly. He didn’t condescend like so many of the ponies at Gale Force. He certainly didn’t apply obscenities and accusations of promiscuous homosexuality whenever Red Field missed something. He usually encouraged Red Field and the lesson on ranging marked the beginning of the thinking part of sniper training, which excited Red Field quite a bit. Overall Red Field found sniper training pleasant and Belligerence a good teacher.
But Red Field grew impatient with Belligerence. Certainly Belligerence knew a lot about being a sniper, and certainly it made sense to ask some probing questions about a candidate being groomed for a deadly profession. But Red Field grew tired of the listless conversations and hoped Belligerence would explain himself soon.

Red Field stopped by the mess hall to get something to drink. The cooks usually gave him a carton of juice and Red Field wanted to remove the taste of the tinny water from the bunker. In his confidence, Red Field learned that the cooks were very amiable persons if treated correctly and he called politely into the kitchen and asked if they had anything to drink.
Confidence net rewards daily.

Flashpoint exited the kitchen. He smiled as soon as he recognized Red Field.

“Private Red Field! Good to see you! What are you here for?”

“I’d like a drink sir, if that would-”

“Certainly!” Flashpoint ducked under the counter and rooted around through a refrigerator. “Is this okay?” He held out a chilled bottle of amber beer to Red Field.

“Er, yes sir.”

“I’m sorry, it’s the best we have.”

“No no.” Red Field twisted off the cap. “It’s fine.”

Flashpoint’s tilted smile appeared again.

“Just one moment please.” He poked his head back into the kitchen. “I’m through with the inspection. Everything is in order, make certain to keep the trays disinfected though.” He looked back at Red Field, who was trying to find a way to discard the beverage. “Are you free right now private?”

“Absolutely sir.”

“Would you mind playing me in another game of chess?”

“Of course not, that would be fine.” No amount of confidence would make Red Field say no to Flashpoint.

“Excellent! My set is in my quarters, would you join me?” Flashpoint walked around the counter and held the door for him. Red Field began to worry Flashpoint was hiding something.

He followed Flashpoint out of the mess hall. Rather than stick to his habit of walking at least five steps ahead of his companions, Flashpoint walked beside Red Field.

“How has your training been private?”

“Good sir, it’s been very accessible. Belligerence is a good teacher.” Red Field took a sip of the foul beer out of politeness.

“I am very glad to hear that.” Flashpoint stopped at one of the long, single story buildings of the officer’s quarters. He produced a key from the breast pocket of his uniform and unlocked the door.

“Please, make yourself comfortable while I dig out my set.”

The door opened to a single room. A short cot sat against one wall, its green fleece sheets in crisp folds. Three bookshelves, tall enough that the top two shelves required ponies to stand on two hooves to reach them, insulated the walls around the bed. On the wall opposite the bed stood three lockers, all painted a smooth olive green. The floor was a cheap pressboard like that of the other officers’ quarters, but swept clean and without stain. A small card table with a single chair sat on the left side of the room and Red Field seated himself.

“I notated our previous game.” Flashpoint began to enter the combination on the center locker. “I noticed you played a few inefficient moves.” He tugged at the lock. “Heh, if I can even remember my combination.” Red Field looked around as Flashpoint spent the next several seconds entering the correct combination. “Sorry about that.” He said, setting down the board and pieces. “Now, which color?”

About midway through their game, or as near to midway as Red Field could estimate since his opponent played like an insecure dictator and would often compromise himself at the most unexpected of times, Flashpoint cleared his throat.

“Why did you do that?” He pointed to Red Field’s pawn. “Isn’t that a poor advance?”

“Not really.” Red Field motioned to the knight beside it. “If I need to keep you off of my knight, this is the best option. I tend to play frugal defenses.” Flashpoint studied the pieces, then nodded as if he understood. He lifted his bishop, as Red Field guessed he would.

“I’m sorry.” He set the bishop back on its square. “I’d like to thank you for this, the game I mean.”

“It’s no trouble-”

“You know it’s a bit of an intellectual wasteland around here.” Flashpoint said, bearing the tilted smile. “It’s been quite some time since I played a game of chess with a good adversary.”

“Same.”

“You wouldn’t like to play again sometime would you?” Flashpoint asked. Red Field nodded.

“That would be all right.” Said Red Field. Flashpoint smiled and looked back to the game.

“Excellent.” He picked up the bishop and moved into Red Field’s trap.

Flashpoint said little else during their short game. He asked no questions as to why he’d lost and cleaned up the pieces after Red Field’s victory. He thanked Red Field and was replacing the set in his locker as Red Field exited.

“I lifted your probationary status.” Red Field had walked a few steps and he turned around in the tiny alleyway between the officers’ quarters.

“Oh, thank you.” Red Field said.

“No problem, I’ll let you know when I’m free to play again.” The last part of the sentence sounded like a question and Red Field nodded to display his agreement.

“Splendid.”

Red Field felt himself beginning to like Flashpoint. They’d had some difficulties in their initial acquaintance during Beast, but that was just due to the circumstances. Flashpoint was an intellectual pony, and he noticed Red Field was too. While he was a bit awkward, he was probably unused to interaction with ponies on his level of intelligence, Flashpoint was certainly a straightforward pony. As he returned to his barracks, Red Field wished a bit that Flashpoint, and not Belligerence, could teach him to be a sniper.

With just the two of them, Red Field could learn all he needed to know, probably quite a bit sooner than with Belligerence’s mysterious banter.

Red Field stopped outside of the barracks. His mane bristled.

Somepony was crying.

The sound was so quiet that a breeze from the woods would have washed it out. Red Field stayed motionless and tried to place the noise.
Soft whimpering drifted through the door and Red Field crept inside.

Full Wing sat up in his bed. His hind legs were pulled tightly against his chest. He kept one forehoof over his forehead, while the other pulled his legs closer. His eyes were shut tightly. Red Field closed the door behind him, not sure what he should do.

“Hey.” Full Wing’s eyes were swollen and a congealed impasto of mucus coated his blue nose. He coughed once and wiped his nose.

“What’s wrong?” Red Field asked.

“What’s wrong?” Full Wing gestured to his bandaged wing. Red Field hesitated and Full Wing threw a punch into the mass of bandages. Red Field ran toward him. “My fucking wing dude.”

“I could get some more painkillers.” Red Field said.

“I don’t want any damn painkillers.” Full Wing shouted. He punched the frame of the bed, shaking the entire bunk. “I can’t fly dude!” He huddled his limbs closer. Full Wing had probably just come down from the morphine.

“I’m sorry,” said Red Field, “what have the doctors said about a timeline for your recovery?”

“I can’t be in Airborne.” Full Wing started to shake with another wave of sobbing. “Their training is done in like a month.”

“You train over the winter and come back next year.”

“Yeah sure, yeah fuckin’ sure.” Full Wing swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “I’ll just wait another year, I’ll just wait another year.” He said feverishly. He pushed by Red Field, but the tape on his bandaged wing caught frame of the bunk. His cocooned wing extended fully and Full Wing cried out. Red Field reached to free him but Full Wing twisted away from him and knelt on the floor of the barracks, where then he began to cry harder. “I can’t fucking do anything right.”

“Well.” Red Field acted on instinct. “What do you mean?”

“What the hell does it sound like dude? I can’t do anything right. I-I got held back a year at my high school.” Full Wing closed his eyes and sobbed. “My dad made me feel like a fuckin’ piece of shit.” He curled into his knees. “I couldn’t get into any other colleges. Then we got the letter from this place.” He slammed his hoof into the concrete. “But now I had to be an idiot like always and I’m getting held back again and my dad’s going to make me feel like shit and I hate it. I hate my stupid fucking life.”

“I’m sorry about your father.” Said Red Field.

“So am I.”

“Mine’s like that too.” Said Red Field.

“Why would your dad be mad at you?”

“I couldn’t do what I wanted to do because we couldn’t afford it. I didn’t want to go into the career he wanted for me. I came here just to get away from him. My dad’s pretty shitty like that.”

“Did your dad divorce your mom because she was making his work life hard?” Asked Full Wing.

“No.” Red Field said softly. Full Wing sniffed again, snorkeling the mucus in his nose.

“I’m just not good at a lot of things and being in Airborne was like the best thing ever since I was actually getting somewhere.” Full Wing took a long breath, then let it out in a resigned sigh. “But now that’s fucked.” Tears dripped from his chin and he clenched his jaw. “And I’ll have to tell my dad and feel like the biggest loser ever.”

“You can find other occupations.” Red Field said. “There’s a lot to do here. You can easily-”

“Oh easy for you to say, you’ve got the best post ever and you’re really good at it. There’s nothing besides flying that I’m good at. I failed like all of the written tests for stuff.”

“There are positions that don’t require-”

“Dude, whatever.” Full Wing pulled his tears back with a sharp breath. “I need to get it together.” He labored to his hooves. “Those other guys will make fun of me for crying like a foal.” He swallowed and wiped his face. “God, I should just quit before they get back.”

“Don’t quit.” Said Red Field.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a good guy.” Red Field smiled. “You were very amicable to me during Beast, and I didn’t treat you very well. I’m sorry for that.”

“What’s amicable mean?” Full Wing asked after a moment.

“Friendly.”

Full Wing sat for a couple seconds. A thread of mucus dangled from his snout and he wiped it away. He sniffed once more.

“I’m going to wash off and pretend like I’m asleep when they get here.” He said, rising and walking to the sink. Full Wing washed, then hobbled back to his bunk. He seated himself across from Red Field. “I just feel so shitty when I think about all the stuff my dad says to me.”

“I’m sorry.” Said Red Field. “I’m not smart enough to get my own dad out of my head, let alone give you advice with yours.”

Full Wing smiled.

“You’re a good guy Red. Thanks for being amicable.”

“I owe you that,” said Red Field, “after how I acted during Beast. I’m still not used to-”

“This’ll sound really pathetic but you’re my best friend. Like, if you’d quit during Beast, I probably would have too. I couldn’t act like such a pussy in front of anypony else.”

“That, means a lot.” Said Red Field. “I haven’t heard that from anypony before.”

“Don’t ever become an asshole like Black Rain.” Said Full Wing. Red Field laughed, and in a moment, Full Wing laughed too.

They sat in silence for a bit, then Full Wing laid back down in bed. Red Field’s nose burned a little, which he found odd.
Siplinski entered the barracks in a few minutes.

“Yo, who’s here?” He asked.

“I am, so is Full Wing.” Red Field said, setting his notebook of range cards on his lap.

“Hey.” Siplinski said to Full Wing’s bedded form. “You awake?”

“No, he found another two vials of morphine and passed out after taking them.” Red Field said. “I wouldn’t wake him, morphine makes you have some pretty weird dreams, and patients sometimes freak out if they’re awoken from opioid-induced sleep.”

“Whoa, really?”

“Yeah, it’s basic pharmacology.” Red Field held up Siplinski’s textbook. “Hey, do you want to go over that vocab test?”

“Hell yeah!” Siplinski dove under his bed and rooted around for his notebook. Red Field looked over at Full Wing. He felt proud to be a best friend covering for another friend.

Next Chapter: Chapter 15 Estimated time remaining: 8 Hours, 25 Minutes