The unicorns of 3rd platoon gathered in the center of the rifle range. Over the week the clean grassy field of the rifle range had been ground up by preparation for war into a scarred wasteland. Shattered and bullet ridden wooden targets lay scattered haphazardly across the field, and running down the center was the trench dug for the combined arms exercises. Amongst all of this was The Artist, standing with another unicorn and with a crate at his feet.

He kicked the latches off of the crate, and produced a rounded metal sphere roughly the size of an apple with a latch similar to the crate latches on the top.

“This is a grenade. It’s a new weapon, developed by the unicorns, and it is the most dangerous item that you will deal with in your training here. This is more dangerous than your rifles,and your spears. If you do not show this the level of respect that it deserves it will kill you, and very likely everypony around you.”

He looked intently at the grenade as if he were studying it. “It’s simple in its design, but deadly. Upon opening the latch on top, a five second timer is set off. At the end of five seconds it detonates five ounces of explosives, which shoots metal fragments at 2000 feet per second. Once it goes off it’ll kill anypony within a fifteen yard radius. It doesn’t kill quick or clean, but it’ll still do it.”

“The unicorns like to throw them through windows and into confined spaces, and they work well on trenches. Observe.” The Artist popped the latch with a hoove, reared up on hind legs, and threw it into the trench before them. After a few seconds there was a loud BANG, and some dirt flew out of the trench.

‘That’s it?’ Sparks thought in confusion. “He’s been building this up and that’s the worst it does? As he turned to look around, it was obvious that everypony else was unimpressed too. Joe snorted in disapproval. The twins shrugged. Everypony else stared off in different directions or pawed at the ground.

“Retrieve the Targets instructor”, The Artist ordered. The unicorn that stood nearby levitated 6 wooden targets from the trench, and at once everypony stopped what they were doing.

Two of the six targets were held together by splinters only, hardly an inch unscathed by the fragments the grenade threw through them at 1200 miles per hour. The next two faired only marginally better, but still had enough damage to make it apparent that it would have killed anypony in that range. Only the two farthest from the grenadeseemed survivable, but even then there were enough gashes to guarantee severe injury, maybe a slow, grueling death..

The Artist gave a low whistle in respect for the grenades potential, then faced the unicorn crowd. “It’s very effective, but these things can kill you if you are not careful. That’s why you are here, not to be trained on how to use these, but how to use these safely. But first…” The Artist retrieved another grenade from the crate, faced out toward the field again, and popped the latch. He reared up on hindlegs to throw, but as he did so the grenade rolled off of his hoove and fell to the ground behind him with a ‘clink’. It rolled lazily up to a petrified crowd of the 26 unicorns of 3rd platoon.

Sparks stared at the little metal ball in horror, just like everypony else. ‘Celestia, we’re all dead.’

No. Not all. Not everypony. In an instant Sparks knew what his destiny was. It wasn’t what he wanted, but it was why he was here. He sprung forward and put his body on the small metal sphere, putting as much of him as he could between the crowd and the death beneath him. One in exchange for twenty five. It was good enough. He shut his eyes tight. For a split second he saw Amber at the projector back in Fillydelphia. There was a flash of light.

‘I’m sorry.’ And with that Sparks waited for inevitability.

The light disappeared, and Sparks heard a voice. “You’re a hero private. The first one of the war.” Sparks opened his eyes and was met with Celestia’s glaring sun. A silhouette appeared over it and Sparks couldn’t make out who it was. “You’re in all the papers now, you’re famous. Celestia gave a speech in your honor, says that today is to be made a holiday in your memory. Ponies say that they may even make a statue in the Canterlot gardens of you.”

Sparks looked up; he still couldn’t make out the figure in front of him. He became aware of the grass beneath him and of an ache in his ribs. He looked down, and saw the grenade pushed slightly into the ground.

‘I’m alive,’ he thought in awe.

He looked back up and saw that it was The Artist that stood over him, and for a brief second felt stupid that he thought it would be anypony else. The Artist looked at him with a strange air of admiration. Suddenly his face turned dark with anger.

‘Oh crap’ thought Sparks.

“You’re also dead! And an idiot!” The Artist yelled. He reached out with a hoove and grabbed Sparks’ horn. “What’s this tumor growing out of your head?” he shouted as he shook his hoove violently.

Strangely enough a thought ran through Sparks head as The Artist jostled him about. ‘Don’t crack like 801.’ Sparks yelled his answer, “Sir, that is my horn sir!”

“Does it work private!?” the Artist yelled.

“Sir, yes Sir!”

“I’m not convinced private; if it did work then you would have attempted to do something less idiotic than jump on a live grenade! Do you know any magic!?”

“Sir yes sir!”

“Then that means that either you were incapable of preforming it or were too stupid to think too! Were you too stupid to think to use magic on the grenade!?”

“Sir no sir!”

“I don’t believe you Private. I think that it’s time to ‘get rid of the dead weight’ around here. If you are incapable of using magic, then we need to get rid of this tumor.” The Artist turned and faced the unicorns, keeping Sparks pinned to the ground by his horn. “You!” The Artist shouted, pointing at the medic on Sparks’ squad. “Amputate this growth from the private!”

The medic took a step back away from The Artist. “Sir, a-are you sure?”

“Yes medic, I need you to cut this tumor out of the private!” The Artist said in exasperation. The medic stood immobile, horribly confused by the order. The Artist shook his head. “Come over here medic, now.” The medic slowly trotted over. With one hoove The Artist threw open the medics’ saddlebags as the other kept Sparks pinned. The Artist cracked a smile, and then retrieved a bone saw with his teeth.

“Prepare to stabilize the casualty” he said through gritted teeth, as he twisted his head and aimed the bone saw for the base of Sparks’ horn. The medic looked on in horror, as did most every other pony.

Sparks looked at The Artist intently as the bone saw drew closer. ‘He isn’t going to do it’ Sparks though with confidence, ‘I’m not going to break like 801’. Sparks looked into The Artists eyes, trying his best to stare him down. As the bone saw touched the base of his horn, Sparks noticed that the confidence that he was showing was also burning in The Artists eyes. ‘Oh Celestia’ Sparks realized in horror, ‘he is about to cut off my horn!’

On instinct Sparks levitated the bone saw right out of The Artists mouth, and threw it into the trench. Instead of expressing shock or anger The Artist grinned in triumph. “So you can use magic! That makes you an idiot! Why didn’t you just throw the grenade in the trench private?”

“Sir, I did not think to sir!” and indeed, Sparks felt like a total idiot. ‘Crap’

“Idiot” The Artist said dismissively with a wave of a hoove. “don’t bother getting up, private”, The Artist said as he turned to all the other ponies.

“At least this idiot died a hero.” The Artist gave a look of utter contempt to the twenty five unicorns that stood before him. “if it wasn’t for this one dead idiot I would be looking at twenty four dead and dying idiots, and I would have to write twenty four notes to family saying: ‘Your son is dead because he was an idiot’,”

“If we are going to fight a war against an intelligent enemy that is skilled in the use of magic I need our unicorns to be able to beat them on magical terms. The Calvary can teach magic, but we cannot teach intelligence. I had 23 ponies whose best idea when confronted with a grenade was to die. I had one idiot who jumped on it. He’s dead now, but Celestia, he did something.”

The Artist now brought a hoove to his chin and looked in contemplation at the group. “I did have two of you that did do something else entirely though.” He pointed now at the unicorn twins who stood at towards the back of the group. “The two of you shielded yourselves after the idiot jumped on the grenade. Interesting. Why didn’t you put the shield over the grenade?”

The twins looked to each other quickly, looking for the other to answer. Finding nothing, they faced The Artist.

“Well, my brother and I,sir, we-“

“We didn’t think to put the shield there, sir.”

The Artist nodded in contemplation. “Equestria needs ponies that can react to changing scenarios and respond intelligently to them. Because these two are the only ones that reacted they are the only ponies who are not running the mountain. If you aren’t back in a half hour you run it again. Understand?”

“Sir yes sir.”

The Artist nodded. “Dismissed.” Sparks started to his hooves to run with the others, but a tap on the shoulder stopped him. “Dead ponies can’t run private, you stay here.” Sparks nodded and sat back on the ground.

As the as the thundering of hooves faded into the distance the instructor finally spoke. “Major, how am I supposed to train the unicorns in magical deterrents to grenades if they are running up a mountain?”

The Artist shrugged, “oh, dreadful sorry about that, take thirty minutes, train them when they get back.” The instructor snorted briefly in disappointment, and then turned and started for the mess hall. The Artist’s mouth quirked, repressing a grin. “Rarely have I seen a pony that is disappointed in a break from work. Good thing he is though, need good CO’s like him.”

The Artist turned to the twins now. “The hero deserves a proper burial; see to it.”

For once the twins didn’t act uniformly; one quickly dug through his saddlebags and retrieved his entrenching tool, flipping it open with a well-practiced shake of his hoove. The other was more hesitant, clearly confused. “Sir, why do we have to dig, sir?”

“Why do you think? To bury the hero, I already told you that.” Even as the brother began digging the other shook his head.

“But sir, we we’re the only ones who used magic against the grenade: we passed. Why do we have dig?”

“Get to digging and I’ll tell you.” The Artist said. The second brother dutifully retrieved his entrenching tool and started digging with his twin, who had already dug a hole three feet deep in the short amount of time that had passed. The second brother looked to The Artist for answers.

“The reason that you two are digging is because I have to train instinct out of you.”

“Beg pardon sir, how do you mean, train instinct out of us?”

The Artist trotted up to the shallow hole they were digging and leaned in to the second brother. “When I dropped that grenade you didn’t have time to think, only to act impulsively. How did you react?”

“My brother and I raised a shield.”

The Artist shook his head. “No, the answer is selfishly. The action that you took would only save yourselves. If the idiot over there wasn’t here then I would be looking at 23 casualties. On instinct his thought was to save everypony else. One casualty. I can’t have ponies in my army that put themselves in front of their countryponies. I need you two to change. Understood?”

The brother nodded once, a little wiser. “Get to digging then and think on it”, The Artist said, and then trotted over to Sparks and left the twins to their work. He took a seat, and then turned to Sparks. “Do you know what your problem is, son?”

Sparks thought for a moment, mainly on how to respond. He didn’t know what his problem was, other than that he jumped on a grenade instead of doing anything smarter. “Sir, I do not know sir.” He finally said, hoping that this answer wouldn’t merit an outburst. Thoughts of 801 still hung fresh in his memory.

Much to Sparks surprise The Artist nodded. “Of course you don’t know, if you did you would have corrected it. Would you like to know?”

“Sir, yes sir.” Sparks said eagerly.

The Artist chuckled and stared off toward the looming mountain. “You can knock off the sir sandwiches, son. Consider yourself at ease until the others return. Where was I?” he sat for just a second, and then lit up in remembrance. “Ah, that’s right.” He turned to Sparks again. “You don’t embrace your strengths.”

This caught Sparks off guard. “How?”

“Perhaps a better place to start is what do you think your strengths are? I have to know what you think before I can help.”

Sparks sat and stared off into the distance as he tried to think of his strengths. He wasn’t strong, and wasn’t the smartest based on the grenade test. As Sparks tried to think of a thing that he could determine was an advantage that he had, he found that he couldn’t name one. ‘No wonder I don’t have a mark’ he thought glumly. He couldn’t think of anything that he could do. He gave his evaluation to The Artist.

“I don’t think that I have any, sir.”

The Artist instantly scoffed at this. “Like hay you don’t. I don’t know you very well son, but I can give you a few concrete strengths that you have. You jumped on the grenade, which shows that you are quick to react and also selfless. Stupid, maybe, but selfless. On that first day after running you up the mountain and PT I asked you to run it again, and you did so without hesitation. That shows drive and determination, and that you will do what needs to be done despite being given difficult or uncomfortable tasks.. And like it or not you are very good with a rifle.”

“Barring any of that, you can use magic. And judging by how effective the unicornians are that’s a pretty important strength.” The Artist leaned in towards Sparks slightly. “You can use magic, so use it. Understand?”

Sparks cocked his head to one side, “I already use magic.” The Artist simply sighed in reply.

“Well, hopefully you’ll know when to use it. Embrace your strengths private, and you will perform well.” He looked up to the twins, at least one of whom was digging at a ferocious pace. The Artist smiled slightly in approval. “You’re digging awfully quick son”, he called over. “Were you a miner or farmer?”

“No sir, sir.” The twin replied back. “My brother and I were traveling salesponies.” a voice emanated from the hole. “I prefer to think of myself as an inventor, brother.”

“So what is it? Inventors or salesponies?” The Artist asked.

“Both sir.” The digger replied. “We invent our own product, we don’t sell others. Our big one was the Super Speedy Cider Squeezy 6000.”

“Come again” Sparks asked.

“We built a mobile apple cider press, that’s what got us our marks. We even made a jingle.” The twins smiled with pride at the remembrance of it. The digger resumed digging, murmering as he shoveled.

“We’ve got opportune-i-tyyyyy in this ve-ry comm-unit-yyyyy”

The Artist looked somewhat annoyed. “That doesn’t answer my question. If you’re an inventor salespony then how are you so good at digging?”

“I…do… not… know,” the digger answered between throwing shovelfuls of dirt out of the grave. “I’m just”-crunch-“good at digging.”

Sparks briefly felt annoyed. ‘So he’s an inventor, salespony, and digger by birth? Why does he get three talents when I get none?’ his brief thought was interrupted by The Artist. “Muddy Ruts” he muttered with a single nod.

“Beg pardon?” asked the digger.

“Your fighting name is now Muddy Ruts. Feel free to let it be known.”

A voice emanated from the hole again. “My brother and I have always had similar names. Sir.”

“Then you had better do something that earns you a fighting name that is similar to your brothers, because I don’t care. And be more like your brother and dig faster!”

Sparks stared up at The Artist, brow furrowed, mouth a razor like line, simply waiting to be noticed. Finally The Artist looked down at Sparks. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“He gets a name for digging a hole, and I don’t get anything for jumping on a grenade?”

For a single second The Artist looked surprised “Oh, yes, a name. Hmm. Well.” He put a hoove to his chin and scratched as he looked to the mountain in thought. “Well, we could call you ‘Hero’, but that would go to your head.” He faced Sparks and cracked a smile. “We could call you ‘Idiot.’

Sparks chuckled slightly, “That name can be applied to everypony here sir.”

The Artist nodded in agreement and resumed his thinking. “Jumped on a grenade, let’s see. Got it.” He turned to Sparks with a mischievous grin on his face. “Ground Beef.”

“Ground Beef? What the hay does ‘Ground Beef’ mean?”

“Oh, it’s a Griffon thing.” The Artist said. “And I’ll leave it at that.”

“So I’m Ground Beef now?” Sparks asked in detest. He had no idea what it meant, and it certain as hay didn’t sound like a good fighting name. Repeater rifle, yes. Cold Blooded, yes. Even Muddy Ruts wasn’t a half bad fighting name. But Ground Beef? Awful.

His distaste for the name must have been apparent to The Artist, for he shook his head. “No, that will not do of course; I have nothing for you private. Sorry.”

The thud of hooves began to grow in the distance, and Sparks and The Artist looked toward the mountain to see the 23 ponies running back into the training area. The Artist sighed, and leaned over into the hole dug by the twins and said, “Time’s up, ponies. Muddy Ruts, go to the mess hall to let the instructor know that his class has returned and it’s time to resume training. Step to it!”

Muddy Ruts shot out of the hole toward the mess hall, and the other twin dutifully retrieved both entrenching tools and packed them back into their bags. By this time, the other ponies had returned and were resuming their positions, and with a slight sigh Sparks trotted over next to Joe, the unicorn that he knew best. They stared off at Foal Mountain for a moment.

“Why are you… sighing?” Joe rasped as he tried to catch his breath. “You didn’t… run up a mountain.”

“One of the twins got a name.” Sparks said in disappointment staring pointedly at the mountain. Joe kept looking at the mountain as well as he answered

“What?”

“Muddy Ruts.”

“Why… Muddy Ruts?”

“Because he dug a hole.” Sparks spat out in annoyance.

“Did you… get one?”

“No.”

Joe looked over at Sparks. “Don’t worry… you will. It’s like Cold Blooded said… your good.” He nodded and smiled a little, and then looked back to the mountain.

Sparks just sat there, contemplating Joes comment. The Artist believed in him, Cold Blooded believed in him, Repeater believed in him, even Joe believed in him. A worrying thought ran across his mind.

‘But I don’t,’

Muddy Ruts returned to the field with the instructor in tow, and a seminar on explosives survival began. Sparks hardly heard a word of it.

Author's Notes:

I Finally did it!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=usfiAsWR4qU

As you may tell, I'm relatively stoked. After 5 weeks of not publishing jack shit it feels pretty good just to get this stuff out there.
And if you care, I'm putting up the next two chapters in rapid succession. Expect the next one this time tomorrow