Team One won.

Full Wing had been caught and dispatched by the other Pegasus before he’d managed to alert the outpost atop hill eight. The team who had attacked Barracks Six had been a raiding party from Barracks Thirteen, and they had taken the hill. They’d received quite a bit of congratulation, from both commanders, on the victory.

Red Field had spoken to Flashpoint, and was finishing out the next day of training, then quitting Gale Force. After quite a bit of arguing, Blue Streak had won his bet: most accounts of Red Field’s death involved the phrase “crying like a bitch”.

However the alleged “crying like a bitch” had not been verified by all present witnesses and despite the character witnesses (including Black Rain) who had testified that Red Field was in fact, a bitch, the case fell through.
Red Field had finally stopped caring about what his parents would think.

Rockvale was better than Gale Force.

The morning of his last day dawned brightly. Red Field awoke early, he wasn’t sleeping well anymore, and walked to the mess hall. Another pony, coming from the section of the base near the chariots, was heading to the hall as well. Red Field recognized Site, the weapons pony. The tan unicorn entered after Red Field.

Flashpoint was waiting inside of the hall. He and Red Field had grown accustomed to seeing each other in the early hours, and they passed one another without acknowledgement. Site and Flashpoint greeted one another, then departed, leaving Red Field by himself in the quiet dining area.

Red Field tried to go back to sleep. The illness had intensified since the previous day and he felt utterly spent. His body was finally breaking, on his last day. He didn’t care if he was sick for a month when he got home, he would be away from Gale Force.

At breakfast, Agent Orange, who appeared to be very happy to have won the war game, informed the cadets that they’d be following him to the weapons orientation directly after breakfast. Blue Streak and his friends alternated between conversing over the game, and the anticipated weapons they’d be handling. Nopony said anything to Red Field, which suited him fine.

The morning was already uncomfortably hot, and no wind blew as the excited cadets exited the mess hall. Agent Orange led them not into the forest per norm, but instead to the mass of parked chariots sitting inside the fenced enclosure beside the mechanic shop.

“Pile into one of these, no more than eight of you fatasses to a chariot.” Agent Orange said. “You don’t want to drop out of the sky!” Agent Orange had never joked without insulting anypony. He was truly pleased to have won the war game.

The cadets jumped and mounted the chariots in just a few seconds. Red Field, who had been walking sluggishly, found himself standing alone in the field of filled vehicles. A few cadets jeered down to him.

“Cadet! Over here! We’re not waiting for anypony!” Agent Orange called from a chariot several meters away. Red Field clopped over and thoughtlessly shuffled aboard.

“Take a seat cadet.” Red Field looked up and saw Flashpoint seated inside the chariot. With him was Flashpoint, Site, an old brown pony who Red Field had never seen before, and Agent White. The old pony sat against the side of the chariot, beside Agent White.

“We’re good to go!” Called Agent Orange. The chariot lurched off of the ground and the cadets took to the sky. They flew for about ten minutes and in that time, Agent White turned to talk with the brown pony. The pair conversed about the weather, the fitting of horseshoes, and other old pony things. Red Field was glad Agent Orange was piloting, as he would have no doubt made some comment about the battle. Flashpoint stood mutely beside Agent Orange and Red Field tried to get some rest as they flew.

They touched down somewhere warm, very warm.
Red Field, who had managed to build a little drowsiness, felt a hot breeze blow against his face and rouse him. The chariot sank a little as it landed, and Red Field poked his head over the side of the vehicle.

All around them lay sand. Red Field felt the breeze hit his face again and bring a soft sprinkle of sand along with it. They had landed in the desert surrounding Neighara Falls. Red Field saw the other chariots touching down around them, and the equally confused cadets peering over the sides. Agent Orange pushed Red Field aside and jumped down into the desert.

“Cadets! Follow me.” He said. “You don’t want to get left behind.” He began to march in a direction leading to nowhere. Agent White, Site, and the brown pony all disembarked past Red Field. The brown pony looked up at Red Field.

“Coming son?” He asked. Red Field nodded.

They marched for a quarter of an hour, just long enough to make everypony sweaty and empty their canteens. Red Field trudged behind the brown pony, who didn’t seem to notice the heat at all. The excitement of the cadets was starting to die off as they came to a concrete bunker amidst the waves of sand. Site walked ahead and unlocked the bunker. The group stopped and waited. In a minute, Site poked his head out and told Agent Orange they were ready. Agent Orange then turned to face the group.

“Cadets! From here on out, you will not touch, manipulate, or otherwise dick with anything you see unless given orders to. These are the most advanced weapons in all of Equestria and can kill anything instantly no matter what pony is using them. Do you understand?” The cadets shouted they did and followed him into the bunker. Red Field felt his sweaty skin crawl as he passed into the shadowy cave of the building.
The bunker was filled with crates and boxes, but the lighting was so dim that Red Field couldn’t make out any of the markings. He followed the group to another door, from which bright sunlight poured. Red Field stepped through the door onto an odd patio of sorts. The concrete floor continued to some odd tables that sat under a concrete overhang. Past the tables lay a long stretch of flattened desert. Wooden stands holding papers printed with bulls-eyes stood at intervals along the stretch. Red Field blinked, something seemed very familiar about the layout of the demonstration area.

“Cadets, attention!” Shouted Agent Orange. Red Field tensed along with the rest of the group. They heard hoofsteps behind them, and Agent Orange walked through them and towards the benches. He carried a thick plastic case about a meter long. “You are no doubt wondering what Gale Force Company carries as their weapons, being that we are the finest military unit in all of Equestria.” He unclicked the case and swung open the top. The frozen ponies peered at what appeared to just be a block of black foam, then Agent Orange lifted it from its case.

A part of Red Field was confused, a part of him was intrigued, and much of him was afraid of how the weapon had come to Gale Force. Agent Orange pulled the rifle from the case and set it atop the table.

“Cadets, this is the ST-49c. The finest rifle in all of Equestria.” Everypony except Red Field stared stupidly at what looked like a black polymer stick with several places to grip. With all of the pleasure that came from wielding such a powerful firearm, Agent Orange racked back the charging handle and opened the action. The metallic click-clack inexplicably delighted all of the cadets and Agent Orange carefully held the weapon up for the ponies to see.

“This is our main battle rifle.” He looked down at the rifle. “Shorter barrel so it’s easier to pack.” He looked up at the cadets. “We call her Kitty Kat, or KKAT for short.” He set the rifle on its stock atop the table. “And you guys get to learn all about her.”

Red Field sat through an hour and a half of repetitive and simplified learning on firearms.

Though Red Field had never actually seen the ST-49c, he could tell by the design that it was an offshoot of the first of the “Storm Rifle” series. The barrel was much shorter than the original Storm Rifle and nearly every part of the rifle was made of polymer; the ST-49c was certainly a modern weapon.

According to Agent Orange, KKAT was bulky, tedious, and a lot longer than it needed to be. He complained of her many areas of fault, and made certain to tell the cadets of her “god awful mag release that didn’t even drop mags free”. However the cadets experienced love at first sight with the rifle. The beguiling right angles and sharp edges of Kitty Kat enticed them and they were fighting one another to hold the first rifles.

At first, Agent Orange seemed to near the end of his patience as he handed out training rifles. Despite constant warnings and anecdotes about guys who got fucked up, nearly every cadet felt the need to peer down the muzzle of KKAT at least once. Another instructor named Ludus joined Agent Orange, and together they combated the inherent stupidity of the cadets.

Finally, Red Field reached the front of the line and Agent Orange shoved a dummy rifle at him.

“Clear it, safe it.” Said Agent Orange tiredly. Red Field, having studied the diagrams of proper manipulation for all of five minutes, knocked free the magazine with a bat from his hoof, racked back the bolt, twisted the safety and displayed it to Agent Orange. Agent Orange blinked as if he weren’t sure he’d just seen the demonstration. He nodded to continue and Red Field clicked in a new magazine, dropped the bolt via the release(which had yet to be explained or even mentioned) and disengaged the safety. He waited as Agent Orange looked over the rifle.

He caught a faint “sonofabitch” from Agent Orange.

“Well, okay, yeah, that’s it.” Said Agent Orange. Red Field nodded and walked back to the benches that jutted from the wall of the bunker. He watched in quiet amusement as a large cadet caught his hoof in the path of the bolt and yelped in pain.

In time, all of the cadets managed to demonstrate the basic manipulations of the ST-49c, and recite the basic rules of safe firearms handling, as well as Agent Orange’s personal axiom of “dumbasses are the most dangerous enemy we face”.

Finally, it was time to "make the range hot." Donning earmuffs that were did not appear to have been properly sanitized at any point in their existence, as well as scratched and instantly fogged safety glasses, the cadets all crowded around one of the benches as Agent Orange prepared to fire. The range grew deadly quiet as the cadets watched Agent Orange press a few rounds into the magazine and insert it into the firearm. Despite his knowledge of the rifle, Red Field felt goose bumps along his neck as Agent Orange shouldered the weapon and set it to fire. Everypony, even Red Field, was spellbound by the impending gunshot.

The rifle gave a loud thump that reverberated through the porous concrete and fleshy bodies of the ponies around it. The clink of the casing falling to the ground surprised the enraptured cadets. After a moment, Agent Orange fired again. This time the shot was met with a few shouts, and somepony professed to a boner. Without warning anypony, Agent Orange silently clicked the weapon to automatic and drew up for a burst. Red Field noticed this and braced himself. The rifle sent out an outraged string of roaring thumps and a few sparks shot from the flash hider. Most of the cadets jumped back or cowered away to this. Red Field felt a secret sense of pride to stand his ground.
Agent Orange turned to the cadets.

“This ain’t no tickle spell!” He said with a grin.

Weapons orientation turned out to be everypony’s favorite day.

After reviewing the safety rules once more, and taking a look at a few gel blocks which had been ripped apart by the rounds of Kitty Kat, Agent Orange, Ludus, and Site set up each table with a rifle. The crowd of cadets murmured with fright and excitement. Both everypony and nopony wanted to be first. Finally, Agent Orange turned the waiting shooters.

“Those of you who demonstrated the best knowledge of this weapon go first.” He pointed to a few random ponies, and then Red Field. “Get up here and some ‘em how it’s done.”

Red Field rose and walked toward an open table. He was strangely terrified of the carbine before him. Seating himself beside it, Red Field waited for the order to fire.

“Okay, loaded up and aim for those one hundred meter targets.” Said Agent Orange. Red Field heard the other cadets eagerly click their magazines into place and cycle their actions. Red Field fumbled a little locking his magazine into place. With trembling hooves he set the weapon to fire and curled his foreleg so his hoof pressed against around the trigger.

Drawing the stock to his shoulder, Red Field felt the oiled surface of the comb against his cheek. He squinted down the tube of the sight. The red dot bobbed and twitched as he tried to steady it on the miniscule bulls-eye. He looked away from the rifle and up at Site, who was standing beside him.

“What’s the weight of the trigger?” Red Field asked. Site raised an eyebrow.

“Five and a half pounds, single stage.” He said, sounding impressed at the question. Red Field nodded and again looked down the sight. One of the other cadets fired and Red Field jerked at the resounding thump. A few ponies cheered. Agent Orange looked down a long monocular.

“Uhh, hit, five inches low, three to the right.” He called. Red Field wiped some perspiration from his forehead. The next pony fired and Red Field flinched again. Agent Orange called out the hit. Red Field thought of something else.

“Is this zeroed for a hundred?” He asked Site.

“Yeah” Site answered, becoming impatient with Red Field. “Now fire.” Red Field swallowed and turned back to the rifle. He looked down the sight. The thick red dot was unspeakably irritating as it jumped and jittered inside the metal tube of the sight. Red Field tried in vain to freeze the dot, but it seemed determined to leap playfully around the target.

“Cadet! You’re holding everypony up! Take your damn shot!” Shouted Agent Orange. Red Field gave up trying to take a well-aimed shot and began to squeeze the trigger. Red Field had read in one of the books of the proper way to fire a firearm, and now he attempted to put each of the fundamentals of marksmanship to practice.
The rifle thumped. The stock popped out of his shoulder and the entire rifle jumped backward. The sight snapped into Red Field’s snout, sending a sharp sting through his head.
Red Field dropped the rifle and instinctively stood up from the table, clutching his injured snout. The rifle, unattended and unsteadied, tipped off the table and fell to the concrete with a clatter. He heard several boos and angry cries from the cadets. Red Field was still reeling from the blow to his snout and he was too dizzy to react.
Site knelt and recovered the fallen weapon.

“Sorry sir.” Red Field said dazedly. Site shrugged.

“Eh, it’s fine.” Site said. The hit had disoriented Red Field and he walked back to the benches to take a seat. A few ponies told him his nose was bleeding and he saw that he’d left a little trail of rich blood along the dusty grey concrete. Not knowing what else to do, he pinched his nose and took his seat.

“Hit.” Said Agent Orange. “Two inches low.” He said in a low voice, as if he had trouble believing the fairly accurate shot to have been made by the bleeding little unicorn. “All right! Next three come on up!” Red Field, thoroughly uninterested in his result, tried to remember if he held his head back or forward for a bloody nose. Thankfully, Agent White brought him a first aid kit and helped him stifle the bleeding.

The instructors took about fifteen minutes to cycle all of the cadets through their first round. As the stun from being struck in the snout wore off, Red Field began to take more interest in how close his shot had been to the bulls-eye. He had been two inches low? In the first round of shooting, Red Field was the closest to the target. Some small part of him felt proud of this. This pride was compounded by the surprised looks and exclamations of his fellow cadets; for once he was the best at something.

However things went downhill quickly on his next turn. Agent Orange ordered all seven ponies on the line to fire an entire magazine into the target. Red Field tightened up for his first shot, making certain that he’d secured the rifle this time. The rifle thumped, but he muscled it down and kept his snout safe.
“Hit.” Called Agent Orange. “Five inches low, six to the right.” Red Field’s heart dropped. How had he missed? He tightened up for another shot. This time he missed the target entirely. His momentary elation crumbling, Red Field did everything in his power to bring the tiny dot onto the dead center of the target. The rifle thumped back into his shoulder and once more the scope stuck him in the face. His already broken nose throbbed and Red Field whimpered aloud. He stood again and Site made sure to grab the rifle.

The gunsmith asked for some paper towels, and Red Field saw that a few drops of blood from his reinjured snout had gotten onto the stock and were trickling down the lower receiver. He stammered his apologies to the armorer as Agent White told him to hold his head back. Red Field’s eyes were watering as he heard Agent Orange call out. “Hit, five low, eight right.”

Red Field never came closer than five inches to the target that day. He tried several more times, but grew progressively worse. The other cadets soon acclimated to the weapons and were soon grouping five to six inch circles around the bulls-eye. Red Field sat miserably though a demonstration of burst and automatic fire from Ludus and unhappily took his turn emptying a magazine at a target. At least on automatic he averaged like everypony else. But before long, everypony knew that Jesus pony was the worst shot in the entire company. Though at this point nopony, least of all Red Field, felt any great surprise at this.

“Final shot.” Called Agent Orange. “You guys are going out to the two hundred meter targets.” He held up his clipboard.

“Don’t forget that today is still a test, so some of you guys are going to get sent home if you don’t make this shot.” Red Field waited until it was his turn to fire. Stepping up to the table,, he slumped down and pulled the rifle toward him. On his turn, Red Field aimed, fired, then set the rifle down.

“Miss.” Called Agent Orange. “Oh actually,” he counted under his breath for a second, “seven inches low and eight to the right. Just barely nicked the page.”

“Hey, it’s okay dude.” Red Field hadn’t noticed the pony next to him. It was the same pony who had mock-killed him in the game. “Not everypony is good at this.” He said. He turned to his rifle and steadied for his shot.

Thump.

Miss.

The Pegasus left his seat without a word. Red Field stood and followed after him.

Nopony hit the two hundred meter target. Red Field had technically come the closest, but still failed. Agent Orange shook his head and said it was normal. Red Field’s entire face ached and his nose was clogged with blood. He was flaking with sweat from the scorching desert wind and his body was stiff from trying to hold the rifle still. Flashpoint now took center stage and read from a clipboard.

“Anypony on this list, get your things when you get back to base and follow me to the transport.” Flashpoint called. “Patriot Missile, Enfield, Orlite, and Red Field. Now everypony head back to base.” Red Field stood up and shuffled back through the bunker with the other ponies. As they passed through the bunker, a door on their right opened. Somepony clomped down a flight of stairs and out of the doorway. They passed through the crowd and a few ponies tried to make out who it was. Flashpoint called for everypony to halt. They stopped. Flashpoint and somepony were talking in low tones. Everypony waited.

“Last shooter. Lane six.” Said Flashpoint. “Cadet Red Field!” Said Flashpoint. “Please assist gunnery sergeant Belligerence in cleaning the range.” Red Field sighed and stepped out of the group. His eyes had adjusted a little and he saw Flashpoint point back toward the entrance to the shooting range.

Red Field’s eyes were once more burned by the bright sands of the Neigheran Desert. The sun had fallen partially and the dunes were beginning to molt golden. Site and Ludus were collecting and casing the rifles as they conversed. Red Field looked for the gunnery sergeant.

“Hello there.” The sergeant was the same old, brown pony who Red Field had flown with. He was sitting on one of the shooting benches. He wore a faded green army cap and rose to his hooves with a grunt. “Hope you don’t mind giving me a hoof with taking down the targets.” He said with the geniality of an old pony who didn’t know what ponies did and didn’t mind.

“Yes sir.” Red Field said. The brown pony led him past the tables and out from under the enclosure. The warm fluid of the sand drew up to Red Field’s fetlocks and he felt the heat soak into his hooves as he followed behind Belligerence. They reached the one hundred meter line, and Belligerence motioned for Red Field to start on the left side.

Red Field pulled down the first target. It had a series of six millimeter holes scattered in a large circle pattern around the bulls-eye. He reached the next one and saw that its circle was substantially smaller.

This pony could shoot very well, despite not knowing anything about guns.

The patterns varied, but all were substantially better than what Red Field had produced. The heat had already coated Red Field in another uncomfortable layer of sweat and as he took down each reminder of how much better every other stallion was than him, Red Field despaired more and more. Belligerence had only taken down one target and was standing at the second target from the right. He had clearly been waiting for Red Field to arrive.

Belligerence wore a sort of smug smile and pointed to Red Field’s target.

“This yours?” He asked. Red Field nodded. “Looks like the scope got you good.” Said Belligerence with a chuckle. “I imagine you must have been flinching pretty good after that.”

“Yes sir.” Red Field said, trying to keep from crying. Belligerence pointed to the first hole two inches below the target.

“That’s a nice one.” He said. They waited as Belligerence looked at the target and Red Field looked at his hooves as he tried to blink away the tears. Belligerence pulled the target down. “Let’s get those last ones.” He said, starting for the two hundred meter line. Red Field followed after him. Once at the two hundred yard line, Belligerence started to laugh. His laugh was quiet, shaking and sardonic.

“Not a single hit.” He grinned and turned to Red Field. “I imagine we can reuse these.” Red Field nodded and began to take down the unharmed papers. Belligerence was once more standing at Red Field’s target. This time he pointed to the single hole at the bottom of the page. “That wouldn’t do much to ‘em.” He said. “Maybe pop their hooves.” Red Field nodded, he was looking away now, because his eyes were beginning to blur.

Belligerence cleared his throat.

“How’d you get your mark son?” He asked. A tear ran down Red Field’s face as he spoke.

“Chess sir.” Belligerence “hmm’d” in thought.

“What do you weigh?”

“A hundred and twenty two kilograms.”

“That’s about what I guessed. I bet you fit well in tight spaces. Guys ever use you to sneak into the PX?”

“Yeah, I don’t know.” Red Field’s throat closed and he shook his head. Belligerence noticed this and took Red Field by the shoulder.

“Son, it’s not professional to-”

“I’m sorry!” Red Field said. He sobbed. The tears were running down his cheeks and face and his snout was bleeding again. “I know I’m bad at everything and I’m weak and small and I’m not a soldier.” The last of last resolve broke and he didn’t care what the old pony thought of him. “I know I messed this up and I’m quitting today and this was my last fail so who gives a shit?”

This did not appear to be the response that Belligerence expected. The old pony looked over Red Field, who was both crying and trying to swallow down the mucus and blood that filled his throat.

Finally, Belligerence spoke.

“So why are you here son?” He asked, pursing his lips and squinting at Red Field.

“Because my parents don’t think I can do anything but read and think about things. I joined this stupid academy to try and prove them wrong.” Red Field said, his voice shaking with despair and anger. Belligerence took no note of Red Field’s distraught state. “Guess I was wrong.”

“So you’re a bit of a thinker then?” He asked. Red Field nodded. Belligerence let out a long breath from pursed lips and adjusted his hat.

“Well son, I’m not very good about disguising my intent, so I’ll come out and say it: Agent White sent me your records and I want to offer you a job.”

Red Field wiped some blood from his nose.

“What?”

“Sniper.”

Of all of the books on firearms that Red Field had read, only one had mentioned snipers. A passage describing various longer barreled iterations of the Storm Rifles had mentioned snipers making use of the more accurate and longer barreled rifles. Red Field hadn’t bothered to look up what a sniper was and just assumed the definition was something along the lines of a marksman. Marksmen were just ponies with better aim that tended to win shooting competitions; Red Field hadn’t thought enough about it to wonder about the distinction between the two terms.

Belligerence flew Red Field back to base. The sun was beginning to set, and the dunes became a beautiful ochre. Belligerence had given Red Field a small handkerchief to wipe his nose with.

“Lotta guys have funny definitions of just what a sniper is.” Belligerence said as they started to fly over Macmillan forest. “Nearest I can say is that a sniper, well, a real sniper- is a little more careful, a little quieter, a lot more focused than the guys he’s fighting.” He turned and looked over to Red Field. “You ever play hide and seek?”

“No sir.”

“You like quiet places?” Red Field said he did and Belligerence nodded approvingly. “Lotta ponies have the wrong idea of what a sniper’s job is: it’s about seventy percent crawling and maps, twenty percent numbers, five percent miscellaneous and five percent shot.” He was quiet for a few moments. “It’s always hard finding candidates for this job. Most of ‘em just want to go out blasting.” They traveled the rest of the distance in silence, as Red Field tried to clean his tearstained and puffy face.

They touched down beside the rest of the chariots and Belligerence helped Red Field out of the chariot.

“How about you eat dinner with me?” Asked Belligerence. “Got a pot of mashed potatoes and some fresh greens burning a hole in my crisper.” Fresh food sounded wonderful and Red Field didn’t want to eat at the mess hall and let the other cadets see that he’d been crying.
He trailed closely behind Belligerence.

“What’s your family like?” Asked Belligerence as he led Red Field through the base.

“I’m an only child, my parents are farmers, in a little town called Rockvale.”

“Oh I know Rockvale. An old friend of mine delivers mail to there and a couple other towns nearby. Would you happen to know a pony by the name of Westinghouse?” Asked Belligerence. Red Field had no idea who delivered Rockvale’s mail.

“No, sorry.”

“Well that’s all right.” Said Belligerence. They came up to another small house, this one was much smaller and sat behind the mechanical shop; Red Field hadn’t even noticed it before. The walls were a light shade of blue and a small flowerbed sat below one of the windows. The house looked like the sort of place that an old and lackadaisical pony would enjoy whittling in.

Red Field followed Belligerence up the stairs of the small porch and into the house. The house had only two rooms on the first floor and a small staircase lead up to a minuscule bedroom.
Before Red Field was a living room with a single rocking chair, some squat bookcases stuffed full of nameless books lining the walls, and a chess set atop a small coffee table in the middle of the room. On the other side of the living room was a little kitchen. The house smelled like wood varnish and newspaper.

Belligerence told Red Field to wipe his hooves and help him set the table.

“Plates are in there.” Belligerence pointed to a cupboard. “So are cups.” He said, setting a pot on the stove.

Red Field was still confused about exactly what was going on as he sat across from Belligerence. But despite his uncertainty about the nature of the meeting, Red Field, and particularly his stomach, found the steaming mound of mashed potatoes and washed greens to resonate with him. He tried to be polite, but after weeks of reconstituted swill from Beast, he was wolfing down the meal on ravenous instinct.

Belligerence said nothing about this.

“Looking at your training performance, I can see you’re not one for heavy lifting.” Belligerence said. “But you crawled through that trench in the Long Crawl just fine.” Red Field nodded as he gulped down his water and refocused on his plate. “And you’re squared away as far as the bookwork is concerned.” That was an understatement, but Red Field was too focused on his food to take serious note. Belligerence saw that the conversation was not going to go anywhere, and he waited for Red Field to finish.

Red Field’s undersized belly was stuffed, and he felt a satisfied sleepiness coming over him. Belligerence cleaned up the kitchen while Red Field watched the last rays of the sunset sink down the window above the sink. The older pony finished putting the last dish away and sat back down at the table with a groaning sigh. They sat in silence. Then Belligerence looked up at Red Field.

“What do you like to do most?”

“Study I suppose, I like to read, think on things.” The meal had ingratiated Red Field to the odd old pony and he felt comfortable with being honest.

“What do you think of Equestria?” Belligerence asked.

Red Field had no idea how to answer.

“Uh, it’s a great country. I like the diversity of our environments.”

“You know we border two countries, and have a third beneath us?” Asked Belligerence. Red Field knew of the Crystal Kingdom, as well as the scattered Gryphon provinces off the coast, but he wasn’t certain of the third. “Diamond dogs.” Said Belligerence. “Under the mountains about a hundred miles from here.”

“Oh yes, I think I’ve read something about that.” Red Field said quickly. He wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but he hated looking ignorant.

“Uh huh.” Belligerence said slowly Red Field grew very uncomfortable as the slouched old stallion watched him. Belligerence seemed to break out of his concentration. “Almost forgot, got one more thing to show you.” He leaned over to a light switch that sat above his sink and flicked it. A bright storm light shone through the window and Belligerence brought Red Field to a sliding glass door that led into the backyard of the home.

The sky was growing dark and a cool breeze blew over the gravel, stirring some dust. A cellar door was built into the side of the house and Belligerence requested help opening it. The two heaved the wooden doors open.

“Watch your head.” Belligerence said as he descended into the darkness. Red Field felt his skin begin to crawl as he stepped into the yawning black stairwell. The old stallion muttered to himself as he fumbled for a light. Belligerence tugged the dangling cord of a light and the room lit up before Red Field.

A wooden table covered in nicks and scratches stood in the center of the room. Shelves covered in tools and various pieces of machinery hung from the walls, along with a few cabinets. A grey locker sat in a corner, and Belligerence was squatting under the table and tugging at a long rectangular case.

Red Field’s heart missed a beat; a shapeless furry hide hung from the wall to his right. Arms and legs dangled limply down from a mass of brown and green. Red Field saw that the object was not animate, but his unease continued as he tried to identify what he looked at.
Belligerence grunted as the case scraped over the concrete.

“Gimme a hoof son.” He said, struggling to lift the case. Red Field, still wary of the unsettling skin on the wall, knelt on the other side of the case and lifted. It didn’t weigh very much and they set it atop the table. Belligerence let out a long sigh and adjusted his hat, which he had donned again. He turned to Red Field.

“Official job description of a sniper is a pony with a CAT score of at least 33, smaller build, can’t be over a hundred and sixty kilos and has to be a unicorn. Job requires training in stalking, camouflage, and extensive observation. Needs to be able to work alone and for long periods of time.” Belligerence produced a worn steel key and unlocked the case. “Official duties include reconnaissance, information gathering, mostly scouting.” He eased open the case. “And when things go south: elimination of high value targets, convoy protection, and occasionally taking out a lot of hamburgers in a short period of time.”

He lifted an old rifle from the case.

The gun looked nothing like a Storm Rifle, and to Red Field it looked like an antique. The rifle had no sharp edges or lines, only a few gradual curves and swells. The stock was a worn wood plank that had been smoothly carved and finished into a bed for a small receiver with worn bluing. The barrel had no aggressive muzzle brake or even threading. The rifle was a smooth and graceful contrast to the vicious and black image of the ST-49c. Sitting atop the rifle was the only part of the gun that Red Field recognized: the long black tube of a scope.

“Usually use something like this to do the job.” Belligerence said, opening the action and looking inside. “This was mine.” He said, holding the rifle out to Red Field. Red Field took the gun. It felt smooth in his hooves and he brought it to his shoulder. The rifle molded to him. The wood of the comb pressed into his cheek and the checkered wood locked into his forelegs. It felt a thousand times more comfortable than Kitty Kat. Red Field saw the thin lines of a basic crosshair within the scope.

“Most cadets think our best weapon is the belt-fed forty millimeter.” Said Belligerence. “But when you’re going up against someone with one of these, in the woods, in the city, anywhere. When he knows everything about his gun, and the land, and you. Well, there aren’t many things scarier than that.” Belligerence took a breath, then let it out. “Soldiers pull triggers, snipers take shots.” Red Field lowered the rifle. “Son, you look like a sniper. I was watching your little shootout down there.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his breast pocket, it was the edge of Red Field’s two hundred yard target. He pointed to the small nick. “You were compensating for a hundred meter zero, but you’ve never shot a gun before.” He tossed the paper onto the table. “I heard you ask our gunsmith about trigger pull. How does a pony who’s never shot a gun know about pull weight?”

“I read some books sir, back in my hometown.” Red Field said. Belligerence chuckled.

“Heck of a memory.” He looked at the rifle in Red Field’s grip. “Snipers are the deadliest ponies we have.” He said quietly. “And it’s far too dangerous to consider giving the job to some joker who’ll lose his head when bullets start coming his way.” Belligerence looked up at Red Field. “A sniper needs to be somepony with a good head, a good focus, and who isn’t going to get into any head-butting matches." He lowered his voice. "Those ponies are always in short supply.”

“Sergeant Belligerence!” Called Flashpoint. Both ponies in the cellar looked up the stairs and saw Flashpoint’s hooves in the gravel atop the stairs. “Give me your recommendation please. It’s getting late.” Belligerence looked to Red Field.

“What do you want me to tell him?” He asked.

For the first time since he’d arrived at the little base atop Neighara Falls, Red Field thought he might very well be a soldier.

“Yes sir.” He said. Belligerence grinned again.

“Think I have who I’m looking for.” Belligerence called up to Flashpoint.

Flashpoint led Red Field back to his barracks. The grey officer had gone over the rules of his probation once, but he repeated himself, as if he himself weren’t sure of the validity of the conditions.

“No violations whatsoever of the code of conduct, no broken curfews. You will complete the entirety of Beast before attending sniper school, at no point will you receive any additional training prior to the completion of Beast.” He turned looked down at Red Field and Red Field saw that the prim officer was as close to visibly angry as possible. “You have been rescheduled for another basic rifle qualification which you must pass to continue. I will see to it that your resignation is rescinded and you are not barred from any more tests or exercises.” They were almost at Barracks Six and Flashpoint stopped Red Field.

“But be wary cadet, you are treading on very thin ice and I am prepared to fail you for any more suggestions of quitting.” Red Field looked up at the icy stallion; he couldn’t tell if Flashpoint were personally displeased with him or if he was simply annoyed with having to disobey protocol.

“Yes sir, sorry sir.” Red Field said. “I will not be of any further disruption.”

Flashpoint left Red Field before his barracks.

Red Field waited outside of his barracks for a few minutes, mulling over his options. Should he enter triumphantly and proclaim his newfound position? He quickly disregarded this notion as he wasn’t certain that he’d even become a sniper, and that it would very likely upset Barracks Six to hear of his new appointment. He could just say nothing and rejoin them; but they would naturally be suspicious and curious of how he had returned. Red Field considered many explanations, but none seemed passable.
Finally he decided to just enter, say he’d been reaccepted, and take any further questions as they came. He knew it was a dangerous proposition, as Black Rain would no doubt interrogate him on the specifics of his return; however Red Field had no idea how to explain and it was growing late.

He entered the barracks and his eyes adjusted to the dim light that hung from the ceiling. Bren appeared to be laying in his bed, Siplinski was sitting up in his, cleaning a knife. Black Rain was writing into a black notebook, and Red Field assumed Full Wing to be in his bed. Siplinski looked up as Red Field entered.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” He asked, not rising from the bed.

“Uh reinstated- just, talked with the officers and they said I could come back.” Red Field said. Siplinski squinted his eyes and stuck out his lower lip as if he were absolutely uncertain of this.

“Cool.” He said in this countenance. He turned back to his knife. Red Field looked over at Black Rain. The unicorn was still writing. He finished his paragraph and dropped the pencil atop the page. He looked up at Red Field with his usual look of disapproval.

“Congratufuckinglations.” He said. “Are you going to go to bed so I can turn the lights out?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Red Field said, jumping into his bed. Black Rain switched out the light and rolled over. Red Field waited for a few minutes to see if anypony would say anything. But Barracks Six was tired of Red Field, and nopony cared to ask why he’d returned. Red Field was both relieved, and once more disappointed. However he had returned to smiling before he fell asleep.

The next day was more shooting and the cadets were excited. The mess hall was abuzz with inquiries of what they’d be using, but none of the older ponies would give any hint or indication as the armament of the day, which built the anticipation.

Blue Streak had noticed that Red Field was still amidst them, and accordingly seated himself beside Red Field.

“Dude, what are you doing here? You failed out I thought.” Red Field still hadn’t thought of a particularly good explanation for this.

“I was reinstated, they thought I had potential here so they let me come back.” Blue Streak laughed and nudged him.

“Dude that’s crazy.” He moved closer to Red Field. “Who was it? Like who let you back in?”

“Flashpoint, I-”

“Ahhhh!” Said Blue Streak. “Yeah I get it now.” He looked to the stony-faced officer sitting by himself. “Dude like, I was just talking to some of the guys from Barracks Four and like, we were talking about how he’s really just a big nerd. That’s so like him to let the other nerd back in.” Red Field anxiously saw a problem arising and attempted to correct it.

“No, he- it was more of a technical thing, I had a really good score in improvised shelter so I qualified for an extension.” He said. Blue Streak shook his head.

“No seriously, like, a couple of the guys were saying that he’s just like a desk jockey who acts all tough during training. I gotta tell the guys this.” He said. “What a prick.”

“No, it wasn’t him.” Red Field said.

Blue Streak was already across the room and with his cohorts, whispering and pointing to first Red Field, then Flashpoint. Red Field watched as the story permeated the group and they all nodded and agreed on just what kind of pony Flashpoint was. Red Field’s mouth went dry as he saw a very large problem arising, a problem which would lead back to him.

After a few minutes, Agent Orange rose and told everypony to pack their shit and get to the chariots. The cadets, eager to see their new weapons, bolted and stampeded out of the doors. Red Field rose and walked to the exit only after everypony had left.
Somepony thumped him on the shoulder.

“Looks like you’ll be riding with us again.” Agent Orange said. “Also, didn’t you fail?” He asked with a little laugh.

“Reinstated after corporal Belligerence expressed an interest in his skillset.” Flashpoint stood to Red Field’s left and the two officers flanked him.

“Really.” Said Agent Orange. “That’s, great.” He gave a little shrug. “What the fuck ever I guess.”

“Captain Orange, I will ask you to retain your professionalism at all times. Your personal evaluations regarding personnel postings are not relevant to the training you conduct.” Said Flashpoint. The orange pony bowed his head a little and apologized. Red Field began to sweat as he realized that Flashpoint would defend the decision to reinstate him- the decision which Belligerence had made for him.

The trip to the range was quiet. The sun blazed down on the chariots and all three ponies were soaked in sweat before they even landed in the sand. That day had no breeze, and the cadets had emptied their warm canteens before they’d reached the bunker. Red Field looked from one cadet to another, most of them seemed excited for the day of shooting. None took note that he was still around. He hoped he’d remain invisible for the rest of the day.

They reached the cool safety of the bunker and Agent Orange even gave them a few minutes off to refill their canteens from a rusty spigot that sat in a dank corner of the bunker. Red Field held his canteen under the water. Voices whispered behind him.

“Guys you know he’s a total pussy right?” Red Field heard Blue Streak say. Red Field’s eyes had yet to adjust to the clammy darkness of the bunker and he only detected voices amidst the group.

“Psh, anypony could see that,” Full Wing said, “he’s been nothing but like a total pussy the whole time.”

“God what an asshole.” Red Field realized that Fit Finish, the other pony on his misadventure of a land nav test, was talking. “You know he’s failed like a ton of guys just for looking at him wrong and he’s not even as real as Agent Orange.” A few scoffs of disgust rose from the group. “We’ve kissed his fuckin’ ass this whole time and he goes and lets that little faggot back in cause he feels like it.”

“That’s not even the worst part, I heard from a couple of the guys at Maremont that he doesn’t even know how to shoot a gun.” The water overflowed from Red Field’s canteen and somepony behind him pushed him to get out of line. He walked back toward the center of the room, where a small pool of light collected from a hatch in the ceiling. Flashpoint and Agent Orange were standing together under the light, conversing over something. The last thing Red Field heard from the tiny clique was Fit Finish lambasting the hypocrisy of a pony who couldn’t shoot a gun, passing judgment on and failing cadets who at least tried their best.

“Cadets! You have another minute to refill your canteens and then report to the firing line for the weapons demonstration.” Called Flashpoint from the darkness.

“Yeah okay!” Called Fit Finish. Red Field swallowed. Nopony was supposed to answer an order. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked to see what Flashpoint’s response would be. Flashpoint ignored the comment and Red Field began to sweat again.

Light machine guns were the topic of the second day. The books that Red Field had read had referenced light machine guns, but the library at Rockvale was missing the particular volumes and Red Field reluctantly entered the demonstration with no more knowledge than the other cadets.
Despite the shade, the small enclosure trapped the heat around the sweltering cadets. Ludus brought out a very heavy-looking chunk of gun which he termed “The Towel Maker”. He grinned and said he’d let the cadets figure out the name on their own.

Nopony laughed.

Under the festering desert heat, the cadets’ only thought was their newfound distaste for the biased, silent officer that had removed many of their friends from training.

Ludus proceeded to demonstrate the basic operation and manipulation of the weapon. Red Field, having mapped out how the gun worked already, kept his ears up for any whisperings or messages rippling down the rows of cadets. However the grumblings had ceased, at least for the demonstration. Eventually Ludus was joined by Site, who was draped in several long belts of ammunition clipped together via small metal links.

“So, uh, the PMG-47, er, ‘Towel Maker’ feeds from disintegrating belts and not mags.” Site seemed like the kind of pony who enjoyed the solitude of his workshop, and kept his eyes on the weapon instead of looking out to the cadets. “These are your basic belts of ammo, fifty, hundred, and one fifty for extended fire.” He lifted the top cover of the Towel Maker and carefully set a strip of rounds onto the firearm. “You want to make sure this side is facing up.” He realized the cadets couldn’t see and he awkwardly lifted the machine gun to show them. The barrel pointed up toward the sky and Ludus came to Site’s aid and held the weapon. Site wiped some sweat from his brow and pointed to the belts. “If you look at both sides of the belt, the one that shows more of the brass is the one you want facing down when you load.”

“Brass to the grass.” Said Agent Orange. Site nodded.

“Yeah that’s right. Why don’t we have everypony come up and run through it once or twice?” Said Site.

Half an hour passed while the officers instructed each of the cadets on the Towel Maker. Unlike KKAT, the Towel Maker was not a particularly user-friendly firearm, and several ponies smashed or pinched hooves as they swung the top cover of the LMG into firing position. They never shot anything, and though the correct orientation of the links in relation was a simple affair, many cadets took two or three tries to master it. Red Field found the tiny links difficult to settle into the feed tray and the weapon was soon shining with the sweat of the frustrated and fumbling cadets.

Finally, as the last cadet returned to their seat, Agent Orange approached machine gun with a strip of fifty rounds to demonstrate.

“Let’s see if you can figure out why we call her the Towel Maker!” He said, attempting to reawaken the wonder of the now-haggard group. He was aligning the first of the cartridges when Flashpoint spoke.

“Captain Orange, hold off for now. I would like for the cadets to run through this one more time, as I believe there to be a substantial degree of ineptitude remaining with this weapon.” Flashpoint had usually spoken only to dismiss failed cadets.

Why Flashpoint would choose that day to repeat such a maddening exercise seemed too perfect to be a coincidence of simple anal retentive desires. Red Field looked to Flashpoint; did he know how many of them hated him? Flashpoint showed no signs of emotion, though sweat ran down his neck and forehead in the choking heat. Was Flashpoint trying to agitate them?

Agent Orange hesitated, then rose from his seat.

“Uh, yes sir.” He nodded to Ludus, who called for somepony to come up.

“No aids please.” Flashpoint called to Ludus. The repetition was no coincidence. “I would like for the cadets to have the capacity to load their weapons without assistance.” Both Site and Ludus hesitated, as Agent Orange had, to this new instruction. Then Site nodded.

“Roger that.” He said. “All right, first one up.”

The next hour crawled by miserably. Almost everypony failed to load the recalcitrant machine gun on their own. Neutered by their commanding officer, both Site and Ludus stood by and merely informed the cadets of their incorrect actions and sent them to the back of the line. Red Field slipped and crushed his hoof under the top cover during his turn and spent the rest of the hour cradling his injury.

After three cycles, the cadets had all demonstrated their competence with the gun.
Sweat ran from Agent Orange and his panting breath was audible as he returned to the firing line with his strip of ammo. Red Field craned his sore neck to watch as the captain loaded the machine gun.
Recoiling like agonized metal animal, the light machine gun sounded like somepony ripping a cloth apart to make towels. The empty casings cascaded from the table and onto the floor in a bouncing and clinking wash as the haze of gun smoke rose from the muzzle of the Towel Maker.

Nopony cared anymore. The ardent enjoyment of learning a new weapon had long since been erased. Agent Orange cleared the weapon, then looked back to the cadets.

“Who’s first?” He asked. Nopony volunteered to fire the unruly weapon and the entire group waited awkwardly for something to happen. Agent Orange started to say something about having balls when Flashpoint stepped in front of him.

“Cadets!” He said, the telltale volume of frustration coursing through his voice. “You have been instructed to learn this weapon per your participation in Beast. Anypony not wishing to do so is, and has always been, capable of resignation at any point. However those of you planning on retaining yourselves are still under obligation to learn this weapon,” he pointed to the smoking Towel Maker, “and that is an order.”

The cadets looked at one another, then somepony held their hoof up to be the first shooter. The day of rambunctious gunfire and relative ease that everypony had planned was replaced by a day that mirrored the uncomfortable exertion and dullness of any other day of Beast. Red Field’s hoof hurt and he walked to the end of the line of cadets. He reached the Towel Maker and his hoof still stung. Ludus told him to ready up and reached into the box of ammo for another belt of cartridges. Slinging the long slug of the belt onto the table before Red Field, he grunted and pointed to the weapon.
Red Field opened the cover, making entirely certain that it had no opportunity to drop back down on his hooves. He laid the first of the rounds onto the Towel Maker and lowered the cover. Racking back the charging handle, Red Field shouldered the weapon and squinted down the narrow tube of the scope clamped to the feed tray cover. Flipping the safety off, he shouldered the LMG to fire.

The scope atop the Towel Maker was magnified, unlike the red dot atop the Kitty Kat, and Red Field found it much easier to align the thin black plus-sign onto the paper downrange. He squeezed the trigger, trying to remember how to shoot.
The crosshairs leapt up the target as a burst of bullets exited the gun. Red Field tried to pull the sights back down. The stock slipped out from under his shoulder and the scope shot back into his face. Glancing off of his nose, the left edge of the rubberized scope struck his eye. Red Field fell back from the bench, blood running from his reinjured nose. The chain of events occurred too quickly for him to process anything, and he was just beginning to reach up to his bloodied snout when Ludus and Agent Orange picked him up. He’d fallen across the floor of the shooting bay.

“Fuck.” Agent Orange said. “You went down like a sack of bricks, you all right?”

“Ah shit.” Said Ludus, wiping some of Red Field’s blood from his hooves. “I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

“I-I think I’m all right.” Red Field said, the numbness of the blow still clinging to his nose. “I want to sit down though.” Agent Orange led him back to the shooting table and Red Field sat down shakily. His nose felt hot, and even smelled hot, if that were possible. Red Field was covered in sweat and he kept trying to swallow and refresh his mouth. Agent Orange laughed and called in to Ludus. Agent Orange’s voice sounded miles away. Red Field swallowed again, then fell from his seat. Agent Orange caught him and shouted for Ludus to get some water. Red Field was shaking harder now, and Agent Orange sat him down on the concrete. Red Field looked up at the cadets. They were all looking at him. His heart seemed to be fluttering in his chest and he felt like he needed to stand, or lie down, or do something.

Ludus returned with a canteen and a first aid kit. He shoved the mouth of the canteen into Red Field’s lips. The warm water ran down Red Field’s throat and Red Field feared he would throw up. Ludus took the canteen and began to tend to Red Field’s trickling nose.

Red Field sat for a few minutes, with Agent Orange propping him up like a ragdoll. The dizziness and shaking receded, but Red Field’s heart still galloped in his chest. Finally, Site and Ludus helped him to his hooves.

“Cadet Red Field, please finish your fire string.” Everypony had forgotten about Flashpoint. The lieutenant pointed to the Towel Maker. Red Field looked up at him. “Cadet you are on a provisional continuance, are you attempting to tender your resignation?” Asked Flashpoint. Red Field instinctively started back toward the table.

“Uh.” Said Ludus. He began to speak further, then stopped.

“Sir I’m not sure-” Said Agent Orange. Flashpoint looked to both of them and neither said any more.

“Are you kidding me?” Somepony shouted. The officers and instructors looked to the group of cadets to see which one had shouted. Blue Streak stepped forward.

“He’s gonna hurt himself.” He said, though it was clear that he was not the pony who had first shouted. Flashpoint walked toward the orange pony. “It’s- it’s not a good idea to send him back up there.” Blue Streak’s voice fell as Flashpoint reached him.

“What would qualify you to-”

“Dude, nopony thinks it’s a good idea.” Shouted somepony else. Ludus shouted that the next pony to say anything was being kicked the hell out. Agent Orange began to tell the group exactly how fucking immature it was to question orders and how not a single fucking clopper would ever pull a stunt like that again.

“Please, continue.” Said Flashpoint over Agent Orange. “Evidently there is some discord in the group.”

“Sir, I have this covered.” Said Agent Orange. “Now the next fucking asshole who mouths off-”

“Captain Orange, you are relieved of weapons training, please return to base.” Said Flashpoint.

“Er, what?” Asked Agent Orange. Flashpoint looked over to him.

“Agent Orange, that was a direct command.” Said Flashpoint.

Agent Orange looked at him for a few moments, then started toward the door. Flashpoint turned and faced the group of cadets, save Red Field, who was still slumped at the shooting table.

“It would appear that some of you have doubts about my oversight.” He waited for a response. “Is that right?” Nopony spoke. “Agent Orange is no longer in command of this exercise. Unlike him, I welcome feedback.”

“All right then.” Called the first pony to have shouted. Fit Finish stood, but kept inside the safety of the group. “If you’re really big into comments or concerns, I have a few.” He said in a tone that qualified as disparaging.

“Sergeant Ludus, Specialist Site, please inform Belligerence that we have halted our fire, I believe you will find him on the observation deck.” Said Flashpoint, seemingly interested in Fit Finish. Both stallions departed wordlessly. “Proceed.”

“You’re making a ton of bad calls, and everypony here thinks so.” Said Fit Finish. “Even Orange and that other guy were questioning you. You failed like five guys for being like three seconds off their runs and then you let that asshole,” he pointed to Red Field, “back in! How is that fair?”

“I see.” Said Flashpoint. “It would-”

“Hey I’m not the only one.” Said Fit Finish over him. “The rest of us feel that way too.” Somepony stepped forward. Then somepony else, then three more. All but about six of the cadets now stood beside Fit Finish. Bolstered by his comrades, Fit Finish lost his fear. “See? Everypony has a problem with how you run things.”

Flashpoint looked along the line of cadets; most still couldn’t meet his gaze. He took a deep breath, then cleared his throat.

“It looks like the other cadets don’t believe your evaluation unfounded. I would like to propose a challenge to you then.”

“Yeah?” Fit Finish asked.

“First pony to hit the ground loses. If you lose, I will remove you from Beast-”

“And if I win?”

“I will abdicate my role to Corporal Nagant and resign from overseeing your basic training.” Said Flashpoint. The wind picked up again, tossing some sand into the shooting bay. “You’ll receive immunity from any repercussions, I will see to it that you are not punished for winning.” The sand blew against Red Field’s cheek as a gust whipped the small granules into the air. “Hell, I’ll even quit Gale Force.” The wind died down again and they were plunged into silence.

“Yeah okay.” Said Fit Finish. He looked up at Flashpoint. Very quietly, so quietly he was nearly whispering, Flashpoint spoke.

“Try me.”

The pair met. In the second it took Red Field to comprehend the slighting command of Flashpoint, Fit Finish closed the gap between himself and the officer. He threw his hooves onto Flashpoint’s shoulders and dove forward. Flashpoint had been standing with his hooves staggered and receded from the charging unicorn. Red Field blinked and only managed to see Flashpoint’s right fore-hoof lift. A metallic clunk sounded in the shooting deck and Fit Finish stumbled past the grey unicorn. Red Field saw a gash sliced across his cheek and up his snout. Fit Finish fell into the concrete shooting table next to Red Field. He hit the table head first and crumpled to the ground.

“Cadets!” Flashpoint spoke in the loudest voice anypony had ever heard him use. “I have spent seven years with Gale Force and two overseeing Beast.” Blood ran in a thin thread down his cheek. “You are untrained, mostly uneducated stallions with very little in the way of critical thinking or judgment.” His quiescent frown bent into a scowl. “To convince you of my sincerity in ensuring that you receive the best training possible, I will dispense some advice for your military careers.” He pointed to Fit Finish, who hadn’t risen. “Never attack a pony who asks you to attack him. Build rapport with your superiors and get to know their duties.” Flashpoint pointed back at Red Field without looking at him. “And finally, understand that this is not your hometown, this is Gale Force Company and in this company, I choose who passes training.” Ludus and Site were standing in the doorway. They looked at Flashpoint, with nearly the same expression as everypony else. “My determinations on who has failed and who is retained are not your concern.” Fit Finish began to stir and the lieutenant pointed to him. “Bandage his face, send him home.” He looked back to the other cadets. “Accuracy requirements are doubled for passing today.”

Site and Ludus decided to take a break. Ludus took Fit Finish back to base and Flashpoint assisted Site in pulling out a few crates of ammo for the impending test. Red Field sat in the darkness of the bunker, trying to stop himself from shaking. Whispers of terror and awe rippled through the remaining cadets. Everypony who’d stepped forward feared the next instance of Flashpoint’s lurking wrath.

Somepony took Red Field by the shoulder. Red Field’s heart jumped and Belligerence smiled.

“Sorry, gotta minute?” He asked. Red Field nodded and Belligerence pulled him aside. “Heard there was a little event out there.” He said with a chuckle. “Something about doubling the standards for accuracy today?”

“Yes sir.” Red Field hadn’t considered the ramifications of Flashpoint’s decree. He had been too frightened of the officer himself to note the now-exemplary standards.

“Well, you’re here on probation and I think it would be wise to make sure you put at least a couple bullets on paper.” Said Belligerence. “Let me give you a few tips for firing that thing.”

“Cadets! Three minutes until assembly back on the firing line.” Called Flashpoint from outside.

“Right, quick, where’d the thing get you?” Asked Belligerence. Red Field pointed to his snout, which had scabbed over. “All right, that’s a bad grip. Make sure you curl your hoof over the trigger and keep the stock tucked up right here.” He jabbed his hoof into Red Field’s shoulder. “The trigger is seven pounds unless Site messed with it. Apply constant pressure, like you’re squeezing a lemon, take about three seconds to let out your breath, wait till you feel your lungs to come to rest; the window is only a couple of seconds so you’ll need to fire quickly, but don’t forget constant pressure or you’ll pull it.” The other cadets were beginning to preemptively shuffle out of the darkness and Belligerence pushed Red Field toward the door. “Remember, if it comes down to it, let it clock your face and make the shot.” He was still speaking as Red Field reentered the shooting bay.

Flashpoint stood beside a single PMG-47. The small pool of blood from Fit Finish had been wiped up, but a faint red stain remained on the dry concrete.

“Cadets, I will call your name, you will take a firing position and engage your target. If you pass you are done for the day, if you miss, you will have another attempt to pass the qualification. Two fails and you are kicked from Beast.”

A normal pony might have been discombobulated by the barrage of advice from Belligerence, but Red Field was not a normal pony. He knew how to assimilate information and began to plan his firing sequence. Red Field stared at his hooves and drew into a comatose state of thought. For the first time, none of the ponies around him made fun of or even noticed his introversion, everypony was much too nervous about their own test to care much about how Jesus pony looked.
Red Field knew he could complete the test, he had already decided to allow the scope to crush his nose entirely if doing so aided his aim. Three deep breaths, enter the respiratory pause, then constant pressure. The PMG was an open bolt weapon; he needed to remain steady for much longer after pulling the trigger.

“Dude go!” Somepony nearly shoved him from the bench. Red Field realized everypony was waiting on him. He looked up and saw Flashpoint standing beside the smoking machinegun.

“Cadet, please make ready to fire.” Said Flashpoint. Red Field rushed to the table. He loaded the Towel Maker and slapped down the cover without a thought to the safety of his hooves. The stock was slick with the sweat of the other cadets.
His heart, understanding only the gravity of the situation and not the need for calmness, began to race again and bounced the tiny black cross around inside the scope. Red Field closed his eyes and tried desperately to take some deep breaths. “Whenever you are ready cadet.” Said Flashpoint coolly. “Target six, twenty meters. You must maintain a six inch group.” Red Field opened his eyes and stared at the distant paper. The edges fluttered in a desert breeze and the miniscule cross slowly jittered around the dot at the center.

The cross came to rest on the center of the paper. Red Field had only taken two breaths when he let out the remaining air in his lungs. He squeezed the trigger, which bent with a mushy tension. The Towel Maker ripped off a string of fire that shook the weapon backward. The scope drove toward him but was halted this time; Red Field had solidly anchored the stock into his shoulder.

Red Field was covered in icy sweat as the casings spun around his hooves. He hadn’t meant to fire a burst.
He peered back down the scope. A line of bullet holes, extending from the very center of the target, ran up the paper and stopped a few inches from the top.

“Inadequate performance cadet, please take your seat and wait to be recalled.” Said Flashpoint. Red Field walked back to his seat in a daze. His shoulder stung a little from the unexpected fire and he was covered in a fresh layer of sweat.

How had he forgotten that he was firing a machine gun?

Nopony passed on their first try.

“Only those that make a concerted effort will join our ranks. It lies well within your abilities to pass this test.” Said Flashpoint. Red Field clamped his hooves over his ears and pressed his chin to his chest.

In the scant period before he was again called to fire, Red Field found only one plan, which he immediately discarded. Unfortunately he was still in the early stages of his next idea when he was recalled for his final attempt. Red Field was still thinking as he took his seat. Flashpoint reinstructed him and Red Field shouldered the Towel Maker.

Out of options and thoroughly desperate, Red Field tried the only thing he could imagine and loosened the stock from his shoulder as he squeezed the trigger. The weapon slammed back and the scope bit into his eyebrow. Red Field shook off the pain and looked downrange. A single hole sat about an inch from the center of the paper. He drew up again and repeated the punishing process.

“Cadet, please fire a burst of at least four rounds.” Said Flashpoint.

“You didn’t specify that at the beginning of the test.” Red Field said. “I was only instructed to-”

“I am well aware of your instructions.” Said Flashpoint. “However continuing to fire the weapon in that manner will wear the sear and damage the firearm, violating your conditional continuance.”

“Sears are getting replaced after this exercise anyway.” Both ponies looked to Site, who stood in the doorway of the bunker. The tan pony wiped some sweat from his brow. “Part of planned maintenance.” Flashpoint watched the gunsmith for a few seconds, then turned back to Red Field.

“Please continue your fire.” He said.

Eighteen more times the scope bit into his forehead and threatened to knock him unconscious as he attempted to squeeze off each round without firing a burst. Finally, as the last tiny hole appeared two inches from the bulls-eye, Flashpoint nodded.

“You have passed cadet, please return to your seat for the duration of the exercise.” He swayed as he walked back to his seat. Full Wing, who sat in the front row, offered up his hoof in congratulations and without a thought Red Field gave him a brohoof.

“Nice dude!” Whispered the Pegasus.

“Cadet Full Wing!” Called Flashpoint. Full Wing bit his lip.

“Shit.” He said to himself as he rose out of his seat. Red Field saw him shake his head.

“Hey.” Whispered Red Field. Full Wing looked back. “Just squeeze off each shot, let it hit your shoulder a little. Just press the trigger and let it go once it fires.” Full Wing nodded, then turned back to the table.

Red Field found himself rooting for Full Wing. He was probably just excited that he’d passed. However Red Field hunched forward and strained to hear each shot. The gun gave a single thump, and then another. A smile crept over Red Field’s face as Full Wing fired each round by itself. After just a few minutes of interspersed fire, Full Wing had passed.

“Thanks dude!” Whispered Full Wing as he sat down. A few of the Pegasus’ friends whispered to and poked at Red Field.

They wanted to know how to pass.

Fit Finish was the only pony to fail that day. Flashpoint watched as cadet after cadet reached the firing line and fired only single shots.

The sun was beginning to set and the air was beginning to cool just slightly. Flashpoint was illuminated by a golden beam that fell through the pillars of the enclosure.

“Cadets, you all have passed support fire basic, even under heightened demands.” He paused and looked over that cadets as if he were still unsure of this. “I can only attribute this to a propensity for adaptation and improvisation.” He looked directly at Red Field as he said this and Red Field feared that perhaps Flashpoint was outraged at him for telling everypony how to fire the machine gun like a semiautomatic. “Nevertheless those are both outstanding traits for soldiers, and it is heartening to see such qualities manifest in a group such as yours. Head to the chariots, we’ll be out to take you back to base in a few minutes.”

The cadets shuffled tiredly from the firing line and through the bunker. Red Field looked over his shoulder and out of the door. Site had opened the Towel Maker and was pointing inside while Flashpoint observed. Site mentioned a sear.

Flashpoint’s brow was furrowed and he pointed to something inside of the gun and asked Site about it.

Everypony wanted Jesus Pony to sit with them during dinner. They arrived late and the stars were already appearing in the sky when they clomped into the mess hall. One of the cooks, irritated about having to keep the hay warm for an extra hour, inquired as to where the fuck they had been. The few soldiers hanging around the mess hall infiltrated the group and began demanding what had happened. Word had reached the base of Flashpoint’s about face and everypony recognized the gravity of his dismissal of Agent Orange.

The dinner conversation centered on Flashpoint and what the hell was up with him. However Blue Streak, who had captured Red Field and bade him to sit at his table, made a congratulatory toast of bottled water to “Jesus Pony, the worker of miracles”. The toast was taken up by the other tables, and soon Jesus Pony found himself among friends.
That night, everypony in Barracks Six, even Black Rain, listened closely to Full Wing relate the events of the day.

“Oh damn, he’s gotta be pissed.” Said Bren.

“Oh more than that dude, he’s probably gonna try and get Flashpoint court-martialed.” Said Siplinski.

“Nope, not at all.” Said Black Rain. “Flash outranks Orange, only thing they could get him on is hitting a cadet; did he really punch that colt from Barracks Eleven?”

“Yeah!” Said Full Wing. “Like just blasted him across the face! Then he just looks back at us like he’s Nightmare Moon and says we have to be twice as accurate if we want to pass the test.” He pointed to Red Field. “Then Red figured out how to do it and he told everypony and that’s how we all passed.” Black Rain looked up to Red Field. He raised a single eyebrow and studied Red Field.

“What was your group size?” He asked. Red Field, who had been sitting with his hooves tucked under his body, shrugged.

“Uh, I don’t know.” Said Red Field.

“It was probably like three or four inches.” Said Full Wing.

“Bullshit.” Said Black Rain.

“Well it had to be under six- that was the requirement.” Said Full Wing.

“Oh!” Bren laughed and pointed down to the black unicorn. “What now? That’s better than you can do! Back when we were in Beast, Rain got something like ten or eleven.”

“Seven point six two inches.” Said Black Rain. “And that was a full belt of fifty. Whatever, it’s great you can shoot. Might as well be able to do something right.”

Red Field almost replied that he’d been asked to be a sniper, but caught himself. He still had a long way to go before he ought to make any claims.

Next Chapter: Chapter 9 Estimated time remaining: 12 Hours, 16 Minutes