The day had been as awful as he predicted. It started with Broadflag having to call his name three times at roll call. It ended with Broadflag sending him to bed early. If he had been in a better state he would have resented being treated like a foal; but he was happy for the empty, quiet barracks. He slept through the entire platoon entering, undressing, and getting ready for bed. Discord himself couldn't have woken him.

It was the second blast of the trumpet that woke him hours later. Blueblood rolled off the bed, stretched, and yawned. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and yawned again.

His cleaning spell slicked over him; the spell went slower than it usually did. He tromped over to his locker and pulled it open. All of his uniforms had been hung just a little off; so they all formed small wrinkles and creases. He sighed, but a small, wry smile came out. At least he would get an opportunity to use it. He knelt down and started rifling through the lower cubby of the locker. He pushed aside the hair products he hadn’t the time to use, the accessories he wasn’t allowed to wear, and the writing kit that he’d only used once; before finding his spell book. It was a thin book; with a dark silk cover. The cover sported a depiction of Eorþe. Surrounding their globe was the sun, moon and planets. As he watched; a thread, a part of the southern ice cap, unwove itself. It writhed like a confused worm, before diving back down and reweaving into shape. He began flipping through it; temperature manipulation, pest repellent, cleaning magic, and… he stopped, read over the page and set it down on his bed. He levitated one of the uniforms out in front of him. His brows knitted, he looked over the page again before focusing on the uniform.

A sputter of purple light bubbled into existence; before it congealed into a translucent iron. He willed it; and the iron floated to the uniform and started tracing up and down; leaving behind a perfectly pressed uniform.

As the magical iron worked; he glanced over the hall. The platoon of thirty had shrunk to a little over twenty. Some of the madder ponies, as usual, were already showered and dressed. They were all around a card table; laughing and playing. He frowned; the iron stopped and began to wobble. Blueblood refocused part of his mind; and the spell steadied. He examined the other undressed and unshowered ponies; none of them were shooting them dirty looks. He looked back at the table, and there was a unicorn at the table. Ah, he nodded to himself, that would explain it.

The ponies in line for the bathroom were either sullenly silent, or talking to each other. A blue earth pony stepped outside and made his way to the table; he glanced at Blueblood with mild amusement, before continuing on and being warmly greeted by the table. The iron flickered. Blueblood’s eyes narrowed and he looked over the room’s ponies. A few looked at him with amusement, like circus goers watching a dancing animal. Some looked down on him; regardless that he was the tallest pony in the room. Some mares, and one stallion, glanced at him with appreciation… but they were not like he was used to. In an awful strike of empathy; he recognized the expression. It was the look he must give to the pretty, unsophisticated, mares that threw themselves at him. Most of the time, none of them looked at Blueblood at all. The iron shook and sparks of lightning arced across its surface. He turned to hide his face.

The difference, he mused, between a pest repellent spell, and a pest attraction spell; was rather small. A very familiar thought. A familiar reaction. Just a reaction.

He took a breath and the iron steadied. He schooled his face into an expression his aunt had taught him. She used it when she had ‘particularly troublesome little ponies’. With a false calm Blueblood looked up.

They weren’t entirely at fault; Broadflag was. Respect, like most good things, flowed from the top. Broadflag didn’t respect him, and so they wouldn’t. The iron traced up and down its course. He sighed, and... he supposed that Broadflag had prevented him from putting his best hoof forward. The iron made a soft ding; and he examined the uniform. He hummed in approval, and put on the uniform. He glanced at the clock, and with a shrug pulled a new wrinkled uniform out and started ironing it too. While he looked at the iron as it worked; he peered out of the corner of his eyes at his… comrades.

He got to the third uniform before the last trumpet sounded. The iron flickered out and he put the half done fourth back in his locker. The platoon jumped to their hoof, the table goers hurriedly shoving their chairs in before rushing outside.

It was nearing the end of the day, and the third week. The platoon was at the range. Weathered tables and benches were behind firing booths covered by a tin roof. The firing booths were numbered, right to left, one through sixty; and blackened lines marked the firing lanes. In front of the firing line at varying intervals were rusting metal targets; with concentric red circles painted over them. The further one got to sixty the further away and smaller the targets got. Behind them was the hill that unlucky ponies had to collect stray bullets from.

Most days, thankfully, they did not do those awful bipedal drills. Instead it was practicing reloading, cleaning, and stationary firing. Mostly practicing reloading and cleaning. Recruits were only issued three rounds a day. So for most of time the recruits disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled clean guns; then mimed reloading and firing a few dozen times. A few at a time would be called up to fire under the sergeant's watchful eye. No spells were allowed for this. ‘If you rely on magic to use your guns; you’ll be useless if you're too tired, have too many distractions, or cast too much. Things that happen all the time in battle.’ Blueblood supposed that made sense.

He sat on a bench; a table away from the rest of the platoon. He finished ramming down the barrel brush. He pulled it out; made a show of inspecting it. There was nothing on it, not even bore cleaner; but they were supposed to mime what they would do in the field. He gently set the brush down. Reaching into his ammunition pouch, he grabbed an imaginary bullet; and put it in the breach. Before clicking the rifle closed. He rose to his hoofs; and kept the barrel firmly pointed at the ground. Early on there was one pony, who was no longer at the camp, who thought it would be funny to point their rifle at another recruit. Broadflag had not found it funny.

He got to one of the firing booths, reared up bipedal, and mimed pulling the trigger. He reloaded, went prone, fired, and reloaded on the ground. Broadflag’s harsh bark sounded over them.

“Flour, Blueie, Zaps, Peas.”

Chocolate Flower, Blueblood, Cloudy Sun, and Good Soil; all looked up. The four previous ponies were filing back, chatting; Broadflag was scowling and gesturing to the four to hurry up. When they were close enough to reach out and shake hooves, Broadflag shouted at the same volume. He started hoofing out ammo as he spoke.

“Flour 13, Blueie 7, Zaps 15, Peas 20.”

Blueblood winced, but kept his mouth shut, and accepted the rounds. He started repeating Broadflags advice in his head. Blueblood had decided the advice he gave to the group was safe; even he was unlikely to sabotage the entire platoon to spite him. For his job if nothing else.

‘Spending too much time aiming will make your aim worse. I’m setting a time limit and the enemy most certainly will. Don’t shoot while breathing. Don’t take a full breath and hold it. Don’t expel all the air out of your lungs. You have a natural pause in your breathing; stop breathing then, and fire. Don’t-” More and more advice; but now they were at the booths and Broadflag fiddled with his watch. Blueblood took a deep breath. It was just like magic; filter out distractions, focus on your goal. Broadflag pressed a button and shouted.

“Go.”

Blueblood stood bipedal, raised his rifle, lined up the iron site dead center on the target; and waited that brief moment for the exhale. He was ready for the .451’s kick, but the trigger pull had been too fast, and the barrel jerked just a little. Ding. He didn’t know if it was his or anothers and he didn’t check. He clicked open the rifle; reached into his ammo pouch and pulled out another fat bullet. He saw his hoof shaking. Just like magic. He took a deep breath even as he felt seconds melt away. He slid in the round, clicked the rifle shut, and raised it again. Aim, wait for the exhale, hold; pull in one smooth motion. Ding. He was pretty sure that had been him. He reloaded then went to his knees. His back knees folded on the ground; and front knees holding the rifle against his shoulder. Aim, exhale, hold, fire. A ding; and a few moments later a chime.

“Time,” Broadflag shouted.

Blueblood got up slowly, and opened the rifle to eject the shell, and looked up with a thumping heart. He sighed, slumping a little; well at least there were three holes. He shook himself; he was getting better. That is what mattered. He turned around to see Broadflag watching him. He spoke in a dry tone.

“Decent for someone that started two weeks late.”

“I know,” it was the closest thing to insolence he had given the sergeant in a week. Broadflag eyed him for long seconds; before he snorted and turned away.

“Get your rifle cleaned up and stowed.”

“Yes sergeant.”

Blueblood trotted back to the bench smiling. He got to the bench and started cleaning the rifle again. He paused with the brush half way down the barrel. A moment later a dark scowl murdered his smile. Finishing cleaning his weapon; and stowing it away he trotted over to the forming ranks of ponies in front of Broadflag.

Broadflag had taught them marching the first day of the third week; and forced the platoon to march everywhere. To the mess hall, to the shooting range, to the fighting rings, and back to the barracks. This incited much grumbling. The high, rolling, hoof smashing step that Broadflag demanded introduced already sore recruits to new sensations. Marching in the muddy camp, and the muddier valley, resulted in many eating mud. The last problem was compounded by Broadflag declaring no magic would be allowed. Finally, no other platoon was forced to march everywhere; just at drill. Broadflag ignored all of these reasonable complaints with laughter.

Blueblood didn’t complain. Part because he didn’t want to give Broadflag an excuse; part because he found, at first, he liked marching. Not that he didn’t agree with his platoon’s complaints; but there was a beat, a thunder to the march. Like the heartbeat of a great beast. It also helped him think. Which was welcome, at first.

Broadflag looked over them, and nodding, shouted:

“Forward, march!”

And so the snake started to move. Back home if he wanted to make friends with a pony or a group. He could almost always get an introduction; somepony to vouch for him. In the rare cases he couldn’t; he could still rely on the respect decent citizens gave their prince. There was always a foundation to work from. Blueblood had burnt that foundation to the ground; and dug a pit under it.

That had been another bitter thing to realize. He had picked the worst riposte to Broadflag’s assault. If he had retreated, it would have been a humiliation; but he wouldn't have had to worry about any of this. If he had bowed to Broadflag on the first day; he wouldn't have lost so much ground. His platoon may have even rallied to their put upon prince. Instead he had given Broadflag every opportunity to rub his muzzle into the mud. Now he needed to do something to wipe away the first two weeks. What that something was eluded him.

Every plan he could think of required luck, resources, or time; often all three. Luck? HA! Resources? There was a limit to the weight he could ship in and it required time. Time? Small unit drills were coming up. He did not want to be a pariah when they started. So his thoughts writhed and consumed each other.

They tramped to the front of the barrack and Broadflag shouted the halt.The platoon came to a, thankfully, smooth stop.

“Fall out!”

The platoon started streaming into the barracks. Blueblood blinked; he had been so consumed by thoughts and training that he had forgotten that he had worked through all of his punishment details. He finally had the hour before lights out free. He followed the platoon into the barracks like a piece of paper dragged in the wake of a car.

He stood at the entrance watching the platoon. They were taking off damp clothes, talking to each other. Some immediately headed to the showers. Two ponies in the corner, Clear Text and High View he thought their names were, had taken out a chess board. A dark blue pegasi shrieked as a grinning orange unicorn dropped an ice cube down the back of his uniform. The early risers apparently played cards in the evening too.

Blueblood walked to his bedside; and picked up his book of army regulations. He turned to the door; he had memorized the more basic and common, but he wanted to get familiar with the whole book. He didn’t want some obscure regulation having him stuck in a toilet stall.

A northern accented voice called out.

“Hey Blueblood.

”Blueblood turned to face the voice. It was Pop Lane, the blue earth pony, surrounded by the early risers; at the usual table with cards scattered over it. Blueblood stood straighter and spoke in a firm, reserved voice.

“Yes?”

“Do you know how to play Follow the Princess?”

“Yes.”

Pop Lane waited a moment as Blueblood remained silent. He rolled his eyes.

“Do you want to play?”

Blueblood glanced over the faces of the players. He couldn’t see any shifty eyes, or too intent stares. Their expression eluded him for a moment. They were… sympathetic; they were pitying him. There was a flash of black, bitter anger; but Blueblood walked forward. He examined the only open chair; and sat down like a coiled spring. Pop Lane started dealing their hoofs; and the table picked up their conversation where it had stopped. Blueblood remained quiet; waiting, but as a minute passed his shoulders eased. Blueblood perked up at something Pop Lane said.

“You work on cars?” Blueblood waved a hoof, with a slight flush, “Sorry I did not mean to interrupt.”

Pop Lane turned with a smile.

“No worries; yeah why?”

“I’m something of a hobbyist. What do you think of the new Wingbardy model as a technician?”

Pop Lane scowled, and Blueblood tensed a bit before he spoke.

“They are scrap buckets.”

His tension eased.

“I’ll admit they have to be babied; but isn’t ‘scrap bucket’ a little far?”

Soon Blueblood was conversing with the whole table; and started to hoard tidbits about them. Poplane was from a town north of Shire. Set Score, a pegasus stallion, was the youngest of them and had joined straight after school. He had been right about the mare unicorn; Wander Wind was a sound mage. Shift Taker, a pegasus mare, disliked cats; and probably liked Set Score. Nopony brought up his… misadventures.

When there was a natural lull in the conversation; Blueblood glanced over the hall. Some gave the table looks; but most were occupied, and ignored the card players. Blueblood felt his throat tighten. He looked away, and took a deep breath; before looking back at the table. It wouldn't do to make a scene; but he couldn’t make his smile more proper.

Author's Note

I went from two weeks to almost a month. Why?

I bought Rimworld(big mistake). This chapter went through two versions before I settled on this on. I was also had some work troubles.

I do hope you enjoy. Thoughts and criticisms would be appreciated.