“PONY DOWN! PONY DOWN!” screamed 801, the earth pony squad leader. “FOUR-ONE-TWO, GET HIM BACK HERE!”

“SIR YES SIR!” Sparks yelled in response as he slung his rifle over his saddlebags and readied himself for the jump from the trench. Next to him another slight unicorn was pressed up against the trench wall, saddlebags filled with medical supplies and a red cross hastily plastered on his flank. As Sparks looked up to the lip rain fell into his eyes, he looked down quickly to wipe the rain from his eyes with his foreleg. Nope, not happening while he was covered in mud.

“READY!” the rifle ponies put their bolts forward, as they flattened themselves against the trench wall. Sparks looked to the earth pony in charge and nodded once. “AIM AND FIRE!” Everypony but Sparks rose up on hindlegs and began pouring rounds forth. Sparks felt a sudden burn on his ear and shook violently in response, a still smoldering .303 cartridge falling from his head into a puddle of muddy water before him.

“FOUR-ONE-TWO GET UP THERE! GO!” Sparks leapt up from the trench onto the field, the roar of the rifles directly behind him, and the air thick with the whirr of rounds. About twenty five feet away, a pony lay limply on his side. Sparks galloped over to the body, a tall and lanky unicorn, and threw his forearms around him. Behind him, the rifles stopped as he began to drag the body back to the trench “RELOAD! MG, SUPRESSING!”

To his back left, the MG began its horrifying symphony. He remembered what the Manehattenite said about it at lunch two days ago. “I don’t know why they even need you guys; you got your rifles, ten rounds each, about twenty seconds to empty them. I can unload ten rounds in one second. One-one-thousand, and I’ve done your job in a twentieth of the time.” Being in front of it, Sparks couldn’t argue with the Manehattenite. He glanced over his shoulder to see his distance from the trench, and immediately turned around. The muzzle flash from the machine gun extended at least three feet from the barrel, a tongue of roaring flame that drowned out all other noise with its fury. And it was shooting its standard 600 rounds per minute just feet to the left of him.

Sparks looked back down at the unicorn he was dragging through the mud. How long had it been since he had started the drag? Too long, no matter how much time it had been. Every second out here was another second to get himself killed. He dug his hindlegs into the dirt and gave a powerful shove to move the unicorn, but the muddy grass gave way under the pressure and he fell backwards to the ground with muffled thud. The machine gun still rattled off as Sparks got back up and resumed the drag.

Suddenly the air was still, the machine gun silent. Sparks ears readjusted to the quiet, only the sound of rain pattering on metal. Sparks knew what had happened, and he didn’t like it.

“THAT WAS PATHETIC AND UNACCEPTABLE! EVERYPONY LINE UP TO MY FRONT NOW!” The past week had eaten away at The Artists demeanor, and right now he looked mad as hell. “EIGHT-OH-ONE! TELL ME WHAT THE HAY WENT WRONG THERE!”

“Sir, 412 did not retrieve the casualty sir!” The Artist trotted right up to 801 and leaned in close, mouth contorted in rage.

“WHAT ELSE WENT WRONG!?”

Eight-zero-one tried maintaining his composure, leaning back slightly and licking his lips nervously “Sir, that was all Sir.”

The Artist simply leaned in closer. “That was all? Four-one-two did not retrieve the casualty, and that’s all you did wrong?” Eight-zero-one looked nervously off to the others in his squad, then back to The Artist.

“Sir, y-yes sir?” he stammered weakly. Sparks winced on his behalf. Wrong answer.

“EIGHT-OH-ONE, YOU HAVE WASTED MY TIME AND MY PONYS FOR TOO LONG! I CANNOT ACCEPT MEDIOCRE PERFORMANCE, AND I WILL NOT TOLERATE POOR LEADERSHIP! TELL ME WHAT YOU AND YOUR SQUAD DID WRONG OR SO HELP ME CELESTIA!” Eight-zero-one801 had been pushed back to the trench wall, and was shrinking now against the verbal onslaught. His eyes watered and his lip trembled as he opened his mouth to speak.

“S-sir, I-I, I don’t kn-know Sir” He whimpered as he curled up in a puddle of mud at the bottom of the trench.

“Well, Sergeant, I can’t even yell at you properly anymore,” The Artist rasped as he glared at the quivering mass at his hooves. “But I’ll let you know that your squad is hopeless.” He looked up to the rifleponies and pointed an accusatory hoove. “For starts, the only two ponies that you got that can shoot worth a pile of garbage are the hick there, the weakling there, and that one on the MG. Everypony else was just hoping Celestia would take time out of her day, fly down from Canterlot, and guide their bullets to the target.”

He pointed specifically at the tallest unicorn there. “You need to use common sense, or you will get killed first. I gave you a trench to use, so use it. You were sticking at least two feet out the top.” He motioned over to the unicorn Sparks had been trying to drag, “same applies for you.”

He pointed now at the medic, and his eyes lit back up with anger. “You, you might be the worst! Everypony else was trying, they sucked, but they tried! You haven’t even moved! You didn’t make any preparations to receive the casualty at all! In fact, run the mountain, when you get back, run it again. GO!” The unicorn got up hurriedly and began to gallop off to the hazy blur in the distance.

Now he looked to Sparks, and the fire in his eyes subsided as quick as it had come, replaced by something different, maybe worse. Remorse, and defeat. The Artist sighed, then spoke. “Kid, you are the best shot in this squad, and you try harder than any of them, but if you can’t drag anypony to safety in a week, I’ll wash you out, I can’t have anypony die because of your failings.” Sparks stood immobile, but inside he felt a pang of guilt.

The Artist finally moved his gaze to the lump of flesh on the ground. “That’s about it; your squad is a disgrace. The only ponies worth the cost to feed them are the hick and the MG team, and they are not worth a hill of beans if they don’t have a good leader. So you have one chance, tell me what you did wrong.”

Eight-oh-one didn’t even look to meet his gaze “Sir, I do not know sir.”

“Eight-oh-one, you are demoted to Private . I can’t have a leader as weak as you for my ponies. I can’t have you getting them killed because you are too stupid to know when you put them in danger. The only reason you aren’t washing out is because Equestria needs anypony it can get, even if it’s one as pitiful as you.” He looked up to the rest of the squad. “Can any of you tell me what he did wrong?” the pitter-patter of rain was the only answer he received. The Artist looked down at the ground and sighed in defeat. “Celestia help you, because I can’t, not anymore.” He looked over to Braeburn, “You’re in charge now, hick; you’re the only one worth keeping anyways. Run them up the mountain.”

Sparks glanced over at Braeburn quickly. If Braeburn was at all surprised about the recent turn of events, he did a very good job of hiding it. All he did was snap a salute, “Sir, right away, Sir.” Braeburn trotted to the front of the squad “Fifth squad, run the mountain, full battle dress. Ya’ll on the MG pack it and catch up, understood.” The two Manehattenites gave a quick nod. “Alright, Follow me.”

Braeburn turned and began to gallop off to Foal Mountain, everypony except the MG team following behind. The Artist watched them fade into the haze of the rain, and then checked his pocket watch. There were only five minutes until the next combined test. He sighed again. There was still a week to go, but these ponies just were not ready, not by a longshot.

“Ah wonder what this makes me, a sergeant maybe?” Celestia’s sun was getting low in the evening sky as Braeburn and Sparks trotted across the parade ground towards the processing building at the front of the camp. “That’ll mean ah got ta get the three chevrons put on mah left flank for identification.” Braeburns usual chipper mood had been subdued, the smile replaced by a stoic line.

Sparks turned to face Braeburn. “Alright, what’s bothering you? This is the first time I’ve ever seen you down, and considering we have been training to go to war that’s impressive. What’s up?”

Braeburn looked to the ground as they keep trotting forward. “It’s me bein’ a sergeant. Ah mean, ah’ve already told ya that ah don’t think ah can lead these ponies, and now ah’ve got ta lead these ponies. It’s just stress is all.”

Sparks chuckled, “Come on pal, you said that you run an apple orchard, so you have leadership experience. You’re smart enough, and I don’t think you’re a wimp like 801. You’re going to be a great squad leader.”

Braeburn shook his head. “Ah just don’t know ‘bout the smart enough part though,.If Ah was smart enough, then Ah would know what 801 did wrong today.” He turned and looked to Sparks. “And honestly partner, can ya tell me what he did wrong?”

Sparks had to admit, 801 really didn’t do anything wrong. Between the rifles and MG fire was consistent, orders were given clearly and with force, and the orders given would have fulfilled the mission parameters of getting the casualty back to the lines. In fact 801 had done well until he broke down in front of The Artist. Just as soon as the thought entered his head the events of the drill made sense.

“Maybe he didn’t do anything wrong, and The Artist just told him that to see how he would react? You know, maybe see how he would perform under duress?”

“Ya mean ya think the Major grilled that boy just ta see if he would break down?”

Sparks nodded in excitement, “Yeah, and when 801 freaked out, he failed the test. You wouldn’t do that, so you would pass. What do you think?”

Braeburn stopped trotting, and stared off into the sinking sun in contemplation. Finally he shook his head. “Partner, that makes sense, but ah can’t bank on it. If he really did make a mistake and ah just do what he did earlier today, then ah’ll fail too. Ah need to figure out what he did wrong, and ah can’t.” he sighed a little. “Ah well, maybe it’ll come ta me later”, he said without conviction. “Let’s just see if we got any mail.”

They trotted across the parade field and back into the processing building. The last room, which used to be choked with typewriters and administrators, now lay largely bare. What was important was the mailroom, tucked away in the far left corner.

The mail officer raised a hoove in recognition. “Looking for your mail.”

Sparks responded first. “Yes sir, anything for us today?”

The mail officer chuckled, “You haven’t gotten anything all week, and you think that will change today?”

“Yes.”

The mail officer nodded. “Okay. Identity tags please.” Sparks and Braeburn held their tags up to the unicorn, who nodded once in approval. “Alright, let me check and see what I’ve got.”

As the mail officer trotted to the backroom Braeburn turned to Sparks. “Ya think that they are denying us our mail?”

“What? Why on earth would they do that?”

“Ah don’t know, but don’t ya think it’s odd that we haven’t gotten our mail in a week?”

“Not really, it’s the mail. It’s usually this slow.”

“Not for me, when ah mail my cousin Applejack in Ponyville, it takes three days round trip.”

“Well, you don’t live in Fillydelphia;, it usually takes forever for mail to show in Fillydelphia.”

At this, the mail officer returned with a large package and a few letters in his mouth. He stopped at the table and set the letters down. “Two letters for 010518412, package for 010518393.”

Sparks levitated the letters on the table while Braeburn bit the strings off of his package. One letter was from mom and dad, the other from Amber. “Thanks.” He turned to Braeburn, who was busy opening his package. “Don’t you want to open that in the barracks?”

Braeburn shook his head. “Naw, ah’ve got ta check ta see if it’s all in one piece.” On the table in front of Braeburn was a long wooden crate. Braeburn popped the latches with a hoove, and then swung the lid open.

“That’s the Marechester?” Sparks asked

Braeburn nodded, smile back on his face. “Yessir partner, that’s her. Ain’t she sweet?” Sparks couldn’t argue. The whole rifle was about 4 feet long stock to barrel, and looked like it should have been a museum piece. The stock was walnut polished to a high sheen, the action and receiver a shiny brass, and the barrel and feed tube a bright nickel. The receiver was covered in beautiful swirling etchings. Sparks looked to the barrel, and instead of being circular like on his Clockwork Canterlot it was a heavy octagon. The feed tube had slits cut it at regular intervals so that the user could see how many rounds were left.

Braeburn picked the rifle up and slotted his hoove into the lever, and racked the rifle forward. He paused to check the gate on top for any rounds in the chamber, and then closed the lever. With one hoove, he pulled the trigger as his other eased the hammer back into the safe position. With skilled practice he popped up the rear sight leaf, and then adjusted it up and down to see that it was still in working condition. Satisfied with its condition, Braeburn put the leaf down and lay the rifle back in the crate. Lining the bottom of the crate were five boxes, each labeled “100 rds 30.-30 Marechester”. Braeburn nodded in approval, and then shut the box.

“Thank ya for the mail, sir,” Braeburn said with an honest smile on his face. The mail officer only shrugged in response. Braeburn turned to Sparks as he slung the large wooden crate onto his back. “Well come on partner, ya know what we gotta do now.”

Sparks looked confused for a second, “what do we have to do now?” By this point Braeburn was already heading for the door. Sparks started after him. “Where are you going?” Braeburn was outside by the time Sparks caught up. “What are you doing?”

Braeburn looked into the setting sun as he trotted along at a quick clip. Sparks and his short legs struggled to keep up. Braeburn abruptly turned a faced Sparks as he continued his driven trot. “How much time do ya reckon there is until the sun sets?”

“About an hour? Can you tell me what you’re doing?” Sparks said, almost having to gallop to keep up with the stallion ahead of him.

“Sure thing partner, now that ah got mah beautiful little Marechester, ah want ta use it, and that means ah gotta get mah superior officer ta approve it. ‘Cause The Artist hasn’t promoted anypony ta platoon captain yet, that means that ah got ta go ta him for approval. So, ah’ll get him, lead him to the range, and show him how great mah little sweetie here is. And Ah just thought that ya should tag along.”

“Okay, why?”

“So that ah could make ya feel better about yourself. Ya’re still concerned ‘bout being the best shot in the squad, right?” Sparks nodded after a second, he was still the squads best shot, and the possibility of having his destiny be that of murdering other ponies wasn’t appealing to him. “Good. Ya just follow me and the major ta the range, I show ya just how much better ah am than ya, and then, ‘cause ya’re just the strangest little pony ah’ve ever met, ya’ll feel better ‘bout yourself.” Braeburn smiled broadly at his plan, the depression that was present five minutes previous obliterated from memory.

They trotted into the barracks for first platoon and made an immediate right to the Major’s quarters. Braeburn rapped on the door with a hoove, and a few seconds later the door opened. The Artist stood before them, shrunken in stature, ears down, looking for the entire world like a defeated pony. He looked at Braeburn in recognition. “Ah, my newest sergeant, what do you want?”

Braeburn snapped a salute. “Sir, ah would like ta test out on mah own rifle, sir.” The Artist looked suspiciously at the crate, and then glanced over to the desk in his room. He looked back to Braeburn, “Alright sergeant, convince me that what you have in there is better than what I’ve given you and I’ll sign you off.”

Braeburn maintained his at attention posture. “Sir, permission ta bring the private, sir?” The Artist looked at Sparks with skepticism.

“Why?”

“The private is the best shot in mah squad., Ah figure that ah should compare mah results ta his.”

“Alright then,”, The Artist said with a shrug. “I need to get away from the paperwork anyway. Lead on sergeant.”

“Sir, yes sir.” The three trotted outside, and The Artist paused for a second to look into the setting sun. He sighed briefly, and then continued to follow Braeburn and Sparks. Braeburn looked at The Artist with concern. “Sir, permission ta speak freely, sir?”

The Artist nodded, “Yyes son, you can speak freely.”

“It seems that ya’re under a lot a stress. Maybe getting it off ya’re chest would do ya some good.”

For a moment, The Artist hesitated, as if debating with himself, then nodded, “Yes sergeant, you are correct. I was going to tell everypony tomorrow at Reveille anyways, but now is as good a time as ever. You know how the Royal Guard was holding the unicorns at the aptly named Unicorn Range?”

Sparks knew immediately what had happened. “Dear Celestia, how bad was it? Did the line stabilize?”

The Artist nodded. “It could have been worse. The Royal Guard is now using the Galloping Gorge to the north and the southern half of the unicorn range as a natural buffer. It funnels them into the forests in that area. Bad news is we now know their plans.”

Braeburn cocked his head to one side quizzically, “how do ya know their plans, and what are they?”

“We know because of how they are moving their army. If they wanted a land grab they would have swung south to the Whitetail Woods. They aren’t heading that way though, oh no.” The Artist stopped walking, and dropped his head to the ground. “They are going straight for Canterlot.”

Sparks furrowed his brow, “what does that mean for us?”

The Artist looked back up and met Sparks gaze. “All that this means is that if we get pushed back again, they rush the company to the front, two weeks training or not. And we need all the training we can get.” This was met with silence from Braeburn and Sparks, and the three ponies were lost in thought for the rest of the trot across the parade ground.

With the sun to their backs, they arrived at the rifle range, their shadows stretching off before them into the distance. Braeburn set the crate down on the bench before him, and popped the latches as Sparks unslung his rifle, and trotted to the ammunition shack to retrieve some rounds. Behind him he heard the crate open, and The Artists subsequent groan.

“Great, just great. I must say sergeant; this instills a lot of confidence. When you finish missing the enemy with your 50 year old archeological find, you can just use it to blind them. Sweet Celestia, you might be able to just buy them off….”

The voices faded into the distance behind him, and in a way Sparks was glad to be alone. He always was able to think better without distraction. ‘Celestia, I think of Braeburn as a distraction?’ the thought mortified him. ‘Calm down Sparks, rationalize. It’s been years since I’ve actually really had a friend, so I’m just used to being alone. And just because I think better on my own doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the company.’ The thought made him feel better, but just marginally. He needed to get his mind off of it.

As he opened the ammo shack and grabbed a tin of 100 .303 rounds, he found himself wishing he was thinking about his dumb introversion problem. The only other thing to think about was the fact that he had a week tops before he would be getting busy killing or getting busy dying. Neither option appealed to him, but given the choices the answer was easy. ‘At least I’m a good shot.’ He started trotting back to Braeburn and The Artist at the far end of the range.

It had only been a minute, but his brain was thinking at a thousand miles per second. ‘Will I even be able to shoot another pony? Will anypony else? How do the unicorns kill? Why?’ all questions without answers, at least not yet. He looked to his left at the range, and the various bulls eyes scattered across a field that now had a radiant orange hue from the sunset. ‘How will I react to a target that isn’t a plank of wood, but is a target that fights back?’

Luckily for Sparks, relief came in the form of The Artist calling over. “Private, you’re wasting my time, if you need motivation to move, the mountain’s right over there.” Sparks increased his pace. ‘Thank Celestia,’ he thought, ‘I could drive myself mad thinking of all of these questions.’

Sparks set his rifle on the bench next to Braeburn and opened the ammunition tin. He retrieved his clips from his saddlebags and began the process of slotting rounds in. At the adjacent bench, Braeburn was dropping his .30-30 rounds into spare rifle tubes. The Artist stood off in the corner rapping the ground impatiently with a hoove. “Alright sergeant, you have five minutes to make me a believer in your family heirloom. Go.”

“Yes sir,” Braeburn turned to Sparks. “Alright private, what ah want ya ta do is ta put thirty rounds into that bulls-eye at 150 yards. Me and you are gonna see who gets done first. Ya clear?”

“Yeah, I’m clear,” Sparks replied as he topped off his third five round clip. Braeburn turned to The Artist.

“Sir, would ya happen ta have a watch?” The Artist pulled one from his uniforms vest pocket and held it up for Braeburn to see. “Great. If ya could give us the firing orders that would be nice.”

Sparks finished topping off his last clip, then looked over to Braeburn and nodded. Braeburn lazily faced The Artist. “Ready when ya are, Major.”

The Artist looked at his watch, eyes and body clearly conveying just how little he cared about this. He didn’t bother to look up as he gave the order. “Load.” Sparks opened the bolt and charged the first clip. To his right Braeburn nonchalantly picked up a rifle tube and slotted it into position under the rifle, then locked it into place. As Sparks charged the second clip he was still thinking. The Artist stood in the corner, now fixated on a spot of rust in the corrugated tin roof of the range. Braeburn leaned back in his bench and stretched his forearms.

‘Am I the only pony here who cares about this?’ Sparks thought. The Artist now issued the next order, “ready”, never once looking way from the suspect rust stain. As Sparks pushed the bolt home and locked it into position with a satisfying ping, Braeburn simply racked the lever forward and back.

‘Yes, I’m the only one who cares’ Sparks now thought glumly. Yes, The Artist probably wouldn’t care, but that was fine. What was annoying was the absolute lack of interest Braeburn was showing, and he was the one who wanted to do it.

“Aim.” Sparks and Braeburn both shouldered their rifles. Just as he had been doing all week Sparks completed the picture, setting it dead on the 150 yard wooden target. He heard a mumble to his right, and glanced over to see Braeburn flipping up his rear sight leaf and making a quick adjustment. Sparks inhaled deeply, and awaited the order.

“Fire.” Both rifles went off simultaneously, Braeburns shooting out flames at least two feet long. The report from Braeburn’s Marechester drowned out the noise of Sparks SMCC . Sparks hoove flew from the trigger guard with practice and pulled the bolt up and back. He pushed the bolt forward, and the second it hit the front position another cataclysmic BANG issued forth. Sparks jumped in his seat ‘sweet Celestia, my rifle slamfired.’

This thought was quickly interrupted by a rapid mechanical ‘schick-chick’ from his right, followed immediately with another ear-splitting BANG. Sparks realized that his rifle hadn’t slam fired earlier, the bang came from Braeburn. ‘And he’s fired three for my one’ Sparks thought as he locked his bolt and fired his second shot.

Sparks fired as fast as he could and still maintain accuracy, but Braeburn was pulling away fast. Sparks fired his tenth and last round as Braeburn fired his fifteenth. Sparks kept the bolt open, put a clip into the charging bridge and slammed the rounds in with a hoove. To his right Braeburn had stopped firing, and Sparks could hear the metallic actions of him reloading. ‘the only way I can beat him is on the reloads’ Sparks thought briefly as he knocked the first clip out and levitated the second one into the charging bridge. As sparks pushed the rounds in he heard the telltale “schick-chick” the Marechester made when it was racked. He closed the bolt, but it was too late, the Marechester and Braeburn were blasting forth again.

Braeburn fired another 13 shots in rapid succession, each one blasting a chunk of wood from the 150 yard target. Braeburn slowed up with his last two, the first hitting one of the posts the target was held on and severing it. As the target spun lazily Braeburn fired at the second post, and the bullet riddled target collapsed to the ground. Sparks fired his 9th, then his tenth, and opened the bolt to charge another clip.

“Private.” Sparks didn’t notice as he placed the clip in the charging bridge and prepared to slot the rounds in. “PRIVATE!” Sparks looked over to Braeburn. “Ya can cease fire now, partner.” Sparks nodded slowly in recognition, then put his rifle down. He had only gone through twenty rounds; ten still lay out on the table.

The air was heavy with smoke, which still poured from every opening available on the Marechester. All was silent on the range, Sparks and The Artist still with disbelieve. Braeburn simply smiled at his handiwork. The smoke dissipated out, but the silence remained. Finally, The Artist spoke.

“OK. I’m a believer.” He tried hard to sound disinterested, and kept his body still, but Sparks could tell that The Artist was impressed by no small amount. “Your rifle puts a lot of lead downrange son.”

Braeburn nodded, and then smiled even more. “Lead downrange,” He muttered, then looked up. “Ah figured out what 801 did wrong this mornin’.”

The Artist blinked in confusion. “What was that now?”

“Ah figured out what 801 did wrong during the combined test.”

The Artist looked in confusion, furrowing his eyebrows and pursing his lips. “What did eight-zero-one do wrong?”

“Well Sir, he should’a staggered our rifle fire so that there wouldn’t have been that pause when we had ta reload. If he did that then he wouldn’t a had ta hold the machine gun fire ta wait ta cover our reloadin’, we coulda had that shootin’ the whole time. He also should’ve ordered the runner ta give his rifle to the MG loader in order ta maximize our firepower.”

Upon hearing this The Artist now looked genuinely surprised. “Huh, well, I hadn’t thought of that. I just wanted to know if he had the conviction to stand by his orders, or ask what he had done wrong.” The Artist furrowed his brow again, this time in thought. Finally, he made a proclamation.

“Sergeant, I believe that you have demonstrated fighting spirit and intellect enough to merit an award. From now on you will no longer be refered to by ID number, but have earned a good fighting name. You are now ‘Repeater Rifle’ until this war is up. Having been named you can issue names to other such outstanding ponies. Congratulations Repeater, you have earned it.”

The pony once known as Braeburn smiled and saluted. “Sir, thank you sir,” Repeater Rifle said.

Author's Notes:

holy crap was that a lot of writing, at least for me. My number one assistant did a whole mess of editing, so props to her.

for anyone interested, here is Braeburn's rifle.

the only difference is the lever also serves as the trigger-guard, and the tube slides out to facilitate quicker reloading.

next chapter will be up someday.