“Can anypony tell me what this thing is?” The Artist asked as he nodded towards what he held in his right hoove. Everypony knew what it was; the questioning was more of a formality really. It was what everypony was there for. One of the trainees raised a hoove.

“You, can you tell me what this is?”

“Sir, that’s a rifle sir!” the trainee shouted.

“Correctomundo! It’s a rifle! A Clockwork-Canterlot SMCC to be precise. Can anypony tell me what a rifle does?” The Artist asked. As aired his question the quiet excitement that the idea of shooting a rifle had brought to everypony turned to discomfort. Yet again everypony already knew the answer, but this time none of them were really keen on answering.

“Well, a bunch of idiots, eh? Nopony out of 210 who knows what a rifle does?” The Artist said in disappointment, before perking up a bit. “That’s downright incredible! Maybe you just need to clear your thoughts on the mountain is all!”

At that the Manehattenite raised a hoove. “You there, enlighten these idiots!” The Artist called.

“Sir, a rifle kills, sir!”

“Absolutely! Up until this point you all may as well have been training for the Equestrian Games, but now we give you the tools to become what your country needs. We start with the rifle. Anyone knows any history about this thing?” Utter silence apart from the wind across the rifle range soon made the answer painfully clear.

“Alright then, a history lesson. Two hundred years ago the griffons are cleaning up shop on their continent. The griffons had very rarely ever lost a fight at the time, because they could tear up just about anything that walks or crawls or flies on this planet. They run into the Minotaurs. And they begin to lose. They have to fight something that they can’t just rip to bits. So what do they do?”

“They get smart, they rob the Minotaur of his strength advantage, they rob him of his close combat prowess, they increase the range. They invent the rifle, and they fell the Minotaur threat.” With that The Artist looked back toward the rifle he cradled in his hoove. “This thing was never designed for hooves; it was designed for talons, for digits. It’s awkward to use, you have to be standing on hind legs to use it, like so”

The Artist shakily stood upon his hind legs as he attempted to aim down the rifles sights with his forelegs. His right hoove slotted inside the oversized trigger guard as his left tried to line up the rifle with a wooden bull’s-eye target about 50 yards in the distance. He took a deep breath to try and steady his aim then jerked the trigger hard. With a cataclysmic BANG the rifle flashed in response, and 50 yards downrange a chunk of wood exploded out of the top left corner of the bull’s-eye. The recoil almost knocked The Artist over, but he caught himself as he removed his right hoove from the trigger guard. He clumsily slapped the bolt up and back, ejecting the spent cartridge. He fell back onto three hooves, and reset the rifle on his shoulder as he turned back to the trainees.

“So if this thing is so hard to use then why the hay are we training you how to use it?” he asked. Sparks knew the answer; it was the only logical reason. He raised a hoove. “You there” The Artist called out, “why do we use this thing?”

“Because it’s the most effective weapon we have.” Sparks said, and the Artist nodded in approval.

“Absolutely. Nopony or any other creature has ever devised a more effective weapon. The griffons use this because it gives them the ability to kill from 300 yards at the drop of a hat. We use this because this gives you the ability to kill from 300 yards at the drop of a hat. And the unicorns use this because it gives them the ability to kill from 300 yards at the drop of a hat. They may have their mages, and their magic, but this”- he motioned to the rifle-“this makes everypony equal.”

“Enough talk though, Equestria needs you to know how to use these things, not how to pass a test on them.” The Artist motioned off to the range on the far end of the parade field. “Over there you will receive your rifle. We will teach you to load it, fire it, and clean it. Once you receive your rifle you will keep it with you at all times. You eat with your rifle, sleep with your rifle, run with your rifle. AM I UNDERSTOOD!”

“SIR YES SIR!”

“To the range then” The Artist ordered, and the 210 rose from the bleachers and began their walk.

“Hey, partner.” Sparks turned to Braeburn

“Yeah?”

“Now he may try to tell ya how ta use that rifle, but I don’t think he has a very good idea on how ta use it himself.”

“Who, The Artist?”

“Yessir, he may tell you otherwise, but ya always shoot on the exhale of your breath. Ya got ta control your breathin’. Oh, and squeeze the trigger, don’t yank it. Yankin’ it will mess up your shot. And keep the stock tight against your shoulder, unless ya want a bruise that bad.”

Sparks looked incredulously at Braeburn as he processed the information. “Are you sure about this Braeburn? I mean, this is the Calvary, they probably know what they’re doing. You want me to just disregard whatever they’re going to try and teach me?”

Braeburn nodded. “Yessir partner. Ya wanted me ta help ya, so Ah’m helpin’ ya. And remember, a week ago the Calvary didn’t exist, and our Major was a painter who never shot a rifle. Ah have. So remember what ah told ya, and ya’ll do fine.”

The ponies arrived at the range, which was little more than a long corrugated tin roof that extended over 200 individual benches. Past this building was 500 yards worth of various wood and steel targets at different intervals. All of this wasn’t as interesting as what was laid out on the benches before them.

“All you ponies on the machine gun teams follow, uh, that pony over there” The Artist said as he motioned to an earth pony at the far end of the range. “Everypony else take a bench and a rifle.”

Sparks sat down at the nearest bench available, and was only faintly aware of Braeburn taking the one adjacent to him. He sat and stared at the rifle before him. It was polished walnut, which stood in contrast to the dull but polished gunmetal greys. Sparks didn’t really know how the hay the thing worked, but even without that knowledge he knew that the rifle took considerable craft to make. Next to the rifle where ten clips of ammunition, the brass of the bullets glinting in the sun brightly.

“Look over here” Sparks turned over to face The Artist along with everypony else. “Ground rules before I tell you how to shoot. Rifles kill, so treat it like it is always ready to. If I ever see anypony pointing a rifle at anypony else they will run the mountain until they die. Keep it unloaded unless you intend to kill another pony.” The Artist frowned as he racked his brain for anything else, and then nodded his head. “And that’s it.”

“Alright everypony pick up your rifles” The Artist ordered, and whole line rustled with movement. Sparks finally got to weigh the rifle in his forehooves, using the table to help balance his body. Front heavy, no doubt due to the length and additional heavy steel at the front of the barrel. He slid his left hoove forward along the rifles bottom until the rifle felt balanced in his hooves.

“Now, I am going to give four commands, and you will follow all of them to the letter. When I say ‘Load’ you will open the bolt, take a clip, place it in the clip guide here”-he pointed to a small bridge piece above the rifles magazine- “and push the rounds into the rifle hard. You will do this twice, leaving the clip in the rifle the second time. Are we clear so far?”

“Sir yes sir.”

“Good. Next I will say ‘Ready’ and you will close the bolt and lock it down with force. If you do not the spring will throw the bolt back and you will run the mountain because you do not have the strength to push a bolt forward, and are pathetic. You will take the safety switch to the left of the bolt and push it forward. Forward to fire, back to block, Remember this. Are we still clear?”

“Sir Yes sir” Sparks said with everypony else as he looked over the rifle for the components mentioned. ‘Where the hay is the safety’ he thought. He looked over to Braeburn. ‘Safety?’ he mouthed. Braeburn pointed at a small lever hidden by the wood stock from where Sparks could see. He leaned his rifle to the right, and located the annoying switch.

The Artist spoke again. “Then I will order ‘Aim’, and you will line up the front sight post with the rear sight valley, and put that on the target, and hold your breath to steady the shot. Finally I will say ‘Fire’ and you will fire the rifle at the 50 yard target until empty, open the bolt, put the safety on and lay the rifle on the bench. Am I understood?”

“Sir yes sir”.

The Artist smiled slightly. “LOAD!”

Sparks levitated a clip of five rounds up and into the bridge piece with a ‘click’ signifying that it was locked into place. He pushed the rounds into the rifle with his hoove, and then knocked the clip out. The second clip floated and locked into position as he shoved the rounds in then quickly checked to see that they all fed into the magazine properly.

“READY!” Sparks put his hoove on the back of the bolt, and pushed hard. With a ‘ping’ the clip was shot out of the bridge piece as the bolt was pushed to the front. Sparks traversed his hoove over the bolt and pushed down, locking it into place. He magically pushed the safety forward. The rifle was ready to fire.

“AIM!”

Sparks took a long, deep inhalation as he focused on the notch in the metal a few inches from his face. He shifted his focus to the post about a foot and a half beyond that. It was simple; put top of the post in line with the notch, then put that in the middle of the circle 50 yards distant. He forced the wood of the rifle stock hard into his shoulder as the front post neatly came in line with the indent on the back. Sparks left hoove traversed the rifle up and slightly to the right as he finally got the bulls-eye in the distance to complete the three points needed. Notch, post, target, check. His right hoove slotted into the trigger guard.

‘Remember what Braeburn said’ he thought, ‘fire on the exhale, and squeeze the trigger instead of jerk it.’

“FIRE!” The line erupted in a cataclysmic roar, faint smoke filling the air. Down the range dirt was being kicked up everywhere, and aside from the occasional lucky shot the bulls-eyes stood unmolested. The only pony who hadn’t yet fired was Sparks.

He exhaled, and squeezed the trigger gradually, making sure that the motion would not throw off his aim. The rifle bucked back into his shoulder hard as the muzzle flash obscured the bull’s-eye in the distance. A split-second later he saw a chunk of wood erupt from about 6 inches to the right of the bulls-eye. His hoove left the trigger guard and hurriedly pushed the bolt up and back, a still smoking cartridge confirming the rifle was cleared. Now he pushed forward and down, and a metallic ‘click’ told him he was ready to fire again.

The rifle flashed forth, and at roughly the same spot another hole was punched in. Sparks now knew what to do. His hoove flew from the trigger guard to operate the bolt as he inhaled, then back to the trigger as he sighted during the exhale. He traversed the rifle to aim a half foot to the left of center. Fire. The rifle exploded forth again, and the center of the target blew out.

Despite the still ensuing roar of gunfire from all sides, Sparks was utterly focused. The whole world could have gone away, leaving just a pony, a rifle and a bulls-eye, and all would have been well. Even the ear splitting roar of the rifles around him didn’t register. He fired again, this time making a conscious effort to operate the bolt as fast as he could. The action was smooth as silk as a spent cartridge flew out of the gun. Sparks let up on accuracy and now focused on getting as many rounds to hit the bulls-eye as quickly as possible.

Within 20 seconds he closed the bolt for the last time and pulled the trigger to a slight click. He pulled the bolt up and back and took a quick look inside the chamber to check it clear. Ten smoldering cartridges lay scattered across the bench as Sparks flicked the safety switch back and gently set the rifle on the table. He looked out to the range, the bull’s-eye was reduced to shreds. The entire right side had been blown clear off, and the left was only held together by splinters. He sat back down, and only now noticed that his shoulder ached from the recoil.

“What do you know about that?” Sparks turned in surprise to see The Artist standing behind him a smile on his face. “The colt’s a natural.”

“Well that’s great partner!” Braeburn said with his almost mandatory ear-to-ear smile. “Ya even beat me at the shootin’ and this is your first time. Ah mean, ya finished first, ya just murdered that target, ya’re a natural, just like The Artist said ya were.” He paused for a second to take a bite out of one of the apples he had lined up at the mess halls table, and then continued. “Did ya see how many ponies had ta run ‘cause they couldn’t get the bolt right? Dear Celestia, must’a been ‘bout twenty. You’re better than all a them for sure. Ya might even get your mark for this!”

Sparks just looked at his daffodil and daisy sandwich in thought as he massaged his bruised shoulder. “Yeah, I might, huh?”

“Course ya might! Ya beat everypony at that rifle, right outta’ the gate!” Braeburn took another bite from the apple. “Ah wonder what a rifle mark would even look like?” he said as he leaned back in his bench. Sparks set his sandwich down without even a bite.

“Is that what I want though? He said as he looked at Braeburn. “Rifles kill, so do I want a mark that says it’s my natural talent to kill other ponies?”

Braeburn took another bite from the apple, and scratched his chin with a hoove in contemplation. “Well, just ‘cause ya got a rifle mark-which we don’t even know just yet- doesn’t mean that your talent’s just ta shoot other ponies. Ah mean, Ah got a rifle, and ah’ve never shot anypony before.” He looked at Sparks, who still had a pronounced frown. “Besides, ain’t this the whole point? Goin’ out here ta find your destiny? Ah thought ya would be happier ta find somethin’ you’re good at.”

Sparks shrugged, “I just don’t want to go home knowing that I’m meant to do harm instead of good.”

“Sometimes ya do good by doin’ harm on bad people, if that make ya feel better.” Sparks stared blankly, head cocked slightly to one side. “ya ain’t buyin’ that, are ya?” Sparks shook his head no. “Well would ya rather I said ‘Partner, ya think you’re somethin’, but ya ain’t? This time tomorrow everypony will be better than ya, and there’s no chance at gettin’ a destiny from this?”

“Honestly, kinda.”

“Well then partner, ya think you’re somethin’, but ya ain’t. This time tomorrow everypony will be better than ya, and there’s no chance of getting’ a destiny from this .Only reason ya did so good today is ‘cause ya took mah advice.”

A bit of relief shown in Sparks face. “Maybe that is why I did so well, just following your advice. Thanks.”

Braeburn nodded “Nothin’ to it.” Another bite. “Ya know” he said as he chewed, “ya’re just about the strangest little pony ah’ve ever met.”

A smile finally cracked on Sparks face. “Thanks again.”

“It’s what ah’m here for.” Braeburn paused to take another bite from the apple, but all that was left was the core. He shrugged, and grabbed up the next apple in his row, then leaned forward. “But ya know what ah think?”

“What?”

“Ah think that ah’m gonna take ya ta task once mah Marechester shows, whether ya’re a natural or not.”

Author's Notes:

Well, only about two weeks behind schedule! I blame my deadbeat editor, updates should start becoming more frequent,just expect it to take a day or so once published to actually look good grammatically.

Anybody wanting to know more about the Clockwork Canterlot SMCC can find out more here

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzmY7gXguuQ

Yeah, its just a Lee Enfield. what can I say? its awesome!
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