The rhytmic creak of a bowstring being pulled followed by the zip of an arrow flying off drew Sharp Mark ever closer to the project's archery range. He recognized that particular rhythm though he didn't really need to. Only three archers in the institute could use the range. Of the three, two couldn't be there. He moved from walking to a brisk trot, hopeful that he could still catch the last few shots.
The Project boasted the largest archery range in all of the Western Barrier Land, quite likely all of Equestria. For good reason; most of the Legion's facilities trained the rank-and-file archers, thus their tests looked for those good enough. The Project sought perfection. Their test had to show that. As such, the range featured a grassy area extending far enough to accomodate targets at the hundredth and two hundredth foot marks. They would go for more, but the limits of ordinary bows, and secure property, stopped them. High walls, patrolled by sentries and warded by obfuscating enchantments, protected the space from prying eyes. Close to the range were the rest of the project's facilities, all designed for the sole purpose of creating Equestria's greatest archer.
Its official name was the Longstride Project. So named after the young son of Ash Frost, First Hero of the Legion. Legends stated that Ash Frost, after a few years of training the colt, declared that her son was sure to surpass her. This never happened, however, as Ophidus, already terrified of her prowess, somehow successfully foalnapped the colt. When a rescue party hunted them down, the ophidites chose to murder the poor pony rather than risk a greater archer than the pegasus already bedeviling them. The name was mostly symbolic, though. This was no attempt at resurrection. The project aimed to recreate the potential lost during that time, that is to create the finest archer this world has ever seen. One who would indeed surpass Ash Frost.
Sure enough, Sharp Mark found the current manifestation of that purpose steadily going through his prescribed quivers. He pulled out his spy glass and examined the circular target at the two hundredth foot mark. Over fifteen arrows from the looks of it so far, all bunched up in the center. Several were already splitting other arrows just to fit. Just a typical practice session then. Sharp Mark turned his attention towards the archer; a woodland brown young stallion, barely past being a colt, with a long, green mane. Every shot was one swift motion, from pulling out an arrow, drawing the bow, aiming, then firing, each move blended with one another until they were barely distinguishable.
What was less typical of this practice session was the presence of a wheelchair-bound old unicorn mare sitting at a distance behind the archer. The project's top director, Willow Whip, had never been the sort to observe so closely. She must have heard Sharp Mark's hoofsteps, because she was quick to look at him. Those blue eyes of hers may already be dulled by age, but they still held some keeness and drive. Her hide sagged all around her face like an ill-fitting mask, but there was nothing comical here.
"Director," Sharp Mark said as he took a spot by her side. Her attendant, a gray earth pony stallion a quarter of her age, quietly stepped away for some respectable distance.
"He's quite good," Willow Whip said, her gaze returning to the archer.
"He is," Sharp Mark said proudly. "Twenty-Six possesses the proper balance of natural gifts and extensive discipline. I believe that he is the Longstride who will succeed." He allowed himself a slight raise of his chin. "As I always have."
Willow Whip smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Even when Twenty-Four's fourth graft was succesful?" she asked. "Even though you picked Twenty-Six yourself, you must have doubted."
"No," Sharp Mark said. He lowered his chin as the prideful moment gave way to melancholic reminiscing. "My focus was Twenty-Six, director, but I had a hoof in Twenty-Four's training. All the fourth graft told me was that so much was going to waste."
Willow Whip nodded, her smile turning wistful. "A pity what happened to him in the end," she said. The smile hardened after that. "But to more important matters. We have word from Prince Terrato."
That was important indeed. The Longstride Project had been going on for too long, and had taken a lot of resources, only to have little to no results. His Highness had been patient, but his missives had been taking more ominous tones lately. "What does he have to say?" Sharp Mark asked.
"He is going to give us two more years for preparation," Willow Whip replied. "Afterwards, his student will arrive to inspect our results."
"He is losing interest then," Sharp Mark said. "Given that he's passed us off to his student." That would hardly be a surprise. Twenty five failed candidates, most dead at this point, fifty one dead unicorns for the grafts, over two hundred years of time and effort, countless supplies...no matter how lofty the goal, there had to be a limit to the cost, and His Highness was approaching it. "Still, this can be a boon. This student might prove more lenient. If we play things right, we might even be able to secure extra resources."
Willow Whip chuckled. "Behind the times, are we? This mare had Stonefang Fortress' commander executed on her first assignment. Forget trying to manipulate her, Sharp Mark, let's concentrate on not dangling off any ropes, shall we?"
Sharp Mark could only grunt. Still, he did have something to show this student. He turned his attention back to Twenty-Six in time to see the pegasus stallion finish off his arrows. Forty bullseyes, as expected. Twenty-Six was young, barely past being a colt. In two years, he'd be at the prime age for Legion work, albeit with the skillset to match even veterans. "Twenty-Six will keep us alive," he said.
"That would be for the best," Willow Whip said. She let out a sigh, and looked at the range as well. "I still wish that it was Twenty-Four we're showing this protege, but we must move on." She gestured towards her attendant, then pointed towards the central facilities. "Twenty-Six will be the last attempt I'll be able to oversee," she added as she wheeled away. "It will be good to rest knowing that the project produced at least one in my guidance."
Sharp Mark merely listened to the squeaks of wheels turning slowly fading. How the old nag was both knowledgable and ignorant was beyond him. She still didn't understand, even though Twenty-Four's booze-besotted body had been chilling in their morgue for months. Even though Twenty-Six persevered to this level when all his predecessors fell off. He approached Twenty-Six, who immediately set the recurve bow down, and stood at attention. "Assess the bow," Sharp Mark said.
"Pull strength is within fifty to fifty five pounds," Twenty-Six replied. "Newly-strung with reverse-twisted linen, material is standard composite, no enchantments. A small fracture occured near the handle by the thirtieth shot."
Sharp Mark made a mental note to punish the bowyer for this one. The Legion whipped anypony who produced defective goods. The project, with its dedication to perfection, should have worse penalties. "Assess the arrows," he said.
"Arrows five, twelve, nineteen, twenty-two, and forty were fletched with eagle feathers. Three, nine, and fifteen, chicken, the rest were standard goose feathers. Arrows one, eight, nine, and fifteen were fletched with a left offset. Twenty-six, and thirty-four had right helical, the rest followed right offset patterns. Shafts were cedar, save for arrows nine and fifteen, which were fir. Heads were standard bodkin training arrows save for twenty-six, and thirty-four, which were iron broadheads."
Sharp Mark nodded as he checked the list he levitated before him. The arrows were labeled for this precise reason, and Twenty-Six's observations were all correct. "Assess the target," he said.
"Target is about one and a half inches taller than standard. Shaking from impact suggests lighter materials than standard oak. The bullseye mark's radius is a quarter inch shorter than standard, and there is a slight irregularity with the outer circle's painting. Range appears to be closer to two hundred and three feet, instead of two hundred."
All correct as well. Twenty-Six was certainly getting used to his eye grafts. "And the range?" he asked.
"The grass has been clipped by a quarter inch on average," Twenty-Six replied. "The eastern area has been flattened, indicating increased traffic. Slight breeze coming from the north. Moisture has been increasing since the session began. There's a good chance of rain by late afternoon."
When Twenty-Six failed to add more, the pleased smile Sharp Mark had been slowly building flattened to a grim line. "And the daffodil?" he asked.
"Sir?" was all Twenty-Six could say. His golden eyes spun erratically, and odd and unforseen phenomenon observed in the eye grafts when the users became nervous."
"A single daffodil was planted by the north-west corner of the range," Sharp Mark said sternly. "It's the lone flower in this whole field."
Twenty-Six lowered his head. "I did not notice this."
The quill went flying to the side. "You should be better than this already, Twenty-Six!"
"Yes, I should be," was the glum reply.
Sharp Mark let out a sigh. He had been at this for a long time as well. Not like Willow Whip, but he was no spring chicken. Punishing a Longstride never got any easier, Twenty-Four notwithstanding. Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six, in particular, made it next to impossible to be harder on them than they were on themselves. "Come along," he said. He walked the stone path leading from the range to the feeding facility. Bad as the results of this session may be, Twenty-Six deserved a good meal.
Twenty-Six followed without question, his head still bowed. The bow had been unstrung and set back in its stand. Attendants should take care of arrow retrieval and target replacement.
"We must discuss an important matter," Sharp Mark said. "This is not part of your scheduled education, but it is vital."
Twenty-Six looked up, his irises spinning lazily. The both of them slowed their paces. It was still a nice, cool late morning for a walk. If it was indeed going to rain later, the clear sky wasn't showing it. The Longstride Project stood at the balance of the balmy south and the cold mountains of the west, cradled in a small hidden valley with a few small villages nearby for resources, allowing for frequent good weather.
"Sir?" Twenty-Six asked. He already had the small notepad required of him in hoof.
"No notes," Sharp Mark said. "You must commit this to memory."
The lazy, curious spinning of Twenty-Six's irises froze into steely focus. "Understood."
"Good. Then, I shall discuss your reproductive directive."
Twenty-Six halted in his tracks, but he swiftly recovered.
"Have you been told anything about this?" Sharp Mark asked.
"Director Willow Whip has told me that it's been taken care of," Twenty-Six replied. "Seed was harvested during my last medical exam, and I am to expect the same each time from then on. The project is currently in negotiations for volunteer mares." His head tilted as he stared at Sharp Mark."Director Willow Whip told me not to concern myself with it any further."
"Willow Whip is being closeminded," Sharp Mark said. "She has grown too old and invested in the Longstride Project. I told you before that preparations should be taken for as many situations as possible. We must take into consideration that the project might cease to exist in the future. Should that happen, those samples taken from you will be lost, and whatever contracts drawn with volunteer mares will be broken."
Even Twenty-Six seemed shocked at the notion. He opened his mouth only to shut it again as he mulled his thoughts over.. Sharp Mark frowned at this. Clearly more work had to be done with Twenty-Six. Two years suddenly seemed so short. "What must I do then?" Twenty-Six finally asked.
"I already have some failsafes done should the project be destroyed," Sharp Mark said. "But propagating your line is vital as you remain our most succesful result. Should a time come for the grafts to be reproduced, your offspring will be prime candidates. Without the project's backing, and the possibility of poor public support of our work, it falls to you to sire descendants in traditional Equestrian fashion. Crude, I know, but beggars cannot be choosy, and we will be truly beggared if the project is destroyed."
There was a lot more hesitance in Twenty-Six's steps. He was clearly in unknown territory now, and one which his eye grafts could not help him with. He said nothing, but those were the narrow eyes of one desperately trying to take everything in.
"You are concerned," Sharp Mark said. "That is understandable. Social ettiquette has hardly been a subject in your curriculum. You cannot be expected to follow any form of courtship, and succeed."
"What about whores, sir?" Twenty-Six asked.
Sharp Mark stopped. "Where did you learn of this?" he asked.
"Twenty-Four spoke about them once after his second escape. He said they only required money."
Sharp Mark shook his head as he moved on. It took some effort to control his voice though. Twenty-Four wasn't content with ruining himself apparently. "Did he tell you about his medical exam after that incident?" he asked. When Twenty-Six answered with a shake of the head, he continued. "Of course he didn't, that braggart. Twenty-Four only has one lesson to teach you, Twenty-Six, which is his death in a Great Delve back alley after a drunken brawl during his third escape. Four grafts, a natural genius for archery, and so many years of training snuffed out by some rusty knife to the neck. You will encounter more like him across Equestria; stallions and mares with brilliant minds and powerful bodies wasting their talents over self destructive habits and pointless pursuits. They are worse than worthless--"
Sharp Mark caught himself, suddenly aware that he was ranting. He cleared his throat to compose himself before continuing.
"As for whores...Divination spells on Twenty-Four's blood revealed five diseases transmitted through rutting, all of which were incurable, only treatable. Two of those were easily passed from parent to foal, destroying any possibility of propagating his line. Whores are vectors of diseases, Twenty-Six, some of which are so vile that I would not wish them on an enemy. They are also not paid for reproduction, only for a small part of the process. Not only that, they have little to offer as viable mothers. A mare so worthless as to have nothing but rutting to offer will not complement the latent traits that you possess to allow for grafts and archery focus. They are filth, Twenty-Six, do not associate with them. You must find a mare of strong stock; healthy, gifted in athletics, mentally sound, and of a stable social standing."
"How will I secure such a mare should I find one?" Twenty-Six asked.
"You will not be without viable traits for mating at this point," Sharp Mark said. "You will be in the Legion, your skills should easily allow for a significantly high income and prestige. You have a good physique, and the project has spared no expense in ensuring that you are at the peak of health. Obviously, you might be considered at a disadvantage at having not learned the nuances of what passes for courtship in our modern Equestrian society, but I say that is to your advantage. You must understand above all else, Twenty-Six, that your goal in this is to sire children, and ensure a bloodline, not some form of emotional relationship. That is merely an optional objective. Obviously, it would benefit her mental health, and the smooth proceeding of the task, to show a degree of respect and consideration. This is not at the expense of your directive. If a mare requires you to be subservient in some way, then she is unfit for the task. Be direct and straightforward, but not contemptuous. You require a partner, not a slave or a princess."
Sharp Mark cleared his throat again, much to his annoyance, he hacked up a coughing fit for his trouble. After half a minute of coughing, Twenty-Six spoke up. "Sir?" he asked.
"I'm fine," Sharp Mark replied. He wiped his muzzle with an old handkerchief, pointedly ignoring the fresh spots of crimson when he put it away. They were getting close to the feeding facilities anyway. A cup of honey and mint tea should settle him. After that, perhaps another checkup with Doctor Milk Weed. "Now, location is vital as well in your search. Avoid the larger, inner settlements, especially the Great Delve. These places are infested with nobles and merchant lords, classes of ponies that may serve some role in our society, but are of little use to your directive. Mares from these classes are likely to be entitled pleasure-seekers, of the sort that abstracted the small, pleasurable part of reproduction from the rest of it, and turned it into a worthless act devoid of any useful purpose. It is no surprise that these places breed whores. Go instead to the settlements closer to our borders. These are places with much less inclination for frivolities. You are more likely to find a mare there with a keener understanding of the importance of reproduction. If you present yourself as a provider of excellent stock with no behavioral defects, you need not risk wasting your time with flirtations. Is this understood?"
"Yes, sir," Twenty-Six replied.
They now stood before the feeding facility, which was nothing more than a typical dining hall attached to a modest kitchen. The outside was a plain white, wooden structure shaped like a box, with a few shuttered windows for ventilation. Smoke rose from the kitchen section's chimneys in thin wisps. The project's kitchens were not known for extravagant meals. Indeed, there were more doctors among the staff than chefs, all expiditing and improving upon the project's menu for its Longstrides.
The single door opened to a silent dining hall of varnished cedar planks. The place was nearly empty save for a couple of staff finishing off their lunches. Most of the higher-ranked members preferred to have their meals delivered to their offices, and schedules often differed so greatly that ponies seldom met up for meals. The only consistent eaters were Longstrides, who were expected to show up on time for their stringently planned meal.
Indeed, there was a covered plate by Twenty-Six's usual spot. When Sharp Mark joined him for the meal, attendants were quick to respond. In a few minutes, Sharp Mark was enjoying a bowl of potato salad. A mug of honey and mint tea sat next to that bowl, sending tempting wisps of steam upward.
Twenty-Six, on the other hoof, munched stoically on a loaf of what the staff simply called "Stridebread", an amalgamation of vegetable extracts meant to provide the perfect combination of nutrition. It looked like a lumpy, vaguely bread-like mass of...substance. The project did not put much stock in adding flavor as it could upset the whole formula.
"Now, to continue." Sharp Mark kept his voice low this time. There was no need to involve the rest of the feeding facility. "I've already told you of potential external problems, but you must be prepared to deal with internal ones as well. It is possible that you may develop feelings of attraction towards a mare of poor stock, or a stallion, or you may discover that you have no feelings of attraction at all." His eyes narrowed. If Twenty-Six balked here now, the entire project may have already failed. "I trust that you already know the proper response to any of these revelations."
"My feelings are irrelevant," Twenty-Six replied with conviction.
Sharp Mark nodded his approval at this. This was the lesson that the superiorly gifted Twenty-Four failed at. "Exactly," he said. "Remind yourself of this at all times. Once you leave the project, there will be nopony there to remind you. Do not be caught up in the process. The end result is what you need."
Twenty-Six straightened, and finished of his meal. Even Sharp Mark was impressed by the speed and efficiency. He once tried eating Stridebread. It felt like eating a ball of wet, mashed together paper. "Understood," Twenty-Six said.
"I shall have textbooks ready for you later for the actual act. Stay within the text. If you are asked to deviate from them to include some strange, time-consuming, pointless activity, discard the mare. Such proclivities are symptomatic of minor mental defects that might be passed on. Now..." Sharp Mark finished his tea. "We're done with that." He was about to stand up and leave when he caught Twenty-Six's stare. "What is it?"
"Sir..." Those eyes were spinning erratically again. "How is Twenty-Five?"
Sharp Mark sighed, then stared at the bottom of his mug for a while. And here he thought he was about to put that matter to the back of his mind. The camaraderie between Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six had not gone unnoticed. He and Spearmint had agreed to let it be seeing that their two charges supported one another. "Twenty-Five's back injury has been treated. She will be able to walk, but she will not be allowed to practice archery anymore, thus removing her candidacy."
It was another waste, truly. Twenty-Five's archery and observation surpassed both Twenty-Four and Twenty-Six. She had the discipline to hone her gifts to razor-sharp perfection as well, but her physique was what failed her. She was only able to gain the eye grafts. Without the spinal reinforcement and her own lack of natural strength, her back gave way during intense practice. Sharp Mark was sure that there wasn't a single pony in the project who didn't believe that if only they had Twenty-Four's physique with Twenty-Five's sharpness, they would have had the perfect Longstride.
To his credit, Twenty-Six revealed nothing more than a brief, downcast look. After a moment of silence, he looked up to Sharp Mark again. "This means she's not the twenty-fifth Longstride. If so, then her name..."
"She will no longer bear the name Longstride, true," Sharp Mark said. "But there is no need to bother with names. She has responded long enough to 'Twenty-Five'. It shall suffice."
"But..."
"Put it out of your mind, Twenty-Six," Sharp Mark said sternly. "You must focus on yourself as the last pony of this generation who can bear that name. If you find her condition distressing, use it as motivation. Know that you must step over every failed candidate to achieve the project's goals. If you succeed as the Longstride, then every last failure, even Twenty-Four's, and especially Twenty-Five's, will have been worth it. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Sir."
Sharp Mark stood up, and left Twenty-Six to hopefully reflect on those words. He could feel another coughing fit burbling in his lungs. 'Yes,' he thought. 'It would have all been worth it.'
