PiE/HiE Short Stories - The Earth/Equus Treaties

American International Military Base, Western Australia | Fort Quaker

Lieutenant Mimosa Brunch, or typically just Lieutenant Mimosa. Or Lieutenant. Or most commonly, Ma'am.

Even with her lip quivering, he's proud of her for holding such a stern face while keeping it together.

Well, mostly. The furniture she clambered onto wasn't helping her visage much, the way she's teetering around trying not to fall off of it. These kind of things always seemed to happen when she was alone.

She can't even bear to look at it. He doesn't blame her, the bugs around here are nasty. Big-ass things with too much hair, too many legs and too much audacity, with a proclivity for the inside of one's boots.

The spider scuttles around angrily in the upturned cup, locked against the paper that forms the impenetrable combo-shield of it's inescapable containment. She flinches as he walks around her with the captured critter, but stares forward, staying strong with a scrunched face. But no matter how tough she plays it, her ears betray her real feelings, pressed flat against her head.

Trying not to torment her any longer, he tosses the bug out the front flap of the tent to be someone else's problem. The moment the miniscule menace is removed, she visibly relaxes, exhaling quietly and letting the tension droop out of her shoulders.

"Enemy operative removed, Lieutenant. Anything else?" He asks, snapping to attention the moment he's put the cup and paper back down on the wartable, spinning around to face her.

"Negative. Thank you for your assistance, Private McCrowski. You're dismissed. And... not a word." She quickly adds, hopping down off the stool she'd clambered onto in the corner, trying to regain some semblance of her composure. She clears her throat, straightens her posture, and looks down her snout at him. As best she can, being half his height.

He salutes, "Of course, Ma'am," promptly exiting the tent to return to his guard duty, taking a light jog across the base.

It wasn't unusual for McCrowski to have to ask somebody, or somepony, to cover for him. Ever since that first initial incident where McCrowski just happened to be in the right place to help the Lieutenant wriggle out of a uniform that had a scorpion in it, he's wound up becoming the go-to for whenever she had a personal task needed dealing with. Usually removing whatever insect or small creature tread into her personal space, but she'd begun handing him other, simpler duties that kept him around. Sworn to secrecy, the position wasn't without benefits. Usually an extra treat from the mess tent when no-one else was looking.

Essentially, whenever one of the outback's innumerable insectoids of uncomfortably large stature reared one of their chitinous heads in her general vicinity, McCrowski would find himself dragged across camp to deal with it, no matter where he was or what he was doing. Which, considering they were two hours from the nearest town, nestled in the boonies at a training encampment, meant things stayed plenty buggy around here.

Passing a few other guys cleaning their guns and chatting in the shade, and a pony running packages between the soldiers, McCrowski finally reaches his post again, tucked behind a few of the tents and buildings.

"All done?" Harris calls down as he finds McCrowski climbing up the tower ladder, sat on the north-eastern corner of the walls. The illustrious 'get used to staring at nothing from the comfort of a hotbox, complete with views of wide open fuck-all and sweltering swass.

Harris reaches to pull McCrowski back up beside him, handing him his gun once he's gotten settled again. Harris was a fairly relaxed guy with a perpetual smug grin, who considered himself something of an artist. Primarily drawing dicks in the sand, but he considered in art nonetheless. A bit on the short side, his unbridled and often unwarranted confidence typically got him into some kind of trouble. Still, one of the few that knew McCrowski's predicament, and would cover for him when needed in exchange for his snacks.

"Yup. The usual." McCrowski leans back into his foldout chair, laying his rifle across his lap, fiddling with the strap.

"Still wild to me that she ever got posted here." He shakes his head, laughing.

"How come?" McCrowski glances over, surprised. Harris wasn't usually one for shittalking command.
"Because she's a Pony?"

"Huh?" Harris raises a brow, punching McCrowski's shoulder. He looks almost offended at the idea.
"Course not. Shit, you read anything about their homeland, they've been up to as much dark shit as we have. I've got no doubt they earn their stars and stripes here or there. Nah, I'm talking about her deployment history. Ain't you heard?"

Rubbing the now sore spot, McCrowski regrets making the assumption.
"I don't know jack about her, minus her rank, and her... bug thing." He glances around, like it's a big, hush secret.

It kind of was, with not too many on base knowing about it. Her fear of things with more legs than her. Harris was one of the few, mostly because they got shackled together for so many tasks, and Harris had to cover for McCrowski so many times, it became inevitable that it would slip out.

And also she threatened to kick his ass if he ever told anybody. Or anypony. So McCrowski was pretty tight lipped about it. Harris, on the other hand, was a touch too loud about it, McCrowski only spared by their usual assignments being away from other people. Or Ponies.

Still, beyond the initial threats, she was pretty nice to him. It's why he didn't mind the whole thing so much.

"She doesn't chat you up when she's got you all alone like that?"

"No. Well, sometimes, but I think she's embarrassed, actually."

"She still slipping you treats when nobodies looking?"

"Mmhm."

"Whatd you get last time?"

"Warm pudding."

"Pudding? Lucky fuck. She likes you." Harris scoffs, leaning back in his own make-shift seating. A combination of extra blankets, an empty crate, and a sack of something that had its logo rubbed off months ago gave Harris a much comfier seat than McCrowski.
"But seriously, she's seen active combat over there, man. Something called the Changeling Wars."

"...Aren't those the shape-shifting bugs-pony things?" McCrowski points out. Harris leans forward, nodding.

"Exactly. And yet she's scared of little bugs, when she's a decorate over-portal veteran of actual wartime? Something isn't adding up." Harris muses, scratching his chin.

"Maybe the small bugs are more unnerving than the big ones." McCrowski shrugs.
"What's war in Equestria like, anyway?"

"A lot more medieval, apparently. Whatever she's gotten up to, she's done it up close and personal." Harris explains, tensing his hands with a grin.

"Explains the scars." McCrowski nods, ruminating. The Lieutenant was covered in them, and he never really questioned it. They just kind of fit her. She had a strong tone, a stern glare, one of her ears were clipped, and several scars peeked out wherever she had fur showing. She looked weirdly tough, for a pony. Probably helped she wasn't as colorful as some of the other members of her species, though more muted colors were more common in those that actually enlisted.

"Right? But not the bug thing." Harris wiggles a finger, sneering before peeking through the scope again, adjusting it.

"I dunno, man. I don't think I'd wanna face down me-size bug shapeshifters, either." McCrowski shrugs.

"...Actually, yeah. Fuck that. Imagine? Some shit the size of fucking Jenkins running at you, all buggy and shit?" Harris shivers, leaning his rifle against the handrail of the tower, peering through the scope at the distance.

McCrowski just shivers. Hard pass. Jenkins was a fucking mass of muscle. All he did was lift. If that's the case, he does not blame her for not liking bugs.

"McCrowski!"

"Anything interesting out there?" McCrowski asks, scratching under his sock.

"Nah. Not even a hyena or a kangaroo fuckin' or whatever." Harris sighs, tapping his foot loudly on the tower's boarded floor.

"McCrowski!"

"Why the fuck would you want to see that?" McCrowski laughs despite his disguist, giving Harris a look.

"Shit, man. Anything is better then another day of staring at dirt. At least I'd have something to joke about at the mess tab--" Harris goes to start rambling about just what particular category of bored he is, before the distant voice comes booming from directly underneath their ladder, quite loudly. And quite a bit irritated at being ignored.

"McCrowski!"

Both startle, nearly leaping out of their chairs as they shuffle to peer down the tower.

"Jenkins!" Harris grins.

"Shut up, Harris, you fuckin' knobhead. You got my twenty bucks yet?" Jenkins jabs a finger up towards them. Despite being a good dozen-plus feet below them, Jenkins' sheer size somehow makes that intimidating. Cornfed or whatever you want to call him, guys a monster.

"...Not quite yet." Harris shrinks out of sight.

"You're staying in that fucking tower until I see it. McCrowski! Lieutenant wants you."

"Again?" McCrowski clarifies, leaning lower.

"Did I fucking stutter? Yeah, again." Jenkins retorts, angling the pointed finger to McCrowski instead.

"Hey, I don't owe you money, man. You don't gotta be mean to me." McCrowski tries to wave it off.

For a moment, Jenkins looks like he actually considers it, before frowning.
"Nah, if I'm mean to you, Harris might pay up faster. Sorry. And get going!" Jenkins waves a hand vaugely, before departing deeper into the camp.

Harris is peering through a crack in the towers half-wall.

"When the fuck did you owe Jenkins money?" McCrowski questions, handing over his rifle. It's so routine at this point that Harris takes it without even looking, slinging it over his shoulder.

"Two days ago. Borrowed some cash for poker with Tucker."

"You know Tucker cheats. Horrifically. At everything possible."

"I thought I had him." Harris offers weakly -- though McCrowski can tell by the look on his face. He didn't learn his lesson.

"Even after he thrifted you of your own cash and you had to start borrowing? I'm not lending you anything, by the way." McCrowski shakes his head.

"Was this close." Harris pinches his fingers together.

"Riiiight."
No fucking way he was.
"Back in a minute." McCrowski startles mantling the ladder, boots to rungs.

"No problem. I don't think I'm leaving this tower anytime soon... get me something to snack on, yeah?" Harris mutters, still ducked away from Jenkins.

"No promises." McCrowski considers just bringing whatever bug is bothering the Lieutenant, but the joke wouldn't be funny long enough to bring it up the ladder. Plus, Harris might actually eat it. Guys' weird. Probably had half a granola bar or something somewhere in his bunk, he'd get that if he remembered.

Another quick jog the way he'd came just moments prior, giving vague waves to the servicemen he passed just a moment prior. Did the spider he just toss out go right back in the tent? Might have to take it outside the perimeter this time. McCrowski wasn't much of a bug squisher.

Since she's almost always alone whenever she calls him, and she hates when he stands around waiting for her to 'Just Celestia-Damn get in here', McCrowski ducks into the command tent, pushing the flap aside before snapping to attention and announcing himself as it sweeps shut behind him.

"Ma'am!" He calls out --

-- She's exactly where he expected her to be, right back up on that stool, jammed in the corner, glaring at the intruder.
"Private! Insurgents! G-get them!" She quickly stutters, jabbing at the war table with a hoof.

McCrowski walks over, leaning against it's side as he ducks down, looking at the floor.

Same spider. It raises it's forelimbs at him in challenge. Unfortunately, it proves no match for the boundless human intellect.

Within a few minutes, he's got it back in the cup. This time, he upturns it, and stuffs the top with the paper before briskly exiting. He heads a few tents over, before dumping it behind one of the neighboring ones. Maybe it'll bother them instead, and keep itself out of the Lieutenant's tent.

By the time he gets back to the Lieutenant, she's sat on the ground taking deep breaths, steadying herself. Her usually tightly-bound bun is a mess, more of a suggestion at this point, half of it apart of hanging in her face. McCrowski doesn't think he's ever seen her with her hair down, honestly. It's pretty cute, which is a surprising thought. Despite being a pony, cute isn't a word that's typically ascribed to her. She put her hoof down hard when she first got stationed here to any ideas some of the guys or stallions might have about having a female leader. She's got this off-cream fur that looks oddly soft, so that doesn't help her visage much.

He quietly stands at attention just inside, waiting. It's only when she's breathing normally again, hoof on her chest, that he speaks up.

"Enemy insurgency counteracted, Ma'am." McCrowski dutifully reports. He does his best to not let the crease of his lips twist into a smirk, but it's hard. For the record, he's not laughing at her, just how they always treat the situation. McCrowski doesn't think he's ever even uttered the word Bug or Spider in her presence. It's always insurgents, hostiles or so on, like her tent was under invasion.

Her eyes widen slightly as she remembers he's still here -- she looks like she's about to snap back to her presentational, stanced-up pose of command, but... she just doesn't. A long sigh escapes her as she slumps back into one of the pony-sized chairs of her command tent. Two times in the span of less than ten minutes must've been hard on her.

She brushes her hoof through her mane, tsking to herself at it's state. She usually wears her hair up, either in a ponytail or a bun depending on the day, but now it's a mess that looks surprisingly good on her.
"Having fun, Private McCrowski?" She notes dryly, catching him staring.

"Not at all, Ma'am. Insurgent infiltration of this degree is of the utmost seriousness." He barely manages, holding back a snicker.

"I'm glad you agree, McCrowski. In that case... you'll remain here to ensure no repeat invasive attempts, since there seem to be multiple combatants." She states, giving him a look.

He's... not quite sure what kind of look, though. But he's also not about to clarify that it's the same spider that keeps coming back. She doesn't need to hear that.

"Certainly, Ma'am. Should I post up outside, or --" McCrowski goes to respond, but she cuts in.

"In here is fine. Before you cover the door, however, could you..." She trails off, glancing to the floor. She hesitates for a second, nose scrunching as she considers something.
"...Private, do you know how to tie a bun?"

McCrowski purses his lips. Technically, he did, but the reason was a bit embarrassing. He could just say no... but she's got hooves. He doesn't even have any clue how she gets her hair up like that in the morning, and this was the first time she'd asked him anything like this.

"The Private may have some unconfirmed experience with long hair from misspent formative years believing he could 'rock a manbun', Ma'am." McCrowski explains after a short pause, trying not to let the awkwardness creep up his throat after he admitted it.

But rather than reacting poorly like he expected, her eyes widen in surprise.
"You can? Oh, thank Celestia -- come here and tie my mane up, would you? It's going to take me half an hour if I do it myself." She quickly says, shuffling herself around in her fold-out chair so her back is to him.

"How... do you do it yourself, if I can ask, Ma'am?" McCrowski let's his curiosity take lead a bit as he tentatively approaches her. They've been friendly, but putting his hands in her hair? That's a new one.

"Magic, but it's still a pain." She explains rather simply, glancing behind herself and side-eyeing him. Right, her horn. Magic. You'd think she'd just use it to deal with the bugs or something.

"Right. So, do I just...?" McCrowski holds is hands in the air, not quite sure the protocol forward with this. Until a hairband floats it's way over to him, covered in a shifting, hazy orange glow, depositing itself right into his palm.

Seeing how the other ponies handled their weapons and tasks was always interesting, but this was the first time he'd gotten to interact directly with it.

"...Neat." He mumbles, stretching the hairball over his fingers.

"Nice and tight, Private." She instructs simply, looking forward again, wriggling in her chair expectantly. She seems almost excited to have someone else do this for her.

Cautiously, McCrowski slowly sinks his fingers into her waiting, auburn mess of a mane. Well, blonde-ish in certain lights. He's actually startled by just how soft it is, despite their locale. Was that a pony thing, or did she just have a good shampoo?

It's a little weird, doing up the hair of a commanding officer, but McCrowski works through it as he pulls her hair taut, twisting it back into her bun. Her ears are flicking about as he works, techniques from shameful, forgotten highschool years emerging so he can do a proper job. Man, he's glad he grew out of that phase.

"You can pull harder than that, Private. I'm not fragile." She notes dryly.

"Oh, I know you aren't, Ma'am. Toughest living thing in this encampment. I've just weak little hands." McCrowski counters, realizing a little too late he probably shouldn't be joking around like this.

To his relief, she stifles a snort, chuckling to herself.

Phew.

She seems content enough with how it turns out, glancing herself over in her phones camera.

The rest of the day is much more uneventful, McCrowski posted up inside the tent, stood by the flap at attention. Out of the sun, and with the rare air conditioning, it's honestly not too bad of a post. He gets to watch the Lieutenant rifle through her paperwork, receiving orders and running supply numbers in preparation for their next training session. At a few points, she even asks for his help to stack papers or run orders.

And the spider is, without her any the wiser, kept at bay a few more times. It's a persistent little thing.

What was weirder was this didn't end up being a once-off post, even after Harris found him, returned his rifle to him, and asked him why he was gone so long. Harris was, for the most part, only a little shocked at McCrowski's new posting, though that surprise soon faded as that post was repeated the next day. And the next. And the next.

...

"Hurry up, McCrowski! You got stumps for legs?" The older, wizened Captain leans out the back of the jeep, bugle to his lips as he shouts.

"No Captain!" McCrowski yells back, just as the command jeep drives off to bother the rest of the guys up ahead.

Ugh. He could handle the heat when he wasn't running around like this, but this shit was miserable. Thank fuck today was just a few laps around the camps fields.

"Falling behind, McCrowski?" A familiar voice suddenly jeers, catching his attention as it pulls up beside him. It's the Lieutenant, casually trotting after the jeep that passed him moments prior. Compared to the humans in the camp, the Ponies handled this kind of thing a lot better. While a human might be able to push it hard over the long term, Ponies took to running like a fly to shit.

"I've seen foals with more stamina, McCrowski. You look like you're about to drop." She teases, grinning at him. She's just casually keeping up with him, speaking like she always does, completely unbothered by this five mile run. Thank fuck it wasn't a ruck, and just a run.

"Might... drop any moment... Ma'am. Wishing I was... a foal right about now, then." McCrowski huffs out, wiping the sweat off the sleeve of his bdu. He's trailing a bit from the rest of the pack, though normally he'd be smack in the middle of them. While he'd rather be in shorts and a t-shirt then his battle dress, at least it kept the ticks and bramble from scraping him up as he got further and further behind.

Admittedly, he'd had some trouble sleeping. He kept checking on Harris, who refused to come out of the guard tower, and got roped into his squabble with command over not forking over the tower to the next shift. Got himself a few free laps around the camp, late-night. That was fun. Thanks Harris.

"Well we can't have that, Private." She tsks, shaking her head before sliding herself in beside him, keeping pace right beside him.
"Suppose I'll have to keep you company to ensure we don't have any medical emergencies."

"Ma'am?" McCrowski manages, looking down at her with confusion. Distracted, he nearly stumbles over a dip in the dirt -- the only reason he doesn't tumble right over himself is a sudden orange, glowing push of force against his chest that rights him back into the upright position.

"Or would you rather keep running by yourself?" The Lieutenant raises a brow, the glow around her horn dissipating into sparks that filter out behind them.

"...Company." McCrowski wheeze.

"Good choice, Private." She smiles, before her tone turns stern.
"Now pickup the pace. It'll be dark out by the time you're done, if you keep this up."

"...Y'esm." McCrowski groans, trying to push himself a little harder.

For some reason, it's not as hard. Maybe it's that coy smile on her face that he keeps catching out the corner of his eye. Or just her presence. But it doesn't take too long for McCrowski to catch up to the back of the pack.

...

In the shared bunk-room that McCrowski and Harris shared, a loud creak elicits an equally loud, annoyed groan.

"What are you doing up so early?" Harris groans from his bunk, glaring at McCrowski. They didn't have to be up early, yet here McCrowski was, rubbing his eyes and slipping out of his bunk.

"Sorry. Tried to get up quietly." McCrowski winces. Damn.

"Bit fucking late for that. Go to the shitter not at..." Harris clamps around for his phone, squinting at the bright light as he reads the clock.
"...Fuck my ass, dude, five in the morning? I'm up in two hours for --"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry. I'm still trying to figure it out. It's when she gets up, and her routine in hardly normal..."

Harris' phone slowly sets on the ground beside him, his bed creaking as he sits up slowly, eyes squinting.
"...Her?"

McCrowski bites his lip, groaning to himself as he gets dressed.
"Not a fucking word to anyone, right?"

Harris might be a lot of things, but he took secrets to the grave. It was the only reason McCrowski actually even considered, for a second, risking such a secret.

"Is this about the fucking Lieutenant?!" Harris hisses loudly, throwing his sheets off himself.

McCrowski doesn't even get a chance to talk back, Harris leaping out of his bunk.
"You're kidding me. She's got you crawling out of bed at five in the morning?! The fuck for?"

"To... help her tie her mane back." McCrowski mumbles.

"Her hair?" Harris repeats, blinking several times.

"She asked me to help her get ready in the mornings. Said I do it much faster then she can with her horn."

"You're up at five in the morning to tie her fucking hair?"

"Yeah."

"...Dude, if you're fucking the Lieutenant just say so. Jesus christ..." Harris throws his hands up in defeat, stumbling back to back and burying himself under his blanket.

"Hey. Woah. I'm not --" McCrowski tries to deflect, but a tired Harris is having none of it.

"One, congrats. Two, whatever, dude. Just go and stop keeping me up." Harris waves him away, before shoving his head under his pillow.

Whatever, he'd correct him later. For now, a just-dressed McCrowski creeps out of the bunk, quickly walking towards the Lieutenant's bunks through the early-early morning of the camp. He doesn't get very many looks, McCrowski unsure how sneaky he should even be about this as he knocks on her door.

"Ma'am?" He asks softly, only for the door to be flung open.

"There you are!" A half-dressed, messy looking Lieutenant Mimosa announces, before an orange glow tightly grabs his collar and yanks him inside, slamming the door behind him.

Her room is about as spartan as McCrowski's, and she's only wearing a loose t-shirt that's definitely for a human, not a pony, the way it drapes over her body. With her out of uniform, McCrowski can see the scars on the limbs a lot easier. It's surprising, just how many of them she has.

Yet she eagerly hops onto her chair, her desk lightly littered with the smallest assortment of beauty products. A thing of chapstick, a few hairbands... she's really not working with much.

"Thanks for coming, I've got a meeting with the Captain in twenty-five minutes and my mane does not want to cooperate." She rambles, leaning closer to the mirror sat center-stage on her desk, squinting at herself. Her hair is a complete mess, refusing to bend.

Her magic floats a little spray bottle, starting to spritz herself to dampen her hair.

"Of course, Lieutenant." McCrowski offers simply, crossing over the room to her, standing beside her.

"I'm not asking for your help as your Lieutenant, McCrowski. Could you?" She looks up to him -- even seated, he's still looking down.
"I owe you for this. Seriously." She tsks, fussing with her hair more, and only growing more irritated by the second.

A hairband plucked from a pack of them floats it's way over to him, landing in his hand when he holds it out. McCrowski can't help but notice the trash can filled numerous, snapped bands. A bit of a frustrating experience, apparently.

"Uh... yeah, no problem..."
...Fuck it, worst that could happen is she kills him in front of the other guys.
"...Mimosa." He says quietly. Definitely loud enough to hear.

She doesn't say anything about it. A quiet, relieved sigh escapes McCrowski as his hands press into her hair, rounding up the unruly and recently dampened mane.

From the corner of his eye, he can see her watching his movements in the mirror and the little smile sat on her face as her eyes start to close, leaning into it as he tugs and preps her hair. Sweeping between her ears, gathering up her bangs and tucking it all back.
"Oh, bun or ponytail?"

"Oh, ponytail with the way my hair is behaving today. Unless you think you could get it in a bun in time...?" She wonders, one of her ears twitching.

"I'll get it done with minutes to spare."

"Lifesaver." Mimosa sighs, watching him work.

It's a few long moments of Lieutenant Mimosa nervously watching him, but his cringe past proved useful as it rears it's ugly head again, the Lieutenant's hair neatly tied back in a well-tucked bun, for form.

Mimosa practically leaps from the chair, quickly throwing on her uniform and checking her phone for the time. It's surprising how good she is at multitasking, but her hair was just one task too many. Maybe too detail-orientated for her magic. Honestly, explains why most of the Ponies just brushed their manes or kept it short, if styling it like this was such a hassle to do oneself.

"Just enough time to get there -- perfect. Thank you, McCrowski." She sighs, relieved.

"Not a problem. But if you need me to keep coming by in the morning, Harris is gonna kill me. He's a light sleeper, and I'm pretty shit at sneaking, Ma'am."

"Understood. I'll look into getting you a closer, personal bunk. And... thanks."

Oh. Not the answer he expected.
"You already thanked me, Ma'am."

She glares at him.

"...M-Mimosa."

"Not for the hair. For the... bug thing." She mutters, physically recoiling even at the word.

"Not a problem. I get it. They're yucky."

There's a glow around his collar, and he's suddenly yanked downward, right as Mimosa kisses his cheek. The word red doesn't sum up the intensity of how brightly McCrowski's face blushes in surprise, as Mimosa is already shoving him out the door, and locking it behind them.

"Now get going, I expect you at your usual post in a few hours." She instructs, her tone harsher now that they're outside again.

"Uh..."

She smiles at him, before her stern frown resumes as her cap slides onto her head, ears peeking out the sides, trotting towards her due meeting.

McCrowski stumbles back to his tent, eyes wide as he slumps back into his bed. Sleep was the last thing he could get.

Where the hell did that come from?

...

"Alright, son. Sit down." The Captain instructs, tapping the table. It's one of the spare rooms, with only a projector facing a sheet on the wall, and a spot for him to sit.

"Uh... yes sir. Can I ask what this is about?" McCrowski questions, sitting down. He hadn't even made it to his post this morning before the Captain had pulled him away. He was worried he'd be in trouble, not even sure what he'd be in trouble for.

"You have inadvertently begun a path of due diligence, son." He warns, leaning close as he clicks the remote.
"And you are to be prepared for it. Here."

A slide pops up, illuminating the dark room.

'Dating a Pony and You -- Enlisted Edition.'

McCrowski blinks several times.

What the fuck?

"...Sir?" McCrowski manages after a long pause, looking for some explanation. The Captain struts over beside the projector, tapping his foot.

"Dont give me that look, son. They're a naturally affectionate species who seek social bonds. How the hell do you think I met my wife?" He chuffs, clicking the remote again.

The next slide is a picture of the Captain and his wife, who happens to be a fairly colorful Pegasus mare.

That... gives as many answers as it does questions.

"All inter-species companies are equipped with these educational documents. Now, Lieutenant Mimosa is a commissioned officer, unlike you. That's going to add a few terms, compared to dating a civilian..." The Captain starts explaining moving to the next slide. It's a checklist of things one needs to keep in mind while in relations with a pony, and their difference of priorities.

The fact they even had this prepared has McCrowski's head in his hands. At least he wasn't going to get in trouble for it, but damn of this wasn't embarrassing. Or confusing. The kiss already caught him the fuck off guard. Now they're dating? Not that he wasn't into her, but... what the fuck was going on?

In his peripheral view, he can see Lieutenant Mimosa watching from the outside window. She smiles at him when he notices, before quickly turning and yelling at some of the guys passing the building, something about their uniforms.

"Now, see here, that most Equestrian's..." The Captain's voice draws his attention away from the outside.

He rubs his eyes, letting his gaze wander back to the slideshow. Might as well learn what he can, if he was going to measure up.

The idea of getting to spend more time with her does get a smile on his face.