While the air in the waiting room may have been thick with perspiration, it was at least relatively quiet. As far as Static Sparks could tell this room was hotter than the last, thicker with perspiration, but most importantly filled with an annoying loud buzzing sound emanating from somewhere in front of him. He waited in his line, shuffling forward with the other ponies, with nothing to do but to wait for his turn to confront the maker of the annoying buzzing.

The worst thing about the waiting was it gave him time to think, and thinking is nothing a pony being sent off to war wants to do. He tried to keep his mind off of it by trying to figure out what the sound was coming from, but that was pretty simple. He thought about his parents back in Fillydelphia, wondering if they were worried about him.

‘They shouldn’t be worried yet, I have 2 weeks training before they rush me to the front’ he thought. He shuddered at the last part. 2 weeks until the front; it was a crash course in basic fighting, not good training, but Equestria needed boots on the ground, and would take what it had. The front also scared him, reports were spotty, but he heard rumors the same as anypony. He heard they could turn invisible, could teleport themselves right behind you and stab you in the back, and had mages that could make fire out of thin air and would cook the flesh off a pony in seconds. He shuddered again; he couldn’t even imagine that sight. He didn’t want to.

The line shuffled forward, and he could see that his suspicions on what the source of the buzzing was were confirmed. The floor was choked with the colored manes that had been sheared off of ponies previously. Just a few ponies in line ahead he could see a mare operating the shearers, and another one that cut off the excess of the conscript’s tails. The blond one with the apple on his flank, Braeburn if he remembered right, was currently getting sheared, his large thick mane falling to the floor.

The line moved again, and Sparks thought about his mane. It was never a particularly impressive thing; it wasn’t very well kept, wasn’t large, wasn’t even too good at keeping his head warm in the winter, but he liked it alright. He liked it even more now that it gave him an excuse not to think about that. The line moved again. The tall unicorn in front of him had a mustache, the mare sheared it off, the line moved again. It was his turn.

“Stay still”, said the mare, the shearer ran over him, and in 4 quick passes his mane had fallen to the floor. A loud snip signaled the demise of his tail. “Next” said the mare, and with that part one of Sparks conversion was complete.

If he was honest with himself though, not having a mane was pretty great. Already he felt cooler now that his mane wasn’t trapping the heat, and he never really knew how much it weighed on his head. He felt lighter, and his head just felt more responsive as he looked from side to side. He shifted his attention to the line in front, trying to figure out what was to happen next.

He was close to the exit of the room, the whine of the shearers behind him, another triple set of double doors to the front. He couldn’t see into the room ahead because of the two tall unicorns standing in front of him. He strained his ears to try and hear what the room ahead of him held in store. Just above the sound of the shears, he heard the unmistakable sound of splashing.

His line moved through the double doors into the next room, and while he had been expecting the Equestrian Calvary to try to de-individualize everypony, he hadn’t expected this. The seventy ponies in his line gathered at the edge of what in peacetime would have been a swimming pool. Now it was filled with ruddy brown water that smelled strongly, of what he didn’t know, but something. The floor was caked in dried layers of the stuff. Unbelievably the air in this room was thicker than the last, any worse and everypony would have to start swimming from point A to B. Each room was getting more and more insufferable.’ This can’t keep up’ he thought. ‘No way.’

“LISTEN UP!” Portrait Painter yelled, making his way through the assembled ponies to the front of the line. Sparks could see that he had also been sheared, his silver mane reduced to nothing, but his mustache still on his face. “Everypony goes into the dye baths! Once you are in, shut your eyes tight, hold your breath and submerge yourself for 30 seconds. DO NOT have your eyes open in the dye bath! If you do the doctors will be able to fix you, but you do not want to have to be fixed! AM I UNDERSTOOD?”

“SIR YES SIR”, Static Sparks screamed along with the other 70.

“Into the dye bath!” Portrait Painter ordered as he turned and waded into the mud brown dye. Everypony followed him in. the dye was blessedly cool, and was a welcome change from the veritable furnaces that the last rooms were. The ponies waded until they were neck deep in the dye. “Breathe!” ordered Portrait Painter, and Static Sparks took a large breath. ”submerge!” and everypony closed their eyes and lowered their heads into the dye.

For the second time today Static Sparks had a chance to stop and think. The dye muffled the noise that everypony was making, and he couldn’t see if he wanted to. Despite being surrounded by 70 other ponies, he was on his own. It was peaceful, and for a half minute he could forget the war and the unicorns and the front and the whole rotten mess. He could feel the cool dye flow around him and rock him gently to and fro. A thought hit him as he relaxed in the tranquility.

‘This might be the last moment of peace that I have for a long time’.

‘Enjoy it.’

And just as quickly as it had come, the peace was shattered by the sound of a whistle from above. Static Sparks raised his head up above the dye, and was thrust back into a sea of 70 ponies scrambling out of the pool, throwing dye everywhere. They emerged from the pool, all now a uniform earth brown. Static Sparks looked to their flanks, and everyone was bare, cutie marks buried under a layer of brown dye. For the first time since grade school he wasn’t the only blank flank. The 70 lined up in front of Portrait Painter, who was now dyed the same as everyone. Excess dye dripped from the ponies as they awaited their orders.

Static Sparks looked at Portrait Painter, dye was still running down his face, and he looked almost pained. Static Sparks could tell that he wasn’t looking forward to what was going to happen next.

“Everypony, lets dry off.” Portrait Painter spat the words out, turned, and opened the next set of doors. They all followed him into what for all intents and purposes looked like an absolutely empty room. The doors shut behind them. And then the heat lamps turned on.

The temperature in the room shot up to 130 degrees, and all of the other rooms in comparison looked like the snow wastes of the Crystal Empire. Where the 30 seconds in the dye bath went by in a flash, for Static Sparks and every other pony in the room time stretched out like a blade. It was a literal hell. The excess dye was almost immediately evaporated, and now chocked the air with its thickness. Sparks could literally taste the bitter dye it was so thick. The extra humidity trapped the heat, making it worse. The whole room glowed red from the lamps, adding to the effect. Static Sparks started to panic; he couldn’t breathe and was burning alive. Just by looking around he could tell that the room was on the verge of a breakdown, they had to get out of there.

Mercifully the heat lamps shut off with a loud clunk, and the doors out swung open as the ponies rushed for the exit. They cleared the room as fast as they could manage while staying in their order. The room they entered was absolutely bare, and seemed to serve only to allow everypony to recompose themselves after their trip through Tartarus. This room was blessedly cool, and the air was clear and dry. Static Sparks gulped in a mouthful of the wonderful air, and couldn’t remember the last time that something had tasted so good.

“Dear Celestia I’m glad that’s out of the way”, Sparks heard somepony mutter, and to his surprise it was Portrait Painter. Portrait quickly recomposed himself. “Alright everypony, go through out-processing and then your through with this.” This was met with panting and wheezing as everypony was still trying to shake off the horror of the last room. “Oh for Celestia’s sake GET OVER IT”, Portrait snapped. The heavy breathing stifled. “Good.” Portrait painter turned and opened the last door.

It was another line. More time for Static Sparks to think. But by now he was just too tired to do even that. The furnace had sucked all the energy from his body. Too much had happened since this morning when he got off the train and walked into the building. Dear Celestia, how long ago was that? Ages, at least it seemed that way. He shuffled along with the line, only faintly aware of the incessant clattering of typewriters and occasional heavy thudding from the room ahead. At least this was the last hurdle in the processing operation.

‘Yeah, and once this is over then I get to go train until I drop.’ He thought sullenly. ‘And once that’s over I get to go sent off to a war where either I kill or die trying. Face it Sparks, this is the best you’re going to have it for a long time, maybe the rest of your life.’ This realization deflated him even more. ‘What the hay am I even doing here?’

With this thought in mind he entered into the last room, the rattling of the typewriters giving him a headache. He blankly stared at the surroundings. The room was filled to capacity with mares at desks, each interviewing a volunteer while hammering out paperwork on their typewriters. He saw a mare at a desk with her hoove raised in the air, staring pointedly back at him. He looked at her dumbly, only realizing that she meant for him to take a seat at her desk five seconds later. He hurried over to her desk.

“I’m sorry about that; the furnace really threw me for a loop.” Sparks clarified. The mare smiled and shrugged it off.

“That’s fine; a lot of the guys that come in here are like that. What’s your recruitment I.D. number?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sparks strained to remember the number. “Zero-one-zero, five-one-eight, four-one-two. That’s it.”

“Name?”

“Static Sparks.”

“Postal code of city of residence?”

“40823.”

“Age?”

“21.”

“Blood type?”

“B+.”

As he answered the mare filled out paperwork, hitting a switch on her typewriter as she filled in the I.D. number, postal code, age, and blood type. As she finished up she fed a small tag into a slot on the typewriter and pushed a button. The typewriter made a loud THUD, and with that she retrieved the tag.

“This is your identification tag; you have to wear it at all times.” The mare slotted a die onto the bottom of a stamp and rolled it in ink. ”Hold still”, she said, then she stamped Sparks information on his right flank. “Follow the line on the floor outside and stand at attention. NEXT!”

Sparks followed the line through a last set of double doors outside, and for only a second got to appreciate what a beautiful day it was. A cool light breeze blew across the field, in the distance Foal Mountain rose up over the green plains. He lined up alongside the other ponies and stood at attention, a quick glance to his left confirming that everypony that went through the out-processing had received a stamp on their right flank.

The ponies stood in front of a parade field, to the right Sparks could see the beginnings of an obstacle course, to the left what appeared to be a target range. Behind the field he could see several barracks. ‘None of this was here 3 days ago’, he thought. Three days. It was so long ago.

Standing at attention was actually one of the harder things he had done so far today. Granted, worse was yet to come, but he had never really thought about how grating standing could be. His hind legs were growing stiff, and he couldn’t shake it off. ‘Hope I don’t get a charley horse, that would be my luck.’

Portrait Painter trotted back and forth across the parade grounds in front of the lined up ponies. He also was stamped with the identification information on his right flank. He turned, and Sparks could see on his left flank portrait painter bore a crown. Portrait Painter continued to trot among the ranks.

Sparks heard the doors behind him shut, and Portrait Painter looked up with anticipation. He marched to the center of the line. Another speech, it seemed, was in order.

“Good. You all look like killers now. Maybe that’s all we need. We’ll march to the front, and once they see us they’ll call it a day, say they’re sorry for the invasion, and give us back our land. You’ll be back home in a week.” He grinned at the thought. “Somehow I doubt that though. At least you look like killers now, but looking the part doesn’t liberate our country, I’m now going to have to train you to act like killers. But first, some rules.”

“None of you have names anymore, you left them behind, so I do not want to hear anypony calling anypony else by any names. Until you prove to me in training or in battle that you are worthy of a good killing fighting name you are to be addressed only by number. You will never refer to me as Portrait Painter again. From here on in you address me as Sir, or Major, or if you so wish you may call me The Artist. I am called The Artist because you are nothing but clay, and I must mold you into the killers that Equestria needs.”

“Now, you are to go to your barracks, meet with your squad, and square away your belongings. Training starts at 1500, so you have 75 minutes to get your affairs in order. Are we clear?”

“SIR YES SIR”, the ponies answered back immediately and forcefully.

“Dismissed.” And with that, the line dissolved as 210 ponies marched to the barracks across the parade field. Barely over an hour remained before training would begin in earnest.