Fallout Equestria: Dawnbreakers

Fallout Equestria: Tomorrow Never Comes

Chapter One

Five Months, Two Weeks, and Three Days

I was a corporal with the Caravan Defense branch of the NCR Army. Not what I would have picked had I been given a choice in the matter, but you do what you gotta do.

When I first signed up at the ripe old age of 19, I had a much different idea of what the enlisted life entailed. The big difference between me and the other recruits, was that I thought it would be even more boring than escorting caravan after caravan down the same roads every other day.

The other guys imagined action and adventure; ducking under gunfire and ridding the world of "the remnant raider scum"; having a whole assortment of pretty medals, and going home with the hot mares they had "saved from the barbaric tribals". Me? I thought it would be a lot of paperwork, a shit ton of standing in front of some gate, and endless discussion of the political motives of the army. Add to that my lack of a horn or a set of wings, and I was almost guaranteed a job devoid of excitement.

The advantage I had over the other ponies in my division was that I was at least half right. There was a lot of paperwork, and a shit ton of standing in front of gates. If I had only swapped "political talk" with "debriefing about an uneventful day", I would have been dead on. Aside from the usual formal jargon, I escorted fifty-six caravans to the border of NCR territory and back over the course of seven years, with only four attacks, and luckily, no deaths. The occasional raider or tribal attacks consisted of us being fired at from behind some rubble, us organizing a defensive stance, and them realizing that they were hopelessly outgunned and retreating. Had there simply been more people alive out in the wastes that were willing to have high valued cargo moved into their settlements, I'm sure I would have been running many more routes. But wasteland settlements were never really big on having a walking ambush-attractant marched into their towns without some way of defending themselves adequately. Homefront guards with single shot rifles weren't going to cut it against raiders.

We knew that raiders weren't as eager to go pillaging in the territories that were under the jurisdiction of a trained military force, but there was always the occasional attack. Always.

The "scarred and doped" bunch usually did what they did best just past the outskirts of NCR lines. Soldiers weren't allowed to pursue raiders or set up defensive lines past the borders, so there was never any official record of the frequency of attacks on settlements unaffiliated with the republic, but everyone knew they happened, and a whole lot more than they happened to us.

But it wasn't like this for long, the wasteland, as unforgiving as it was, would make sure of that.

But, I'm getting a little ahead of myself. So, I guess I should start everything off on the morning of what would be my fifty-seventh caravan escort assignment. Another ordinary day.

===        ===        ===

Mornings always seemed to come just a little too early. If they would wait just another ten, or even five minutes, I’d be ready to get up and greet the rays that attacked my eyelids and drug me from the calm of sleep. If they would wait just that little extra time, I’d be ready to face everything that was on my assignments list that day.

It’s not like anypony really had a choice in the matter though. If the morning itself didn’t wake you, the bugle shortly after would, and if that didn’t work still, the sound of the Sergeant Major’s hoofsteps in the hall never failed. It’s especially fun to watch the privates’ fall out of bed at the sound in fear of being made an example of (again) in front of their platoon. This also worked as an incentive to get up early to witness the inevitable yelling and berating session, should a recruit still be under his sheets when the Sergeant Major walked through the door.

Lucky for me, I learned quickly in the first months of my service, so I was up as soon as Celestia’s gift to Equestria had interrupted whatever I happened to be dreaming about that night. I looked at the clock over the door to the entrance of the barracks; 05:28. In my seven years of service, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sergeant Major Billet arrive any later than 05:30 a.m. for inspection. Not even by a minute.

Looking around my shared sleeping quarters, it was immediately obvious who was adequately experienced with mornings in the NCR Army. That is, they were already up, had made up their sheets, and were awaiting Billet's regular morning routine. I was just finishing remaking my sheets, and was going to use the short remainder of my time getting my last round of morning stretching in, before being subjected to five minutes of standing in place. Not counting however long it would take Billet to embarrass anyone who hadn't been up and ready.

"Hey, Dusk, check it out." A familiar, hoarse voice half-whispered to me from across the room.

Looking back, I saw a stallion with a cream colored coat motioning towards the other end of the barracks. I turned to look and saw, among other ponies finishing their morning routine, a rather large lump hidden under a set of NCR Army regulation bed sheets.

"Ah shit. Weaver again?" I called back towards CB, the same cream colored unicorn that I had become well acquainted with over the past three years.

"You know it." CB, still half whispering, called back. "Damn kid's never not been one of the last up. If not the last one up. Looks like Billet's gonna get to have a little fun with him today."

"Yeah, looks like it." I responded disgruntledly.

As fun as watching Billet go batshit on a recruit always was, I was really hoping to just get through morning inspection without any kind of hang up. Judging from the knot in my lower back, I hadn’t slept too well last night. It seemed no one else shared my feelings on the matter though, as everyone had already gotten into position at the foots of their beds, and had begun snickering quietly amongst themselves whilst pointing towards Private Weaver, still fast asleep underneath those green, wool sheets, as the clock displayed 05:29.

“Dammit kid. Ughhh, I really don’t want to do this this morning.” My voice was still weak from sleep, and matched perfectly how I currently felt physically. It’s not that the past few days had been particularly exhausting, or well, eventful at all for that matter, but two weeks of everyday-military routine could still take its toll on a pony’s mind and body and make him want to crawl back into bed for ten more minutes.

CB, still standing at attention, glanced over and noticed my apparent annoyance.

“What? You still sore from kicking and rolling around all damn night?” He asked in what was his own trademarked brand of humor. “I swear it keeps me up more than it does you! Those bedsprings aren’t exactly quiet.”

I remembered my night terrors; the same ones I'd had for years now, and then I forced myself to stop recalling them. I didn't want to, not right now.

“Guess I’ll have to see if Billet would get someone to fix it up.” I replied in what had become my own brand of blithe.”Then maybe I could see if North Star wanted to come spend the night and see if they were any quieter.”

“Alright, joke’s over, Sergeant Major will be here any second now.”

He shot back his responding comment with less humor than the first. I felt a small sense of achievement at having put him out of his comfort zone.

Spending too much time around CB would do that to you. Eventually you’d get so fed up at the way he jokes about even the smallest things, that you’d start to develop your own form of sarcasm and dry wit, just so your subconscious could feel like it was keeping up with him during a normal conversation. North Star was a medical nurse pony that CB had taken a fondness to early on when he first arrived at Fort McCanton. It’s not like I thought she would even consider the offer coming from me though. Despite his somewhat embarrassing attempts at trying to attract the attention of a mare that lived and worked in a building far off the beaten trail from where we were usually sent on-base to train, she eventually did show that she returned the feelings shortly after her first run-in with CB after his accident.

I still can’t tell if he did it on purpose or not. With how badly his leg was broken, I’m inclined to believe it was an accident, but you can never tell with CB. What most likely happened, is that he got the idea in his head that if he banged his foreleg up just enough during rappel exercises, he’d get a quick trip to the infirmary, and would finally get the chance to talk with North Star.

What actually happened, was that he got the rope twisted around one of his back hooves while nearing the ground, flipped upside down, and slammed his right foreleg into the hard dirt. Fracturing it in three places. I wouldn’t have done it, and I don’t like to think CB would be dumb enough to do it on purpose, but you really can’t ever tell. Anyway I guess if he did have a plan at the beginning of it all, it worked out in the end. He did get a trip to the infirmary and a chat with North star, along with some painkillers and a cast that someone drew some pretty lewd things on the first night he had it for making rappel exercises unnecessarily long.

Wonder who that could have been.

Looking back down to the other end of the barracks, I saw that the same lump under the sheets that had been the center of attention this whole time had suddenly started to stir. The young, teal-coated earth pony tossed his sheets down to the foot of his bed, followed shortly after by the muffled laughter of everypony else in the room. After adjusting his sight to the fluorescent lighting,  rubbed the crust out of his eyes, rolled over in bed, and greeted us all with the most fantastic “Oh shit!” look I’ve ever seen. He quickly threw his hooves onto the floor, and jumped past his bunk to check the time. 05:30.

I doubt he could have thought he still had time left, but that didn’t stop him from attempting to remake his sheets in the most fantastically frantic manner you could have imagined. And all for the viewing pleasure of the rest of his platoon. I was surprised to see him actually finish replacing the sheets and his one pillow, and up to standard, too. It was then that the faint sound of a door closing somewhere in the building was heard. At least, it would have been faint if everyone hadn’t have been completely silent, witnessing a recruit, maybe a little more than metaphorically, shitting himself.

Weaver was now desperately working with his trouser belt, as every single eye in the room was on either him or the grey door on the opposite side of the room. Both groups were eagerly awaiting the Sergeant Major’s entrance and inevitable witnessing. Weaver had just finished adjusting his fatigues and moved lickety-split into attention at the foot of his bed. It was at that instant that the door began to open, and Sergeant Major Billet began his stride inward, a sense of authority and a look of austerity about him; his vine green coat and grey-streaked black hair complementing almost uniformly against, well, his uniform, which was the standard NCR shade of light brown.

Weaver stood there with a look of complete and utter seriousness on his face. The rest of the ponies in the room, myself included, wore looks of astonishment. We had just observed somepony get out of bed, remake his sheets, don his fatigues, and move to attention in what couldn’t have been more than thirty-five seconds.

You could color me impressed.

“Good morning, you ugly sons of bitches!” Sergeant Major Billet bellowed whole-heartedly upon entering the room, in a voice that I was sure would haunt me to the grave and beyond. “It is an absolutely beautiful day to be in the NCR Army, wouldn’t you all agree?”

“Sir, yes sir!” Was echoed through every inch of the building. Returning any question with this exact answer or its negative counterpart was one of the first things new recruits learn upon entering Fort McCanton. Luckily enough, it was also one of the easiest things to learn, lest you be reprimanded repeatedly for responding with “Yes sir!” or “Okay sir!” or even the dreaded, “Yeah.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear in the morning!” Billet continued as he walked around the room, inspecting everypony from head to hoof, before moving on to the next soldier standing at attention in the line formed down the center of the room. He continued in this fashion all the way down my side of the room, looking for the smallest infraction in the way your fatigues were worn, or any kind of crease or untucked corner in your bed sheets, or if the personal belongings on your bedside table were arranged in a disorganized manner. I was second in the line, directly across from CB, and five beds up from Weaver, who bunked in the bed closest to the far wall on the same side of the room as me.

Billet had long since looked me over, as he had done for the past seven years, and was nearing the end of the line on my side of the room, closer and closer to Private Weaver. All eyes were strained to turn as far as they could to view Weaver’s inspection, but none dared to turn their heads to any direction other than straight ahead. Upon reaching Weaver in the line, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, just the slightest hesitation from Billet as he stopped directly in front of the fast-as-lightning Private. Billet towered over him by at least eight inches.

“You’re going to have to forgive me in my old age Private!”

Billet yelled unnecessarily loud for how close his muzzle was to Weaver’s. A few days at the fort, and you quickly realize that this was very intentional.

“It seems as though my memory is fading, what was your name and identification number again?”

“Sir, Private Garland Weaver, ID 3670838, sir!”

Weaver shot back his personal call sign like a professional. Or more appropriately, a novice trained extensively to appear as if he were a professional. I knew that Billet already knew Weaver’s name and ID, just like I knew that Weaver would have been the only pony Billet would have asked that question, considering the fact that he’s the freshest recruit in our division. He hadn’t even been here a whole year yet.

I always wondered why the ID numbers for soldiers were so long. There’s no way that they’ve had that many ponies enlist, even counting all the ones that have flunked out over the course of the Army’s existence. I had pinned it down to the higher-ups wanting to make them longer than they needed to be just to help train recruits with memorization. I never had any proof of this, but as sadistic as Officers were towards fresh enlistees, I wouldn’t have doubted it. I may have even bet on it.

“You must be fairly new here compared to all these other fine ponies!” Billet continued to bellow into the now slightly shaking Weaver. “Hell you might just be plain new to the Fort in general, I can still smell a little whiff the enlistment office when I come near you!”

Whether or not Sergeant Major Billet could actually smell traces of the Ponyville enlistment office was unclear to the division. It had been agreed upon, however, that he could in fact smell fear, and was even drawn to the scent.

Still unsure of how to respond to the usual poking and prodding of Billet, Weaver chose to stand quietly instead of answering with something that could earn him a reprimand.

“Tell me Private Garland Weaver, exactly how long have you been here at Fort McCanton?”

I knew that Billet knew the exact answer to this question as well, and was trying to provoke some kind of slip up on Weaver’s part. Trying to get him to show his green.

“Sir, five months, two weeks, and three days , sir!”

It didn’t seem like Billet was going to be satisfied this morning, and would have to suffice with more verbal jabs, before completing the morning inspection, after which the recruits were marched off to physical training, while the longer serving ponies would be given assignments to be carried out in whatever time frame they demanded.

“Holy shit he’s even newer than I thought!” Billet sounded almost, if just a little, joyous at having a recruit so new remembering both his ID number and his exact time at the Fort. “Yes sir, we’ve still got a lot of work to do with this one. Tell me Private Weaver, why did you enlist?”

“Sir, to serve the NCR to the best of my abilities, sir!”

“Are you sure about that greenhorn?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Are you here to defend your fellow ponies against the horrors of the wasteland?!” Billet began talking as if he were a walking incarnation of one of the many recruitment posters posted all around the base. He also began bellowing even louder. Something more than a few ponies on base doubted was possible.

“Sir, yes sir!” Weaver attempted to match him by answering louder himself.

“Are you here to kill raiders, tribals, and all the other various fucked up animals that live past those borders?!”

“S..Sir, yes sir!”

And there it was. Billet’s small victory to appease his boredom during the morning routine. Just that one little hesitation by Weaver damned him to at least forty-five more seconds of play time with the Sergeant Major.

“Excuse me Private Weaver?” Billet inquired. “But was that a stutter I heard?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Private, have you suddenly experienced a mass shrinkage between your skinny ass chicken legs that prevents you from performing your raider-killing duties at maximum efficiency?!”

“Sir, no sir!”

“Are you fucking sure about that private Weaver?!"

“Sir, yes sir!”

"You'd better be damn-fucking-sure if you don't want to end up eating shit in some fucked up tribal's sex cage, private!"

"Sir, I am damn-fucking-sure sir!"

"If you're so damn-fucking-sure private Weaver, why did I hear a stutter in that pansy-ass reply that escaped your fucked up yellow teeth?!"

"Sir, I'm sorry sir!"

“Private, you’re gonna be a lot more than sorry when your flank is laying sprawled out in the dirt, trying to put what you had for breakfast back into your stomach, along with all your other organs, after you hesitate to pull the trigger!”

Weaver showed just the slightest sign of a wince on his face. Billet really knew how to spell it out for somepony. I had first-hand experience with this skill of his during my first year at the fort. I was on cleaning duty, and after passing over more than a handful of dirt spots on the floor of the mess hall without actually removing them from the tile, Billet explained to me in great detail what raiders would like to do to the eye socket of my skull should I be as messy while sweeping a building for enemies.

I didn’t miss any more dirt spots.

===        ===        ===

The aforementioned morning sun once again took its toll on my eyes. This time outside of the barracks. After Billet had finished giving Weaver the better end of a detailed rant, we were dismissed into the yard for recruits to begin physical training, and for the higher ranking enlistees to receive the day’s assignments. I, being a corporal, was going with the latter group, CB following behind me. “Kind of disappointing really.” CB said, after what must have been another torturous 5 minutes of not talking to him. “If that’s what he had for Weaver just for being new, I’d have loved to have seen what he would’ve done if the kid was still asleep.”

“Yeah, fun Billet is still a raving Billet. Especially to the new guys.” I was still speaking through the grogginess of morning. “I don’t think Weaver’s ever seen an angry Billet.”

CB chuckled at the thought, and I hoped I hadn’t unintentionally implanted any ideas into his head. This wasn’t the first time Weaver

had encountered “fun Billet”, and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last. We hadn’t had a fresh new recruit in our division for a while until Weaver had been assigned to serve with us, and the Sergeant Major had been loving it.

We were crossing through the main yard now. A wide, square, expanse of grass and dirt, surrounded by poured concrete, that made up the center of Fort McCanton. There was always more dirt than grass, the various training and exercise regiments made sure of that. In all four corners, and directly in the center of the field, there were always recruits following the example of a Drill Sergeant and undergoing the basic exercise drills. If not that, then there would always be higher ranking ponies keeping themselves fit in their free time, taking the place of the recruits on the field. Many of the NCR scientists were very happy to have the grass be abused like this, because no matter how bad it got, the dirt patches would always regrow, and they were always more than proud to show the higher-ups how well they had designed this new strain of all-natural Equestrian carpet.

Growing vast expanses of grass and sod was one of the newer perks that came with the removal of the cloud cover. Regular episodes of rainfall began again, and suddenly crops were sustainable for long periods of time. Sometimes even whole growing seasons. Grass and sod were lower on the list of plant life to widely grow into newly-fertile soil, but many ponies were eager to renew the ground to the beautiful state it had been before the war. The ancient pictures and paintings of the Equestrian landscape completely covered in flowing vegetation was slowly becoming a reality again.

Many ponies within the Fort never really adequately appreciated just how hard the egg-heads had worked on what was essentially their playground. At least, to me they didn’t. Most to all enlistees in the Fort were too focused on fitness and exercise to actually appreciate anything in the walls of McCanton.

Exercising. That was just about the only thing to do during down time, unless you were just content to shoot the breeze with someone else that also happened to be free. There were no designated recreational areas, and there was no equipment to play sports of any kind. The closest thing to a ball the entire Fort had was a weighted, twenty pound exercise ball. One of the more fun activities utilizing that ball consisted of picking out recruits who seemed new, and motioning for them to catch it. If they had been around the exercise ball long enough, they’d just laugh and walk off. But if they were new, they’d hold out their hooves, and would proceed to have the wind knocked clean out of them after the offering pony lobbed it at them as hard as they could.

We made sure there was fun to be had.

Passing through the mixed noises of screaming Drill Sergeants and wheezing recruits, we made our way to the Fort offices, nestled in the far corner of the Fort, away from the barracks and right next to the main entrance. While the main yard was a square, the Fort perimeter itself grew wider as you travelled farther from the entrance to accommodate more buildings, and had four sections of wall jetting out from all four corners, housing guard posts. The offices were located just underneath one of those posts, in the corner closest to the big conglomerate of steel and sheet metal that made up the entrance to the Fort. Most of the walls were made in the same way, the only difference being that the gate was on wheels, and had two red stripes painted at both the top and bottom of that section of juxtapositioned metal.

Entering the office made you realize just how bad the air smelled in the yard. Dozens upon dozens of sweaty recruits putting the yard to use couldn’t have made it smell good by any standard, but in comparison to the inside of any building, especially the offices, that big patch of grass smelled horrendous.

There was an instant chill when we entered the main offices; air conditioning. On a hot summers’ day, the air of the interior of a building is simply a goddess-send. This week, however, had been a bit on the chilly side, and I wasn’t quite sure why the air conditioning was still on in the office. Maybe it was broken, or maybe the mare at the front desk was cold natured. Ignoring the chill, me and CB approached the mare to learn where our orders could be received.

“Another good morning to you, Ms. Stamp Seal.” I greeted her in what had come to be the usual manner.

“And to you, Corporal Holder.” She replied in her sweet and somewhat caring voice.

Ms. Stamp Seal wasn’t an old pony by any means, but she was well ahead of the majority of the base personnel in age. Time had just begun to creep onto her face around her eyes and mouth, but just enough to add an air of experience and wisdom about her.

“Is the Colonel in his office?” I inquired as CB stepped to stand beside me at the desk. “We’re looking to make ourselves useful today.”

“He is indeed. Just head on down, he’s not with any company at the moment.”

CB and I made our way down the hallway, towards the last door on the right appropriately labeled “Colonel Sienna”. As I stopped just before the doorframe, I once again had to hold my hoof out to keep CB from walking right into the room. This was less for his sake, and more for my not wanting to have to listen to CB be taught how to ask permission to enter a commanding officer’s place of work. How he had been here for as long as he had and not learned this, I’ll probably never know.

I decided to be the one to ask.

“Sir, Corporal Dusk Holder and Private First Class Cotton Ball requesting permission to enter, sir.”

“Permission granted.” A voice that rang with years of labor and hardship responded from the other side of the doorframe.

We entered, as we always would, hesitantly. Colonel Sienna was not a pony to relax around. One was expected to remain at the height of attention when speaking to the Colonel, but he, paradoxically, had a sort of fatherly tone to his voice that almost begged you to let your guard down when conversing. Though, he never asked this directly.

As CB and I stood shoulder to shoulder at attention in front of Colonel Sienna’s desk, I had to wonder, once more, how my saying his birth-name had annoyed him. Of course he was called by his full name by all of those with authority over him, but anyone at an even or lower rank than him was told pretty quickly that he answered to “CB.” Being called Cotton Ball by anyone that did not have seniority over him annoyed him to no end.

I never really knew why he detested his full name so much. Maybe it was a bad experience, maybe it was just preference. All I know is that I also preferred calling him “CB” over “Cotton Ball” any day of the week. A name that fluffy didn’t really fit in well with a person of his demeanor.

“I assume you’re both here to receive your assignments?” Colonel Sienna asked.

“Yes sir, Colonel.” I responded, slightly calmer than if I were addressing a Drill Sergeant or Billet.

“Very well. Corporal, you’ll be escorting a food relief caravan south into an independent settlement, past NCR borders.”

Colonel Sienna spoke with a sort of elegant prose, all the while holding a rough edge to his voice. He turned his head to his desk beside him, picked up his pipe, which many believed to be his most prized possession, and loaded it with tobacco before lighting it with what must have been his second most prized possession, a small, ornate, metal lighter.

After taking a relaxing drag from the pipe, the Colonel continued to speak.

“Possibility of attack is a minimum, but not dismissible. I don't suppose I need to remind you of the increasing frequency of caravan ambushes here recently?"

He didn't. Over the past few months, Caravan Defense guards had been reporting in more and more attacks and what had appeared to be random acts of violence against troops and their caravans. There was no discernible pattern to the attacks yet, we were only aware that they were happening more often, and the higher ups, Colonel Sienna included, were not pleased.

"You’ll have two other ponies going with you for the duration of the escort." Sienna continued. "If you wish, you may choose the two that accompany you.”

“Sir, I choose Private Cotton Ball to accompany me, sir.”

My first choice took little consideration. Any assignment where we were given the option of who to work with, I always chose CB, and CB always chose me. After his three years at McCanton, CB was about the closest thing I had to a friend. I knew the names, ages, and hat sizes of everypony in my platoon, but I had never really bonded with anyone like I had with Cotton Ball. Everypony else was an acquaintance; ponies I wouldn’t lose sleep over for forgetting them when their service time was up, but CB and me were partners almost, and I don’t think I could even force myself to forget him.

Colonel Sienna nodded his head.

“Alright Corporal, that’s one. Do you want to pick the other one?”

“Sir, no thank you sir. Any other pony you pick will be fine, sir.”

“Very well, Corporal Holder.” Colonel Sienna hoofed through some files that had been messily laid upon his desk and scanned through them before stopping on one particular document. “Hmmm….we’ve got a recruit in Caravan Defense that hasn’t experienced any fieldwork so far in his enlistment time. You mind a greenhorn tagging along, Corporal?”

“Not at all, sir.” A half-truth. Something you get used to saying after never really having an opportunity to tell the Colonel “no”. I’m sure a new recruit wouldn’t be too much trouble, but every experienced soldier, almost instinctively, desires to work with other experienced soldiers.

“This one’s a Private from your platoon. Less than a year in service.”

I thought for a moment as Sienna brought the document closer to his face to see. Surely he wouldn’t assign…

“A Private Garland Weaver, to be exact.”

===        ===        ===

We had just left the offices. CB and I had to go see Stamp Seal again to get our dossier for the assignment, after having been told by the Colonel what had already simply been written on the documents. I wondered why we couldn’t have just picked up the assignment details from Stamp Seal in the first place. Because it would have gone against procedure? But why would procedure include wasting even the slightest bit of time in the day? I’m sure the Colonel could save himself a hell of a lot of time if he didn’t insist on seeing everyone in the Fort who had been given assignment, and relaying it himself.

This small instance of time wasting was, more or less, the perfect example of the NCR as a whole, or the army at least. A lot more procedure than necessary, in order to ensure that the reclamation of the wasteland is done by the book. A book that was written less than two decades ago.

Colonel Sienna was much older than that, and I doubt he was perfectly fine with the standard procedures that the highest of the higher ups had passed. I feel like, despite many of the new guy’s attitudes towards his following these procedures, he was making the best of a less-than-stellar situation. Sienna had seen much more of the wastes than I had, being in what must be his mid-sixties. I was only eight years old when the cloud cover broke, but the Colonel must have been well on his way into a mid-life crisis, so to speak. He had helped in the formation years of the NCR government, and even before that, he had been a part of what were some of the first organized incursion into the wastes, out of R-7 Junction, under the leadership of a griffon called Gawd. I had never known Gawd, all I had to go on after I enlisted were stories. She had either travelled with Littlepip, or had simply helped her out a few times. Regardless of how they knew each other, she was apparently trusted enough to have been the first leader of what would later be organized into the New Canterlot Republic.

Gawd had apparently had some issue with stepping down in favor of an elected leader. There was something about an argument about R-7 Junction belonging to her, or something, and she was stubborn about letting it become solely NCR property if she relinquished power. At this point in the story, probably only Sienna or any other pony old enough to have actually been there knows what made Gawd change her mind. Even though it had only been around seventeen years, details had been hopelessly mixed up in the story, unless you were there to see it, that is. Sienna had never told the story, and nopony really wanted to ask him about it. If there’s one thing we were sure of, it’s that for whatever reason, it was a touchy subject. Still, nopony really knows if the Colonel would actually know anyway, but better safe than sorry around him.

The only thing we know is that Gawd was unhappy with it, she somehow stepped down anyway, and Candi was elected to be the first president of the NCR. Gawd was no longer with us though, take from that what you will. I’m not sure if she had simply left, or…..if she even stepped down at all. In only seventeen years, it’s hard to believe that details got this mixed up. But hey, you gotta go on what you’ve got.

CB and I were passing by the main yard once more, and he was repeating the same sentiment I had about having to return to the front desk to get the dossier. Only, his aggravation was focused on something else.

“You couldn’t have just picked one of the other guys?” CB near-groaned at me. “Now we’re stuck having to travel that kind of distance with the guy that forgets to even wake up in the morning.”

“Call it shitty luck I guess.” I yawned.

“His cutie mark doesn’t exactly advertise combat aggression either. What’d you say that thing was, a reef?”

“It’s a wreath, professor.”

“Whatever it is, I know it’s got a fucking bow on it.” CB shot back at me matter-of-factly.

“Oh, and what’s yours supposed to mean? You make a living beating raider armies with nothing but a sewing needle before you signed up?” I was referring to his cutie mark, a spool of thread connected to the previously mentioned needle.

“It’s all about first impressions smart ass,” CB dryly stated, “you know I’m experienced at this shit. All we’ve got to go on Weaver is what’s on his flank, and how well he handles billet-induced stress.”

“Weaver can’t be that bad to work with, granted his experience.” I replied, as we both passed through the last corner of the yard, walking towards the bunker. “I mean, you saw how fast he got his shit together with Billet coming, guy must reload a rifle in two seconds."

“I’m more interested in how he spends those rounds before he has to reload. You can reload a clip as fast as you want, but if you can’t hit shit before you do, you’re no use to anyone for anything.”

“I thought about that too. I mean think about it, the guy says he’s been in service for five months and he gets assigned to our platoon? Obviously he’s good for something, otherwise he’d still be in the recruit barracks mopping shit up with his toothbrush.”

“Yeah well, no matter how you cut it, I’d still rather work with a pony with some hooves-on experience.”

I couldn’t argue that with him. Anypony trying to accomplish anything wants to work with other ponies that have experience trying to do the same thing. Weaver had been here for less than half a year, and we had only his transfer to our platoon to hint us at his skill with anything useful in the field. My guess was marksmanship, but it could have been a variety of things. Not a medic though, those guys receive their own special training away from the regular grunts, and he wasn’t a radio operator either, CB had that honor in the platoon. Radio Ops had a whole extra mess of technical training to go through, but I’m glad CB decided to endure, otherwise he probably never would’ve been put in my platoon.

We finally reached the door of the barracks, and I pulled the door open to allow myself and CB inside. We made our way through the entrance, past all the uncomfortable wooden chairs that I had never seen anypony use, and into the main body of the building, where all the bunks were located. As CB opened the door, he hesitated for a second after something caught his eye inside the room. It appeared as if the same pony who had been the topic of our conversation earlier was already there, waiting for us.

“And speak of the devil.” CB said as he went to sit on his bunk.. “If it ain’t speedy, himself.”

“Oh, hey guys.” Weaver responded nervously. “You didn’t….tell Sergeant Major about that stuff this morning, did you?”

“What, do we look like rats or something?” I responded sarcastically. “I think whether or not Billet knows you took a three minute longer nap than the rest of us is the least of your problems right about now.”

“What do you mean?” Weaver asked, getting up from the bunk he had been sitting on. “Sergeant Major told me to come wait in here in the middle of the drill we were doing. I thought maybe he found out.”

“Oh shit,” CB chuckled from his bunk. “They haven’t told him yet.”

“Who hasn’t told me what?!”

“You remember equipment exercises?” I asked as I made my way to the lockbox in front of my bunk.

“Yeah, why?”

I pulled out a helmet and a combat vest and threw them onto my bed. “Because today’s training is hooves-on!”

===        ===        ===

New Traits Attained!

Trait 1: Early Riser

Years of service in the army have left you with the habit of being up and ready before the sun in the morning. But Celestia help everyone if you don’t get your beauty sleep!

Perception +2 in the mornings; Charisma - 2 in the late hours

Trait 2: My Friend and Me

Coming out of a childhood like yours, a close friend was nothing less than a life saver! Though you now tend to get pretty absent-minded when alone.

Hit Points + 30 when with a companion; Survival, Science, and Lockpick - 5 when without a companion