Author's Note

Hello viewers, CAUTION / ADVISORY This chapter contains strong themes of sexual violence, descriptions of physical violence, and sequences some might find emotionally difficult to get through.

Any feedback, good or bad, is welcome.

- Paleface

NINE

Today was the seventh day of training and the end of the recruits' first week. The morning began with 3rd platoon enduring a grueling 5 a.m. run in horrid weather. Rain and hail pelted down, eventually melting into freezing sleet that stung Bistrena’s eyes and caused her hooves to slip on the boggy forest terrain.

Jetstream remained behind today, leaving his aides, Corporal Lockstep, the sharp-eyed unicorn who had overseen Bistrena’s arrival at the fort, and Corporal Slate, a blonde earth pony with a no-nonsense demeanour, to drive the platoon relentlessly through a dense training area many kilometres from the fort.

When they finally returned for showers, the mare’s block was already grimy from other platoons. Bistrena noted the tight coordination of the instructors: platoons rarely crossed paths, and shared spaces like the mess hall or showers were methodically cycled. Exhausted, she endured the filthy conditions, longing for the brief reprieve of warm water.

After a rushed breakfast, they dove into classroom sessions. Hours of tactics, strategy, safety protocols, disaster relief organization, and evacuation theory passed in a dull blur. The technical content dragged on, testing their patience. When Jetstream dismissed them, it was with a mix of relief and dread: week one was complete, and week two began tomorrow. For now, they had the evening off to relax—but not too much.

Bistrena was almost out the door when Corporal Lockstep caught her. “Trainee Bistrena,” she said curtly. “You’re cleaning the mares’ shower block. It’ll take an hour, tops. Nothing you can’t handle.”

Bistrena glanced around, wanting to protest—why her? Why alone? Why not a unicorn who could do it faster with magic? She didn’t dare voice these thoughts, knowing Lockstep’s apparent dislike for her since their first meeting. “Yes, staff,” she said, resigned, and trudged off to the task.

The acrid smell of bleach filled the shower block as Bistrena scrubbed the floor, bent over with a dense-bristled brush gripped tightly between her hooves. Her eyes watered and her nose stung, but she pressed on, determined to make the place spotless and avoid another tongue-lashing from Lockstep. She was so focused she barely registered the sound of approaching hooves.

When she finally noticed the presence behind her, she thought Lockstep had returned. Peering between her legs, her stomach churned at the sight of Corporal Blackguard - the clerk she'd had a slight disagreement with during her evaluation day - standing there, his eyes fixed on her with a sickening leer. The bile of disgust rose in her throat. That slimy bastard was ogling her rear like some depraved animal.

All ponies were nude much of the time, and flashes of flesh weren’t inherently shocking. But this was different. This wasn’t accidental or innocent—this was predatory. And Blackguard, old enough to be her father, made her skin crawl.

Straightening sharply, Bistrena pressed her back against the wall, legs closed defensively as her tail flicked instinctively to cover herself. Blood rushed to her cheeks in anger and embarrassment. “What are you doing here?” she snapped, glaring at him. “This is the mare’s shower block. You don’t belong here.”

Blackguard smiled, his yellowed teeth and whiskey-soured breath making her stomach turn. “Relax, mare,” he drawled. “Just came to check on you. You’re looking real good, though.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Now leave.”

Instead of leaving, he stepped closer, his movements unsteady. His words slurred slightly, his breath heavy with the stench of cheap cologne and alcohol. “You owe me an apology,” he began, his tone shifting. “For disrespecting me during your eval. Hurt my feelings, you did. That doesn’t fly in the Army.”

Bistrena’s stomach knotted as he gestured to his uniform. “Not the Civil Defense anymore. I’m Army Reserve now. Time to pay up.”

“Pay up?” she repeated incredulously. “I don’t owe you anything. I tried to apologize, and you blew me off.”

He laughed, more of a detestable cackle, "speaking of blowing off..." he said with a despicable grin, and leaned closer, his presence suffocating. “You’re a mare, aren’t you? There's six of you for every four of us. Nature says you’re mine if I want you. You know how it works. Time to learn how a real stallion treats his mares.”

Her disgust boiled over. “This is sexual misconduct,” she warned. “I’ll report you if you don’t leave right now.”

He smirked, undeterred, his hoof lifting toward her face. “Now be a good mare and turn around,” he murmured, his other hoof moving beneath him.

Bistrena snapped. Without space to turn and kick him, she coiled her neck muscles and lashed out with a powerful headbutt. Her forehead slammed into his muzzle with a sickening crack. He staggered back and crumpled to the tiles, groaning. Pain radiated through her skull and neck, but adrenaline pushed her forward.

He groaned, blood spurting from his nostrils as she stumbled to loom over him. “Don’t you EVER—”

Before she could finish her threat, he lashed out with a kick, sweeping her legs out from under her. She fell heavily onto him, and they wrestled violently on the wet tiles. He might've been four sheets to the wind, but the old-timer was slick, Blackguard’s experience gave him the upper hand despite her anger and youth. He struck her hard in the face, she felt her nasal bone fracture, bloodying her nose, and his forelegs clamped around her throat in a crushing choke. She clawed at his grip, but she slipped and his forelegs tightened.

Her vision blurred. Darkness crept in. The fight was slipping away.

When she awoke, her body ached and her head throbbed. She was on her stomach, cold tiles beneath her. Blackguard’s weight pressed down on her, his breathing ragged and heavy. He fumbled clumsily with his body, and she realized with horror what he intended to do.

A surge of primal fear and fury shot through her. She screamed—a high, piercing wail that echoed off the tiles and seemed to rattle the walls. Blackguard jerked in surprise, giving her the moment she needed. She twisted violently, kicking out with her hind legs and connecting solidly with his groin. He yelped and fell back on his side, clutching himself.

“Bistrena?!” Lockstep’s voice rang from the doorway. Bistrena, flat on her back, tilted her head to see her upside-down saviour framed by the wintery sky. Relief swept over her, mixing with the swell of anger and fear as the instructor stormed in. Lockstep froze momentarily, taking in the scene: Bistrena, exposed, battered and breathless, and Blackguard writhing on the floor, fumbling with his genitals.

“He tried to rape me!” Bistrena cried a mixture of tears and unwelcome, nervous laughter breaking free. She pointed a trembling hoof at him, her chest heaving.

Lockstep didn’t hesitate. Her horn ignited, the magenta magic surging like a storm. Blackguard, who was trying to rise, found himself enveloped in an unforgiving aura.

“Wait!” he gasped, spitting blood. “It’s not what it looks like—”

Lockstep cut him off by slamming him into the tiles with sickening force. Her magic flared and his body was rag-dolled against the hard wall repeatedly, as the tiles cracked and his bones broke. Blood ejected from his mouth as the Corporal snarled, "I fucking warned you!" Though Bistrena couldn’t grasp the full meaning. Another impact shattered tiles, widening cracks in the wall. Blackguard’s body convulsed with each brutal slam. Blood spattered, painting the floor, walls, and the mares.

Bistrena’s tears stopped. She lay there, staring, her terror shifting to shock. Lockstep’s face remained a mask of cold precision, emotionless as she crushed him into a widening crater of broken tile and stone. She’s a killer, Bistrena thought, the truth sharp and undeniable. She’s done this before. And she’ll sleep soundly after.

Lockstep released him, cutting off the magical flow. Blackguard hung suspended for a moment before dropping like a stone, hitting the ground with a grotesque thud. Blood trickled from his ears and mouth, pooling under his head. He made disbelieving eye contact with Bistrena, before convulsing briefly, limbs twitching. Then he lay still, eyes half-rolled, chest motionless.

“Should we help him?” Bistrena asked, her voice breaking. Her hooves scraped against the tiles as she tried to rise, or at the least, get away from her assailant.

Lockstep didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stepped closer, glared down at the lifeless body, and spat, her contempt palpable. “Fuck him,” she growled. Turning, she took Bistrena by the foreleg, her grip firm but not unkind. “Come on. We’re telling the Captain.”

Dazed and trembling, Bistrena followed. As they stepped outside, midday gloom enveloped them. A handful of recruits loitered nearby, drawn by the commotion. They froze as Lockstep emerged, blood-splattered and imposing, dragging Bistrena behind her.

“What happened?” one stammered, his voice hesitant.

“Everything... alright?” another ventured, blanching at the sight of blood dripping from Bistrena’s nose.

Lockstep didn’t slow or spare them a glance. “There’s a body in the shower block. Cordon it off. No one goes in or out until I return.”

The recruits exchanged uneasy glances. “Fuck,” one muttered, nodding reluctantly. “Got it.”

Satisfied, Lockstep pressed on, not breaking her stride. Bistrena stumbled in her wake, her mind spinning, unsure of what to think or what awaited them next.

Captain Wheatstone’s office bore the marks of luxury but felt anything but welcoming. The mahogany tiles, gold-crested candles on the window ledge, a marble bust of an Equestrian hero in a helmet, and heavy curtains framing the Equestrian flag—all of it clashed against Wheatstone’s sheepish demeanour as he gestured for them to sit.

“I didn’t ask for the deluxe suite,” he muttered, almost apologetic, “but they said there wasn’t anywhere else to put me. Haven’t had time to…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “Redecorate.” Then his eyes sharpened, zeroing in on the blood-speckled mares. “Corporal Lockstep. Trainee Bistrena. Judging by the state of you, I’m about to join you in taking a bite out of a shit sandwich. Speak freely—no drama, no bullshit.”

Lockstep stood straighter, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. “Sir,” she began, “I instructed Trainee Bistrena to clean the shower block. When I returned to inspect her progress, I found her in a... compromised position with Corporal Blackguard.”

Wheatstone’s brow furrowed, but Lockstep continued steadily. “He has a history of inappropriate behaviour with female recruits. I confronted him. He resisted.” Her voice hardened. “He’s dead, sir.”

The silence was heavy. Wheatstone’s jaw tightened as he processed her words. “You knew he had a history of this. Why wasn’t it reported?”

“I did report it, sir.” Lockstep’s voice held no hesitation. “To the previous battalion commander. My concerns were dismissed. After that, I was assigned the worst duties, repeatedly. I suspected complicity, but I couldn’t prove it.”

Wheatstone leaned forward, his forelegs interwoven atop his desk. “And yet you stayed quiet?”

“No, sir.” Her tone was sharp, clipped. “I confronted Blackguard personally. Warned him to stop. As far as I knew, he wasn’t forcing himself on anyone, but... I was wrong.”

Wheatstone looked Lockstep right in the eyes, “Corporal, I need you to be perfectly clear; a no-bullshit recital. Define ‘compromised position.’”

She paused as if searching for the right word, her jaw tightening. “To rape her. I thought he was extorting favours or bribes from recruits, but this—this was beyond what I expected.”

Wheatstone raised a hoof, stopping her from continuing, but without sharpness. “Thank you, Corporal. That’s clear for now.” He picked up the phone on his desk, dialled a single number and waited. "Sunny, drop whatever your doing and get your butt in my office, now." He slammed the phone down.

A moment later, hoof clicks echoed from the corridor. There was no knock, the door burst open and a thin mare in an officers work uniform entered, her sapphire gaze swept over Bistrena and Lockstep, before calmly settling on the Captain, then she closed the door at his gesture and stood aside.

"Thank you, Sunny," Wheatstone said, clearing his throat, "you're a witness to this, understand?"

Sunny nodded nervously after a moment but declined to speak, curiously watching Bistrena and Lockstep.

Wheatstone's eyes shifted to Bistrena, who sat rigid, her ears pinned back. “Trainee, I need to hear your account in full. Every detail.”

He turned to Lockstep. “Corporal, pen and parchment," then rotated the digital clock on his desk. "Today's date and time, write everything she says, omit nothing.”

“Yes, sir,” Lockstep replied, her horn glowing as she retrieved the items. Bistrena hesitated, then began.

Her voice trembled as she spoke, the memory raw and vivid. She described Blackguard’s predatory approach, the suffocating chokehold, the weight of his body crushing her. Her desperate scream. The moment Lockstep burst in, drunkenly radiating hostile intentions. She kept her recount concise but thorough, Lockstep’s pen scratching steadily as she documented every word. Occasionally, Lockstep glanced up, her expression unreadable, but her writing never faltered.

When Bistrena finished, her breath hitched as she fought tears. Wheatstone’s silence stretched for a moment before he nodded. “You did well,” he said softly, his tone reassuring. “Corporal, pass her the parchment.”

Lockstep obeyed, sliding the written account to Bistrena along with the pen. Wheatstone folded his forelegs. “Trainee Bistrena, you will now record Corporal Lockstep’s version of events. Write everything. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Bistrena whispered, gripping the pen tightly as Lockstep began her recount.

Lockstep’s tone was steady, recounting how she entered the shower block and found Blackguard attacking Bistrena. Her voice grew colder as she detailed her response: the magic surge, the violent confrontation, the sickening cracks as Blackguard hit the tiles. She spared no detail, and Bistrena’s hoof trembled as she captured each word.

When the recount was complete, Bistrena set the pen down, the weight of the moment settling over them all. Wheatstone reviewed the written pages carefully, his expression unknowable. He had them all sign it, including Sunny, before dismissing the officer. Finally, he folded the report and locked it in a drawer.

To their surprise, he retrieved a key from another drawer and set it on the desk. “There’s a private bathroom next door. Clean yourselves up, warm up, and eat something. I’ll handle the fallout.”

Both mares hesitated, their exhaustion mingling with relief. Wheatstone’s gaze softened slightly. “Leave the office locked when you’re done. Return the key to me later.” His voice carried an unmistakable finality, as he inspected himself in the gold-trimmed mirror. Straightening his dress shirt, before putting on his jacket and cap. He left, the door clicking quietly behind him.

Lockstep and Bistrena exchanged a glance. They were far from unscathed, least of all psychologically, but in that moment, they felt a measure of safety they hadn’t expected.