Hoplite Anon
 
>You wish this was a joke
>You wish that thread was just like any other, with light-hearted RPing and greentext
>Not this one
>This one's legit
>And you're a fucking idiot for not stealing one of your brother's guns
>Hell, his Henry repeater would've put you up there with the /k/ommandos and operators
 
>Instead, you're stuck in one of the cramped infantry barracks, along with around fifty or so other Anons
>Like you, most of them are middle-class English speakers, with a few deviants sprinkled in
>Unlike you, a majority of them are on either extremes of being unfit, ranging from small and round to tall and skinny
>There are some athletic Anons, but they are few and far in between
 
>As the first day went by, those that can run a mile with little effort are put into leader positions
>Since you wrestled in middle school, played lacrosse in high school, and ran from the off seasons to now, you are one such Anon
 
>You look down the rectangular room as the other nofuns Anons try to recover from today's drills, crowding the connecting shower room you're forcing them to visit
>It was all conditioning today, so they're pretty much walking corpses
>Clumsy, mumbling incomprehensibly, and stinking of every bodily fluid imaginable
>You feel like you should pity them, but holy shit you've never seen so much complaining and self-entitlement in person
>You wanted to be right there with the stallion drill instructor, yelling at the slobs laying on the ground
>But you did what you were told, and now you're the leader of this pathetic excuse for an infantry squad
 
>You can already feel tired-leadership syndrome seeping in
>The problem is: you're not Winters or that Lieutenant from Generation Kill
>You only had a big interest in military, both modern and ancient
>But you haven't read the Art of War, or had any formal training
>Unless the Princesses intervene with their magics, you're fucked
 
>The door behind you creaks open, and you turn to see another nofuns Anon walking in
>This one's obviously underage, but he's athletic, and he shows it by carrying a whole bunch of personal belongings
>"Is this barracks twenty eight?"
>You nod
>"You squad lead?"
>You nod again, then point to the unoccupied bunk under yours, the one closest to the single door that opens up into barracks city
>The Anon walks over and unloads his stuff, a naive smile on his face and an exited spring to his step
>You watch the smile disappear when the rest of the squad start coming out of the shower room, relatively clean
>They notice the newfag, and it's the same song and dance
>"What's your nickname?"
>"Who your favorite pone?"
>"You got lube?"
 
>You turn to the crowd
"Shut up you fuckin' hicks and get some sleep! You're gonna need it!"
>They quiet down like the shut-ins they are and head for their bunks, most of them grabbing a snack from the trolly in the center
>It's almost clean
 
>You turn back to the kid, and he looks to you with an unsure expression
"I bet this wasn't what you were expectin'."
>He shakes his head, then resumes unpacking his clothes
>A few pony stuff, but pretty typical for an early highschool kid
>You look to your stuff, and college dorm life has prepared you, with a week's worth of clothes and toiletries fitting into a single hamper
>Thank God they had plenty of washers and dryers here
 
>Looking back to the underage Anon, you notice a change of demeanor
>Slower
>Blank expression
>Throwing his shit on the ground and kicking it under the bunk violently
>God dammit
 
>You shake your head and move to the opposite side of the bunk
"Sorry for the devastation of your expectations, kid."
>"It's okay."
>...
>You scratch your recently-shaved chin
"I might be repeating what those degenerates said, but you got a nickname?"
>"No, sir."
>Sir
>You like it
 
"Well, for now you'll be Underage, or just kid. No offense, but it fits."
>"Okay."
>Another beat
>Jesus, he's still down
>And surprise, surprise, he's the only Anon in the building who's somewhat normal
 
"Did you come in late?"
>"Yeah. I was packing, but I wasn't sure what to bring."
>You nod
"And obviously you don't have any weapons on you."
>"I thought they would give us some."
"And they will, though these ponies only have medieval stuff. If you wanted guns, you had to bring your own."
 
>"Oh." and Underage looks down at the floor, getting more depressed
>You rack your brain for some words of encouragement
"Look, kid, this may be not what you had in mind, but you're here now, and in the five minutes you've been here you've shown yourself to be better than all of those faggots over there."
>Underage look to the lankies and walking funnel cakes, just now heaving themselves into the bunks
>Even though the beds are pretty big (bigger than the ones in your dorm) the springs squeak and squeal in protest from the sheer weight of the big ones
"Stick with me, kid..."
>Underage looks back to you
"And I'll do my damnedest to make you a proper soldier by the time we go into combat."
>Even though you're not a soldier yourself, but you probably have more soldier material than every person in here combined
 
"Get some sleep, kid. We're doing weapons drills tomorrow, and I need everyone in as top shape as they could be."
>"Okay, sir."
 
>After walking around and making sure everyone was in bed and not wanking in the showers, you shut the lights off
>You realize how quiet it is in here, with nobody talking
>Sure, there's hustle and bustle outside, even the sound of helis flying overhead, but the ponies made this barracks with thick, insulated materials that muffle it all
>You give the sober sight one last look, before climbing in your bunk, setting the alarm on your watch, and spend half an hour drifting off to sleep
 
 
>0700, and you wake up to your watch beeping
>Yeah, you're going off of military time
>You're in the army now
>And just like in the army, it's your job as squad lead to get these pieces of fat and minimal muscle up and ready for directions
 
>Ten minutes of you yelling and kicking people out of their bunks results in everyone awake and in whatever could pass for workout clothes
>You're wearing full on athletic gear, with neon green running shoes, blue shorts, blue cap, and your golden laX shirt with 28 on the back
>A nice coincidence right there
 
>A minute later, and a stallion comes to your door, telling you to take your squad to a specific part of the castle grounds
>You spend the next fifteen minutes guiding your flock to the point, all-the-while trying futilely to get them used to marching
>More bitching and moaning, combined with the rest of the nofun infantry milling about Barracks City
>You save your voice for when you get to a more secluded area
>You know you were going to use it
 
>As if The Lord saw your predicament and took pity, an exited murmur began to pass between other infantry and your traveling squad
>A crack team of operators pushed through the boarder to enemy lines, took out a number of enemy horns and talons, and fucking saved the Mane Six
>They even took out a "King Minotaur," as big as a Goddamn house
 
>We have met the enemy, and they are ours
 
>The good news is received well
>Some are pissed they didn't get to rescue their waifus, but they are overshadowed by the ones who are ecstatic their waifus were safe
>To your surprise, the squad is eager to drill and train, and they all begin to march in a pretty orderly fashion to the secluded area
 
 
>That secluded area is by some of the /k/ommandos' quarters
>When your squad arrives, they're given spears and...
>That's it
>That's fucking it?
>Just spears?!
>The fuck, mate!?
 
>You could do nothing but seethe behind clenched teeth as you watch your squad get into lines
>First order of business: learning general attacks with a spear
>This consists of the stallion drill instructor "demonstrating" an attack, then having the squad do a number of repetitions
 
>Credit where it's due
>The instructor's good at his job, and the squad's following orders to the letter
>They're eager, even as an hour goes by and we've only covered high and middle-level thrusts
 
>Being squad lead, you walk around the block of infantry, making sure people were doing the basic moves right and not complaining
>You eventually come to the front of the block, rather impressed
>This bunch of degenerate horsefuckers might become a competent fighting squad after all
>Your thoughts are interrupted by a window opening an-
 
>BADANG BADANG
 
>You duck by instinct from the shots, your ears hurting like hell due to the lack of earpro
>You then bear witness to fifty-some grown men drop or scamper all over, squealing and crying like the twats they are
 
>"SHUT THE FUCK UP, I'M TRYING TO SLEEP!"
>You could actually hear the /k/ommandos laughing from here
>The instructor turns and looks up, pissed
>"You humans cal that DISCIPLINE?! I'll hae you reported to your sergeant for that!"
>"I AM the sergeant, you CUCK!"
>That throws the stallion off
>"Well, I'll--..."
>...
>"Don't do that again!"
 
>The sergeant shoots back, "Y'know, they need to learn how to keep cool under pressure!"
>The stallion is still unsure, but at least his voice is back to "normal". "That's not something you can teach with training, sergeant!"
>"HA! No wonder you're losing!" and with that, the sergeant shuts the window
 
>The drill instructor opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything
>He instead notices you staring
>He notices you breathing heavily, with murder in your eyes
"I'll take it from here, sir."
>You don't wait for confirmation, and you start heading towards the shifting and collapsing mass of excuses for human beings
>With a deep breath you use the voice you were saving
 
"GET IN LINE!"
>Those in front notice immediately and form lines, Underage being one of them
>Not good enough
"GET! THE FUCK! BACK IN LINE!"
>Your voice is so close to cracking, but fuck it
>You are NOT going to let these inbred fucks be the embarrassment and death of you
 
>Like a madman, you scream, you holler, you run around the blob and use your six years of hitting people in lacrosse to brutal effect
>Eventually the squad is in order, shaking like abused puppies
 
"TAKE A GOOD LOOK!"
>You stare all of them down as they look around skittishly, particularly at you in terror
"TAKE A GOOD LOOK, AND WHAT DO YOU SEE?!"
>As you walk up the side of the squad to the front, a pole pipes up
>"A-a bunch o-"
 
>*WHACK*
>"Ah!"
>*WHACK*
>*WHACK*
"I'LL TELL YOU WHAT YOU SHOULD SEE!"
 
"YOU SHOULD SEE FIFTY-SOME FAILURES, SHAKING LIKE THEY ALL JUST GOT BUTT FUCKED BY A WELL-ENDOWED PACK OF NIGGERS OUT OF DETROIT!"
 
>You get to the front, and the drill instructor is wide-eyed
>You ignore him as you face your squad with the meanest fucking face you could conjure up
>You might be looking silly as a 5'11" manlet, but fuck it, you just need them to hear you
 
"I MIGHT NOT BE A SOLDIER! I MIGHT NOT BE AN OPERATOR LIKE THOSE PRIMA DONNAS UP THERE, BUT GOD-FUCKING-DAMMIT! I WILL NOT HAVE THIS HAGGEL OF HORSEFUCKERS BE THE LAUGHING STOCK OF THE HUMAN RACE!"
 
>You stop and take a moment to actually breath properly
>You need water to soothe your throat, but that could wait
 
"You will become a proper fighting force, dammit!"
>More breathing
>You're winding down now, but thankfully they're all listening
 
"Stop being such cunts, for Christ's sake! If you don't, then we're all fucked!"
>You look at as many frightened faces as you can before giving your ultimatum
"I expect each and every one of you... to become warriors of humanity. I expect all of you... to become a competent fighting force."
"If you fail in this, you will most likely be gruesomely killed and forgotten. And if you happen to survive your failure..."
 
>Your face is completely serious as you say this:
"I will make it my life goal to rape you like the beta fuck you are."
 
>Silence
>Beautiful fucking silence except for your heavy breathing
 
>Holy shit, you just shouted down a bunch of people like a proper drill instructor
>That felt fucking fantastic
 
> You turn to the shaken drill instructor
"I think we'll end drills for today and move on to something else, sir."
 
 
>You lay back on your bed with your hands behind your head, clean and ready for some shut eye
>You did good today
>After the ">rape speech" as everyone began calling it, you requested to have the squad preform movement drills with shields and some armor
 
>Never did you expect the Canterlot Guard to give you honest-to-God hoplon shields, as well as full-on Hoplite dressing
>You were now all in skirts, looking like Heavy Hoplites from AoM
>Manly as fuck, but something's missing
 
>Right as you finished drilling (with good progress) in the afternoon, you had everyone find paint and some brushes
>By the end of the day, the more artistic Anon of the squad had his work cut out for him
>Everyone had their massive shields painted by newly dubbed Paintfag, mainly with a variation of their waifu's cutie mark
 
>You decided to have your Spartan's emblem from Reach painted on yours
>Sure, it's autistic and unrelated to the situation, but you've had the black widow with a cyan hourglass for years, and you weren't going to let it go just yet
 
>You turn over and look down at it resting against your bunk, along with Underage
>He decided to have a big, shining red apple painted on his hoplon
>A countrypone kid
>You thought he was more of a Dashfag, but apparently not
>You chuckle softly and roll back over, optimistic about the coming days as you doze off
 
>Speaking of countrypone, you get a surprise as soon as you wake up
 
>A knock on the door, and when you open it the stallion and...
 
>Holy shit, it's Applejack
>You've never seen nor expected to see one of the Mane Six in person
>You aren't prepared for this
 
>The unicorn stallion speaks first, "Are you the leader of this squad?"
>Get yourself together, Anon, holy shit
"Yes, sir."
>"We have a mission for you."
>He levitates up a letter and hands it to you
>Trying not to look at the pretty country mare in front of you, you open the letter and read
 
>...oh my
 
"Appleloosa, sir?"
>"All of our elite forces are tied up elsewhere..Hoplite Lead."
>Hoplite Lead?
>Alright, you can roll with that name
>"And your squad has been considered to be the one to be most qualified to lead this."
>Wait, your squad is considered to be the BEST squad?
>What the fuck?
 
"Sir, with respect, my squad has only been given two days of training."
>"We know, Hoplite Lead, and your squad has been observed to be the most qualified one to lead this defense."
 
>You want to give him an argument, some sort of reasoning as to why your squad should stay and train, but all of that quick-thinking from yesterday's gone
 
>Before you could make more of a fool of yourself, Applejack speaks with that familiar southern accent of hers
>"Anon, ah know y'all ain't have any of dem fancy guns of yers, but please, we need ya now."
>You weren't sure how to respond to that, so you stare on
>"Do it fer me, fer ma family, please."
>No, please don't use that pleading voice
 
>You suck the inappropriate tears back in and take a deep breath
"I'll make sure the town's safe, ma'am."
 
> She gives a smile that fucking melts your heart
>"Thanks, Anon."
 
>Applejack and the stallion leave you with the formal briefing in hand, a new sense of determination taking hold of you
>You head back into the barracks, shouting
"RISE AND SHINE, TWENTY EIGHTH! WE'VE GOT OURSELVES A MISSION!"
 
 
 
>You take a look at your watch
>It's been only an hour since you've woken up, and already you and a hundred-fifty Anons are en route to Appleloosa
>Three squads of fully-kitted, nofuns infantry: the Second, the Thirty Fifth, and your own, sent to defend the town from a suspected enemy division
>Because of the way the force is organized, with your squad at the head, you are non-ceremoniously promoted to the rank of Lieutenant
 
>You're leading not only your squad, but two others into battle
>Under Pressure is playing in your head
>It's interrupted by the crackling of the radio attached to you
 
>"Apple Platoon, be advised: the town is in sight. I suggest you start prepping everyone."
>The squad leaders give affirmatives, including yourself
>With a sigh, you take your Uni cap off of your head, stuff it in your sack, and grab your helmet
>You look to the rest of the twenty eighth, all jostling around from turbulence
>Some brace themselves by putting their feet on one of the five ballistae strapped down in the cargo hold
 
>You're bringing some firepower to this fight
>You're gonna need it
 
"Helmets on! We're touching down in a minute!"
>With little griping, your squad prepares, putting on armor and tightening anything loose
>They secure their packs and then wait, some looking out of the chinook's tiny portholes
>After putting your own helmet on, which actually has room for your radio headset, you look out one such window, and see the Thirty Fifth's chinook flying in tandem with yours
>On the front of the heli is a pinup of...is it that toothpaste pone?
 
>A blur of motion snaps you out of thought
>You can't tell if that was a pegasus or a griffon
>You activate your radio to find out
 
"Echo-Nine-Fourteen, this is Hoplite Actual. Interrogative: are we supposed to have any pegasus escort?"
>You look to the front of he heli, to the closed-off cockpit
>"Hoplite Actual, this is Echo: negative. Why is tha-SHIT!"
>The chinook sways from a sudden jerk of the stick
>You become as stiff as can be, listening to the sudden bout of traffic between the pilots
 
>Griffons
>Fucking griffons are harassing the chinooks
>Judging from the lack of explosions or "maydays" over comms, the small number of talons aren't able to do much to the metal helis
>Dumb birds probably don't even know what a rotary engine even is
 
>"Hoplite Actual, we're touching down now so you can deal with these griffons. How copy?"
"This is Hoplite: roger. We'll get those talons off your bird."
>You look to your squad, ready to rock
"Scratch that, we're landing right the fuck now! We got griffons scratching up the helis so I need toxotes up front!"
>The squad's ten designated archers finish stringing up their bows, and they make their way through the tunnel of wood and armored legs
>Some of the squad start hefting their packs
"Leave your shit! We'll get them when the flying fucks are dead!"
 
>You can feel the shift in incline as the cargo helicopter lands as you reach for your equipment
>Being long-as-fuck spears, your squad's primary weapons take up all of the space under your seats, and you have to wrestle yours out of the overlapping dories
>You insert your other arm into the straps in your hoplon, and stand up in order to bring the massive shield to bear
>You and Paintfag take the very front of the squad, the toxotes right behind you
>You look to the lanky artist, his expression unreadable under his fully-enclosing helmet
>He's a little hunched over because of all the armor, but he isn't complaining thankfully
 
"You ready for this?"
>"Fuck yeah!" he yells without even looking at you
 
>The chinook lands hard with a resounding THUNK, and the back door lowers open
>Despite the wind from the rotors blasting sand in your faces, there are no contacts...
>You and Paintfag move as one, marching out into the hot and dry desert, toxotes close behind
>No contacts...
>The two of you split, moving to either side of the chopper, with you to the chopper's right
>You look along the side, then up by the spinning blades
 
>Contact, by the cockpit, just under the front blades, facing away from you
>He's doing something with the fuselage, but you're not having any of that shit
 
>Choking down until you are almost touching the iron butt-spike, you run up to the tinkering griffon
>He doesn't know you're there with the rotary blades chopping just above him
>You treat him to a quick jab to his ass
>He squawks and instinctively flaps his wings to gain air
 
>*CRUNCH*
 
>You watch as pieces of brain matter, armor, and fur fly everywhere
>The rest of the corpse falls and plops onto the ground
>You can hear a momentary loss of torque, but the blades keep chopping as if nothing happened
 
>You're given a moment to realize you just killed something bigger than a rodent, before the griffon's buddy shows up
 
>He rounds the front of the chinook, seeing his pal's corpse and you behind it
>He lets out a baleful roar and pounces right into your shield
 
>It turns out a few hundred pounds of armor and toned muscle flying into you can knock you on your ass
>You find yourself on the ground, a clawing and flapping motherfucker on top of you
>Your fuck-huge shield is the only thing keeping you from being diced up, but you can't throw him off or stab him like this
 
>There's a wet *thunk* and the griffon roars in agony, forgetting about you
>You seize the opportunity and throw your entire into your shield, throwing the wounded hybrid off you and into the chopper's side
>As you get up, you see the griffin writhing in pain, an arrow lodged in his shoulder
>You finish him off with a hard stab to the neck
 
>That's two
 
>You look to the fat toxotes who saved your ass, and he gives you a nod
>He's already worn out, despite firing only a single shot
 
 >You look to the Thirty Fifth's landing chinook a few dozen meters away, and a few griffons are scratching at certain parts of the heli
>You move to the toxotes Anon, with the other four just catching up, and point to the flying rats
"Hit those fuckers!"
 
>Now, a shot aimed at a stationary target at point-blank range is hard to miss, even under a helicopter's spinning rotors
>A shot aimed at a target about fifty meters away and under a second set of rotors is a tricky shot for an experienced archer
 
>In the heat of the moment, you forgot you were commanding complete faggots
>The shots don't even hit the chopper, they just hit the ground short and skid the rest of the way
>Thank God the griffons didn't notice
 
>You then remember there's other Anon in that chopper
>The Anons in question stream from the back of the chinook, much less organized and armored than your squad
>These motherfuckers of the Thirty Fifth, on top of being mostly fat or pole-like shut-ins, are all insane
 
>Fucking. Insane.
 
>The pointman sees the leaching griffons immediately, charges the closest one, and while doing so throws an axe at him
>The griffin catches it in his side and drops
>You can hear his death-screech from here
 
>The rest of the Thirty Fifth engages the remaining griffons with a zealotry you've never seen, armed with a variety of axes and broadswords
>In a few intense seconds, the few griffons that are left route, calling out to the others over the roar of the three chinooks
>Moving to the front, you watch as the dozen of survivors fly away to wherever they came from
 
>Holy Shit
>You just took part in a hot landing, and you survived
>Another fucking milestone
 
>You remember you're the leader of this platoon, and you reach underneath your breastplate to activate your radio
"Platoon, this is Hoplite Actual: We have them running like bitches, nice work, break.
We're walking from here, so grab your stuff and let Echo flight RTB. Out."
 
>Pumped from their first engagement with the enemy, with no casualties to boot, the Apple Platoon unloads everything and begins the trek to Appleloosa
 
>When the chinooks lift off, you can see Paintfag had some trouble of his own, but he got a nasty cut on his arm while you got off with the wind knocked out of you
>He shrugged it off, though, and had it bandaged with no fuss
>There is much fuss, however, when everyone has to haul the heavy weapons
>The only one not complaining is Underage, and it's probably from football practice
>While you got normal ballistae, the Thirty Fifth had brought a bunch of scorpions, and the Second managed to get a fucking cannon
>You have no idea how they got it, but they have ammo and claim to know how to operate it
 
>Since they got it themselves and you never knew about it, you're gonna let them have it
>Providing it doesn't result in you or someone you know losing something important
 
>Sheriff Silverstar greets you as you enter the northern part of town
>He got word of you coming, and is thankful Celestia hasn't forgotten about them
>Apparently Dodge Junction was already hit, and they only knew that from a few lucky refugees that escaped on the last train out of there
>He's positive there's going to be an attack soon
 
>You reassure him you'll do whatever you can to keep the residents safe, and get Paintfag to join you on a tour, sketchbook in hand
>Underage also tags along, carrying some excess equipment because apparently he's your assistant/squire now
>Fine by you, you can keep a closer eye on him
 
>Once that was complete, you call a meeting in the Salt Block with the squad leaders and any other person of importance
>Besides the usual patrons, and of course the bartender, the salon is pretty empty
>Which is good, because you have about half a dozen humans, a few pones, and Chief Thunderhooves crowding around the table
>A map courtesy of Paintfag laid on it, surrounded by discarded salt cubes and empty glasses
 
>You start by looking around the circle
"Gents, I'm sure you all understand the gravity of this situation. According to refugees, as well as our own encounter on the way here, a combined griffon and minotaur force is heading towards the town, most likely from Dodge Junction itself."
>Heads nod, and the leader of the Thirty Fifth asks, "How many?"
>You take a deep breath
"Numbers range from a little under a hundred to five hundred."
>While most of the non-humans shift uncomfortably, the man wearing a Goddamn wolf pelt grins
>"Sounds like a challenge."
 
>"One we can easily lose if we're not careful."
>You look to the Second Squad lead, who looks more like a gladiator than a soldier
>You can't read his expression behind that fancy helmet of his, but he does sound serious
 
"I agree, which is why I'm going to have people take up watch in the highest place there is, preferably that clock tower."
 
"They could attack at any time and from any direction, people. The one advantage we have is that there's plenty of no man's land between here and any visual cover, so we'll have some time to ready up before they arrive."
 
>You look to the gladiator
"Atlantis lead, you have first watch. Get some men up there with whatever binoculars we have and make them watch for four hours, then rotate with my men I'll have sleeping below. When they're done, they'll have some of Odin Squad stake out up there. That should give eight hour breaks with nonstop overwatch."
 
>You give one last look to the people gathered, and you never thought you'd be in circumstances like these
>You stand, readjusting your bare helmet
>You guess you had to earn your plumes, but if you live through this, you and your squad better fucking earn some
 
"I'm gonna be honest with all of you: I cannot predict how this will go down, but dammit if this is gonna be down to us meeting them out there, then we better get some brutal surprises set up to thin their numbers."
>The natives aren't sure what you mean by brutal surprises, but judging from that feral smile Odin Lead knows exactly what you're planning to do
 
 
>By late afternoon, everything is set
>The artillery is concentrated to the northwest of town, but you've kept a couple of scorpions in reserve in case any come from the opposite side
>The overwatch in the clock tower has been going smoothly, and you along with most of Odin Squad spent that precious time setting up traps and doing some last-minute drills
>All three squads had to work together, playing on each other's strengths while covering each other's weaknesses
 
>You and the other squad leads eventually came up with an SOP that involved your squad being the tank, and Odin covering your vulnerable flanks
>Atlantis and the Appleloosa population would form multiple rapid response teams, sent to deal with anything that ignored the main battle and tried to move into the city
 
>With everything all set, all that remains is waiting for the enemy
 
>The absolute worst part
 
>You weren't going to sleep for a few hours, so you resort to wandering around town, helmet cradled in your arm and shield on your back
 
>You pass by Anons intermingling with the locals, in varying levels of intimacy
>Some are merely chatting, others are cuddling
>You have no intentions of breaking any of it up, these guys might not get another chance
 
>You head into the Salt Block for a while, drinking whatever non-alcoholic beverages they had and listening to people doing karaoke, with some Anons playing a few instruments that were there
>The singing is almost unbearable, but you manage to stay for a while
>You even join in and do a solo of Piano Man, with an Anon of Atlantis playing the salon's piano, and you actually went through the lyrics in one go without fucking up terribly
>The patrons cheer as you finish
>You aren't sure if it's because you were decent, or because they realize you weren't always a hardass
 
>Probably both
 
>You leave the salon, intent on finding either Underage or Paintfag, when a native couple stops you on just out front
>"Hoplite Anon, sir?"
 
>You look to the side and down, and you find that Braeburn colt and his buffalo girlfriend addressing you
>What's her name?
>Heart hooves... little... Little Strongheart, that's it
 
"What can I do for you two?"
>The couple looks to each other, and Strongheart nods in encouragement
>Braeburn looks up to you "We wanted to thank you...for what you're doing."
>You turn to them and nod in acknowledgement
>"We Appleloosans are a hardy bunch, but..."
>The yellow colt shakes his head "We've never had anything like this."
>Strongheart speaks up "Not even our fight with each other had as much preparation as this."
 
>She pauses before staring right up at you "Are your wars always like this?"
 
>That question
>The question asked in so many HFY threads by conjured-up aliens
>Is humanity a violent species?
>You never thought you were able to tell your opinion on the matter to another sentient person, but here you are conversing with a talking buffalo girl
 
>You take another deep breath, before crouching down to their eye level
"Ma'am, why do you think we appeared just as this war started?"
>She thinks it over for a few seconds, before answering
>"Did she see your people fight?"
"Honestly, I'm not sure how she found us or found a way to recruit us..."
>Recruit might not be the right word
>Conscript might be better, but you're arguing semantics
"But I know she saw what we are capable of, and maybe even saw some of our history."
 
>You stare right at Strongheart, and kudos to her for not wavering
"But to answer your question: yes, this is how we fight, at least a couple thousand years ago."
>The couple becomes confused, and you continue
"In my modern day, we have considerably better weaponry and technology than this, even things that are mile ahead of you. While we may have had some geniuses sprinkled through history who helped, progress was done out of necessity."
>You shift from one knee to another
"You see, a violent environment breeds violent character, and Goddamn is our home violent."
 
"Our planet, Earth... she's a cruel mother. Her ability to sustain life was a fluke, and her birth was one of pure, cosmic violence."
>The couple didn't like the sound of that
"It took billions of years for her to cool down from the constant barrage of asteroids and tectonic shifting, and when life began to emerge, a ruthless system of natural selection took hold. It was survival of the fittest, and even then chances were some natural disaster would wipe entire species off the map.
>With the two Equestrian native practically shaking, and you're not sure they're understanding what you're saying
 
"That is the setting humanity grew up in. That's where we're all from. And while we had areas of relative peace around the world last I checked, you cannot keep a violent species in a peaceful society."
 
"We are, by our vary nature, warriors. I wasn't a soldier before all of this, but here I am defending a town of strangers from a horde of monsters. And, to be completely honest, I... I've never felt anything like this."
>There's a pause, and Braeburn speaks ups, smiling like he noticed something amusing
>"I can tell that ain't all of it, Anon. I bet somepony you like asked ya to do this."
 
>Oh man, it does run in the family
>You remember this morning, and your chest suddenly becomes heavy
"Well, that and... I can't betray your cousin's trust now, can I?"
>Braeburn really perks up at this "You met Applejack?"
>You nod, smiling
"She was the one who asked me to do this, not just for her, but for her family."
>You look off into space, remembering
"God, I can't betray that smile."
>You'd rather die than go back to her a failure
 
>With that, you say your good lucks and goodbyes and walk off to the northern end of town, searching for either of your esteemed colleagues
>You find the kid on a newly erected gun platform, laying on his back and looking at the evening sky
>You join him
 
>"I'm scared, sir."
>Opening with that cliche, are we?
>Here's another one:
"Me too, kid. It's only natural."
>"You think we'll win?"
"Well, not to sound morbid, but either we win or die trying. Pretty straightforward."
>The kid doesn't respond, and you look up at the blood-red sky with lazy eyes
 
>You yawn out before drifting off to sleep,
"Don't worry too much, kid...fear is the mind-killer..."
 
 
>"Anon, wake up."
"Mmm."
>"Hoplite Lead, wake up."
 
>You open your eyes and note it's still nighttime
>You take a look at your watch and snap on its built-in light
"Three hours. I've been asleep for three hours."
>It's been a while since you've slept that short
>You look up to see Paintfag leaning over you, his face dimly lit from nearby lamps
>He grins
>"Did you dream?"
>Not thinking it over close enough, you answer as you sit up
 
"I was visited by Luna."
>"Luna?"
"Yeah, she and I..."
 
>Now you remember
>Oh
>OH
"Talked. We talked
>The smile remains "Okay, sir."
 
>You then realize someone woke you up
>That means...
>You begin to stand
"Where are they coming from?"
>"The northwest, sir."
"How many?"
>Paintfag hesitates
>"At most: a few hundred, but there's something off."
"What do you mean?"
 
>A minute later, and you're staring through binoculars at an advancing blob of horns and muscle
>Only minotaurs, which means the griffons could be anywhere
>But while that concerns you, you're more focused on the minotaurs themselves
>They look exhausted
 
 
>Even with the dim lighting of their torches and at a distance, you can see them slouching and dragging their fe-hooves through the sand
>A surprising number of them aren't even holding a weapon
"Something's up."
>Paintfag agrees "They've got a plan."
 
>You look up to the night sky, and take note of the billions of stars
"I want people keeping an eye on the sky. If a cloud comes by, shoot it."
>Considering you don't know much about griffons, you won't be taking any chances
 
 
>A few minutes later, and still the horde is closing in slowly
>Straight into your kill box
>Scenarios are playing through your head a mile a minute as you stand well behind
>This has to be a distraction
>The main force has to be out of sight
>The griffons have to be coming in from the opposite side
>But if you pull too much away from the front, they'll just steamroll you regardless if they're flanking or not
 
>You shake your head
>You're only opponent in these mind games is yourself
"Fuckin' psyops."
 
>"What was that, Anon of the Hoplite?"
>You turn to see Chief Thunderhooves moving up to stand beside you
 
"Nothing, sir. I just wish they get here sooner."
>The buffalo looks to you strangely
>"You wish to partake in bloodshed?"
"No, sir, I just want this to be over with. I can't stand waiting like this."
 
>"Ah, you have the warrior shakes."
>You turn to the chief, and he has an understanding look to him
"Warrior shakes, sir?"
>"Yes. Do not fret, for I too experienced it when I was young, as did my father and grandfather, and my great grandfather, and"
>Oh God, not this
"I understand, sir."
>He trips over himself and realizes what he was doing
>"Well, you have constructed quiet the defense here, Anon. If they are to take this town I once detested, then they will only take it when we're..."
"All dead?"
>"Surrounded by the dead of our enemies, yes."
 
>Wow
>You never thought the chief was able to be that morbid
>You look back to the advancing orange blotches of light, not as nervous as before
>But not by much
 
 
>They are just about to get into range
>You and your squad are situated just behind all of the traps, with Odin squad to your flanks
>While it won't be able to kill all of them, the nature of the traps will at least keep them from doing a full on charge
>You look to the armored Anons on either side of you, eyes barely visible in the moonlight
"Gentlemen, time to kick some ass."
 
>You reach into your breastplate and activate your radio
"Atlantis, this is Hoplite Actual: commence firing."
 
>You hear Underage shout in a high-pitched voice "Load!" in the distance behind you, followed by gears working and ropes being tightened
>One by one, they stop
>"Volley!"
>Then at once, the ballistae and scorpions fire from their elevated platforms
>You can hear the missiles whizzing over your head
 
>"Fire!"
>*BOOM*
 
>There goes the first cannonball
 
>You and the rest of Apple Platoon watch as the distant figures start dropping as if they were smacked
>Some beasts are thrown back into the ones behind them, gaining two kills with one arrow
>The cannonball disappears into the horde, eliciting several surprised and agonizing moos
>In response, the horde picks up the pace, lazily accelerating into a run
>The second volley and cannonball are shot, and even more minotaurs go down
 
>It's then you hear a loud roar/moo of rage
>You notice a VERY large silhouette coming up from behind the horde
>The Goddamn king minotaur
 
>You activate your radio again
"Atlantis, have the cannon focus fire on the big guy, everyone else focus on the little ones."
>"Understood, Hoplite Actual. Redirecting."
 
>The third volley goes out, and the cannonball lands just in front of the horde
>It bounces, and takes a minotaur's head with it
>The ball then smacks into the big guy's chestplate with a resonating *ding*
>The big guy's momentum is halted, and he pauses to look down at the unsightly projectile that has just lodged itself into his chest
>He let's out another roar/moo of rage, and his charge begins anew
>You ruined his armor, and now he's pissed
>Fuck
 
 
>Three more volleys, and the horde is being thinned out
>As it gets closer you have the archers start firing
>They get two volleys off along with the artillery, thinning out the enemy even more
>But the desperate horde is here now, and the pissed king minotaur is still coming
>You activate your radio one last time
"Atlantis, focus fire on the big guy, we'll take it from here."
"SHIELDS!"
>With a professionalism born from two days of drilling, you and the rest of the front line lock shields with a *CLANG*
>Time for traps
 
"ROPES!"
 
>The Anons a few rows behind you, as well as the maniacs on your flanks, bend down to pick up the ropes sitting on top of the sand
>You were thinking about burying them for concealment, but given how it's nighttime you opted to keep them on top
>"Ready, sir!" yells Paintfag
>You wait, eyes locked on a peculiarly placed rock that shines in the moonlight
>Another volley slams into the king minotaur, and he roars/moos again
>The lead minotaur gets very close to passing the stone
 
>...
 
"PULL!"
 
>As one, the Anons heave the heavy ropes back
>They rise into the air and then into the ground, where they were attached to the lightly buried trap:
>Wooden stakes
>Lots of wooden stakes
>Sections of them attached to large, shaped pieces of wood, and placed in front of buried boulders the stakes rise right in front of the minotaurs
 
>The dumb fucks run straight into them
>The front line gets skewered, and the entire horde is halted in an instant
>Exhausted even more from the costly run across no man's land, it takes the surviving horns several seconds and minotaur-speak from the enraged king to realize what just happened
>The beasts that recover the fastest are the first to try and climb over their dead and dying comrades
>They get over the top, jump down, and land straight into the small, inclined trench lined with even more spikes
 
"FORWARD!"
 
>The squad marches forward up to the trench, just like you practiced
 
>It is here you and the front lines go into a cycle:
>Stab any motherfucker trying to get out of the death pits
>Continue until dori breaks or is pulled out of your hands
>Call for another spear, letting the fatman behind you take a stab at any horn coming out of the growing mosh pit
>Grab the spear that is passed down from the back
>Repeat
 
>You go through this cycle twice, over the course of God knows how long
>All the while you're hearing reports from Atlantis and Odin leads, getting a good mental look at the battle
>The minotuars in the back are starting to move to the sides and around the spikes, and Odin squad moves to meet them
>Atlantis is keeping the arty fire at the back of the horde, far from your squad to avoid blue-on-blue, as well as firing cannon shots at the king
>For a mega myth unit that's 94% testosterone, he's being pretty careful not to stomp on his own guys to get to you
>But he's going to be a problem in a minute when he finally gets to the line
 
>It's not helping that your arms are starting to get heavy too
>You can see your line starting to become fatigued as well
>Their thrusts are become weaker and less frequent
>You realize you haven't done any drilling that involved rotating
>FUCK
 
>Another minute of thrusting, gleeful laughter from Odin, and calm orders from Atlantis go by
>You're exhausted and only thrusting out because you've been doing it all your life
>But you're alive, and none of the enemy thought of throwing whatever weapons they had at you
>The horde is now down to a few dozen horns, according to Atlantis, but now the biggest problem presents itself
>Big Guy arrives at the traps
>Thoroughly battered by the cannon and looking like a retarded porcupine, the king minotaur takes one giant step on the pile of corpses covering the spikes
>Laughing with anticipation, the king takes another big step onto the second pile
>You can hear bones and wood splintering, and you feel your stomach churn
 
>With a laugh done by every evil villain in all of fiction, the king raises his giant axe
>*BOOMCRUNCH*
>And receives the most beautiful fucking headshot you've ever seen
>His exposed snout caves inward, and he topples backward with a crash
 
>Holy Shit
 
>And that only leaves a few dozen-
>"Griffons in the tow-oof!"
>That was Atlantis
>Oh FUCK
 
 
>Split second decision time
>You look in front of you, and there are only a few exhausted horns trying to get over the traps
>And behind you are an unknown number of fresh griffons possibly tearing up the town
>You don't even know if Atlantis lead is still alive
 
>You realize you're doing no good out here and get on comms
"Odin, mop up here! We're going into town!"
>"Got it, Hoplite!"
 
>Gakking one last horn in the throat, you raise your spear
"HOPLITES, ABOUT FACE!"
>Realizing what's happening, your squad quickly disengages from the trench and turns around
"GET INTO THE TOWN! KILL EVERY LAST MOTHERFUCKER WITH A BEAK!"
>And like that, your squad breaks formation and runs like hell back to the town
 
>While the Anons that were in the back are fresh, a few of them don't have weapons
>It doesn't matter to them, fellow Anons and ponies are being killed
>Unlike the now-devastated minotaur force, your squad only had a football field to cross
 
>Combine the two facts together, and even though they're unfit faggots, your squad sprints like mad back to town
>They're so fast, you and the fatigued front line start to lag behind
 
>In thirty seconds, the squad makes it back into town, and without a spoken word splits up into several hunting groups
>One such group heads straight to the gun platforms that now look like a small brown and gold tornado
 
>You can see glimpses of Atlantis lead in the center with the arty crews, swinging swords and daggers every which way
>The Hoplite Anons start thrusting their spears into the flying mass of bird/lion hybrids, killing a few before the the group notices the new threat
>The tornado shifts from the platform to the Hoplites, but the Anons crouch together and raise their shields, becoming a spiked shell
 
>By this point, you and the front line catch up, and you're the first to thrust his spear into the swirling mass
 
 
 
>A passing griffon catches it in her side, and she squawks as she flys out of the pack and out of sight
>She takes your dori from you
>With no one to give you a spare spear, you resort to using your other weapon: your hoplon
 
>Remember how when you swing a frisbee a certain way it cuts through the air and can hurt?
>Apply that to a bronze and wooden frisbee that's two-thirds the size of your body and weighs almost 20 pounds
>The next griffon to lunge out at you gets a brutal lesson in physics and doesn't get back up
 
>Between the Anons forming an armored porcupine, you and the front line, AND those on the platform making their way down, the griffons start dropping like flies
>Even as they try to swarm you, their sharp talons are only able to superficially scratch at your forearms and feet
>Everything else is protected by masterfully crafted bronze armor and your precious hoplon
>Your fellow Anons also cover you by stabbing any lucky fuckhead who manages to latch onto your head and tries to tear at the back of your neck
 
>The griffons begin to retreat, flying up into the sky and back to the northwest, content with leaving the rest to die by your hands
>Except for one
 
>As you start giving orders to help clear out the town, a flying mass of brown and white feathers blindsides you
>As you roll, you get your shield under the griffon and throw it off
>When you begin to stand up, you look at your assailant
>Despite being tired as hell, frustrated, and ready to let everyone else do the dirty work, you smile under your helmet
 
"Well if it isn't the flying bitch herself."
 
>Gilda snarls at the insult
 
>You notice the trickle of blood in her side
>She's panting too, which may explain why she hasn't lunged at you
 
>You hear your squad move to either side of you, ready to move in on her
>You're not sure if any of them are Gildafags, so you're going to be careful with this
>Maybe not careful
>Just don't kill her outright
 
>You take a confident step forward, arms spread wide as if to present the armed men flanking you
"So what now, Gilda? You lost."
 
>The griffon loses her composure for a moment
>"How do you know my name?"
>Your smile remains
"We know a lot about you, griffon, trust me."
 
>For a second, she looks confused, then suddenly becomes infuriated
>"That dyke ratted me out, didn't she?!"
>You shake your head in mock disappointment
"Gilda, Gilda. You shouldn't blame your former friend for all of your problems. We just know /a lot/ about you, so let's leave it at that."
 
>Before she could ask what you meant by that, you take another step towards her
"So now what, griffon? Are you gonna run like a bitch, or are you gonna at least try and nick me?"
 
>Gilda stays there, unsure, and you smile
>You've gotten her in a bind
>Her wings are erect and yet she holds, conflicted in pride and logic
 
>Suddenly, an arrow sprouts from one of her wings
>She roars in pain and tries to take off, but only succeeds in landing on her wounded side
 
>Before she could even stand up, you and the squad are upon her
 
 
>As Celestia raises the sun on the fourth day, a train pulled by earth ponies chugs into the station
>The relief force, a contingent of several squads of nofuns and a few volunteer Canterlot Guards, unloads from the passenger cars
 
>You and the other people of importance greet them on the station's platform
>Despite being in the meat grinder, you only suffered cuts on your exposed arms and knees
>You shield and your helmet, which you have tucked under your arm, are covered in scratches
>To your right is Odin lead who looks like he had an intense rugby match last night, with plenty of semi-healed cuts and bruises
>To your left is a barely-standing Atlantis lead who's almost mummified, his right arm in a makeshift cast
>Then there's the relatively untouched native leaders: Silverstar and Thunderhooves
 
>The leaders of the squads and the Guard stop in front of you, and they salute
>You salute in kind
 
>They ask for a report, and you give a summary of what happened last night
>Impressed by your defense, the stallion leader of the force asks about casualties
 
>You and the leaders hesitate before looking to the west
>The relief leaders follow your gazes and spot the graves
 
>The griffons dive bombed the town, coming in at a near vertical angle
>They swept main street, looking for any stray residents
>Fortunately, they were all situated inside the salon, under the watch of most of Atlantis squad
>When they failed to enter the salon, the griffons moved onto the exposed artillery platforms
>Most of the lightly armored crews were dead within seconds, sliced to pieces before they could react
>Atlantis and the crew he was with are lucky to be alive right now
 
>Despite your squad and Atlantis losing most of the artillery crews, twelve Anons in total, Odin squad took the biggest hit
>For all of their zealotry and insanity, they were still humans going up against dozens of minotaurs
>At the final count the Thirty Fifth, Odin Squad, lost 31 Anons
>Over half of the squad
 
 
>Odin lead took it well, stating with a proud smile "They're in Valhalla now."
>Insane motherfucker
 
>The stallion leading the force gives you a letter, ordering to return to Canterlot for rearming some R&R
>It also asks for you specifically to get some sleep
>Considering you haven't slept since the battle, you aren't complaining
 
>You lead the relief force out of the station and into town, which was only recently cleaned up
>The residents helped to repair any damages done to the buildings, while the rest of Apple Platoon burned the enemy bodies a ways out of town
 
>You lead them to the sheriff's office/jail cell, and they're surprised to see an imprisoned Gilda, gagged and hogtied
>She glares at you the entire time you're there
>The leaders are even more impressed, and ask you to take her back to Canterlot with you
>Under close guard, of course
 
>As the relief force takes over the defenses, Apple Platoon begins to load up on the train, starting with putting the artillery in the cargo cars
>While they do that, you and the other leads say goodbye to the residents of Appleloosa
 
>Silverstar is the first to speak up
>"It's hard t'see all of ya go, after what y'all been through."
>You nod
"Same here, Sheriff, but we're needed elsewhere. We can at least part on good circumstances."
>"Yeah, we wouldn't have made it without ya."
>Odin lead smacks his bare chest
>"It was an honor, sir, defending your town."
>Atlantis lead merely nods along with Odin, not being able to do much else under all of those bandages
 
>Thunderhooves steps forward, looking to you
>"Never in my life have I seen such bravery for the sake of strangers, humans. My people thank you."
>You smile at that
"Stick around, Chief, and you'll find out why we fight."
>And with that, you leave for the train, the other leads following a moment later
 
>You watch as Gilda is carried onto one of the passenger cars, before you begin to board it yourself
>With one foot on the train you take one last look at Appleloosa
>To your surprise you see Braeburn and Strongheart down the street
>They see you and wave, grateful smiles on their faces
>Grinning, you give them a cowboy salute, then duck inside the car
 
>You're definitely going to sleep well on the ride back
 
 
 
>"Thou hast defended Appleloosa?"
"Yes, ma'am."
>The Princess of the night smiles
>"Thou hast done well."
>...
>"Thou seems troubled. Was this the first time thou hast fought?"
"Yes ma'am."
>You take a deep breath
"And we may have won, but people still died. I-"
 
>"Let us halt thou right there." interrupts Luna, raising a slipper-tipped hoof for emphasis
>"Deaths in battle are inevitable, and thou must not be consumed by such tragedies."
 
>You feel the need to argue, if only to respect those unfit degenerates who really didn't deserve to die, but you can't argue against a figure such as Luna
>You close your eyes and sigh
>Especially since you have a thing for her
>The worst part about that is that she KNOWS
 
>"Anonymous."
>When you open your eyes again, Luna's gotten a lot closer
>Sweet Jesus, those emerald eyes are tantalizing
>"We understand thy conflict, and we will help thou if thou wishes."
 
>MakesweetloveNO
>Get your shit together, man
>She's a Princess, and you're a little grunt
>That makes it even better
>NO
>Just-FUCK
 
>You take a moment to calm yourself and tell her the usual
>Replacement weapons, armor, more Anons if possible
>She nods at all of them, then asks if you want something personally
>Before any heretical thoughts pop up, you blurt out
"A sword?"
>Princess Luna gives you a smile that surpasses even Applejack's, and ends the dream there
 
>"Anon, sir, wake up!"
>You're shaken awake by Underage, who's been sitting with you the entire train ride back
>You glance outside, and see a dense forest is quickly passing by, before turning to the excited kid
"What?"
>"Where'd you get that sword?"
>He points to your lap
 
>You look down, and find a sheathed short sword
>No...
>You lift it above your head and slowly take it out of its sheath
>Straight
>Around half a meter in length
>It's a genuine xiphos
>The blade looks to be made out of iron, but this iron seems to glow a faint blue
>The simplistic leather handle is navy, with a midnight-black pommel
 
>You stare at the gift from Luna, oblivious to the Anons crowding around you to get a look
 
>It's official
>You are in love
 
 
 
>When the train arrives at Canterlot, you say you goodlucks and goodbyes to Atlantis and Odin leads before taking your squad back
>You dump Gilda on the nearest Guard, and all of you head back to your barracks in Barracks City
>Imagine all of your faces when you find crates beside each of your bunks
>Like kids on Christmas morning, you all rip them open and ogle at their contents
 
>Plumes
>Plumes you all fucking earned
>You look to Underage and Paintfag, then to the rest of the squad
>They're all thinking the same thing:
 
>What good is looking legit when you don't show it?
 
>A shower and a dressing later, you walk out of Barracks 28 and into a bustling Barracks City with a legit looking Hoplite Squad behind you
"MARK TIIIIME... MARCH!"
>Marching to the tempo you gave them inside, the bitchin' looking squad follows you in rows of two
 
>The sound of marching feet and clinking metal
>The fact that you're leading this now organized bunch of horsefuckers makes your chest swell
>You look around at the other Anons walking around you
>Some are impressed, some are jealous, the rest are indifferent
 
>Then you come across the top dogs; Goddamn /k/ommandos
>From the hardware they were carrying, you surmise they're on a mission, and they're only passing through
>You then get a look at what they're wearing, and they're definitely /k/ommandos
>Canadafag
>/SS/ [spoiler]Master Race[/spoiler]
>Mr. Milsurp
>And Roa-
 
>You almost stop marching when you make eye contact with the man
 
[spoiler]>Standing... on the edge... Ooofthe crater... like the prophets once said...[/spoiler]
 
>And just like that, the moment of understanding passes, and you continue your march
 
>You lead the squad out of Barracks City and take a lap around Canterlot itself, intent on making an impression
>Almost all of the capital's high-class citizens pause and gawk at the sight of your squad marching past in the street
>Just as you expected
>Yet despite the hours-long stroke of the ego, you couldn't get that damn song out of your head
 
 
>That song is STILL stuck in your head when you get back and call it a day
>And it's only the middle of the afternoon
 
>The squad is milling about in the barracks now
>Chatting, playing children's card games, working on the portable generator to charge everyone's electronics, etcetera
>Painfag is drawing
>Underage is reading
>Toxotesfag, that one fatso who saved your ass in your first engagement, is boasting about his ice barrier deck, whatever the fuck that means
 
>You have no intention of joining them
>Ergo: you're bored as fuck
>You rack your mind on what to do for a while, until an obvious choice pops up
>You hit yourself in the head for not thinking it immediately
 
>You put on your exercise gear, including your golden laX shirt with 28 on the back
>Just in case something happens to you
 
>You tap Underage on the shoulder
"I'm going for a run. I'll be back in an hour or two."
 
>With that, you leave the barracks and run around Barracks City
>With your iPod out of power and the generator still being fixed, you run without your music for once
>Instead, you let the constant hustle and bustle around you be a distraction from your aching legs
 
>As you run around, you start to notice several barracks that are taking on a theme
>One has a golden eagle above the door, and a lot of the outside is painted blood red
>Another is blaring a familiar Soviet dance song sung by a choir
>You actually run past the Thirty-Fifth's barracks, and they're having a manly, shirtless cookout with the new blood
>You don't know where they got the charcoal grills... or even the meat
>You'll have to ask them next time you see them
 
>After an hour passes, you decide to head back
>You run down an alley that connects to Main Street, trying to remember where exactly your barracks was
>You just get onto Main Street when you hear
>"Fight? FIGHT?! What, ya wanna go? Let's go!"
 
>Congrats, you just ran into the beginning of a fight
>You push through the gathering crowd, and you can see some shitfaced guy pounding on some fat faggot
 
>A week ago, you would've just stood there and watch
>Today, however,  you're not going to let this embarrassing shit happen in the middle of pone central
>You and another like-minded Anon run up and grab the drunkard
>You haul him off the beaten faggot, all-the-while screaming
"CALM DOWN, YOU DUMB FUCK!"
>Or something akin to that
 
>Combine that with you struggling with the drunk's alcohol-enhanced strength, you almost don't catch,
>"Get yer hands off my Sarge!"
>You turn just in time to see a fist connect with your face, then nothing
 
 
>Fffuuuck
>Christ, your head
>This must be what waking up from unconsciousness feels like
>Feels like shit
 
>You crack open your eyes, and you find yourself staring up at the ceiling of your barracks
>It's a lot quieter than when you left
>Why'd you leave again?
>...oh yeah, you went for a run
>Ended up being punched in the face
>You can't remember much after that, only glimpses that said you were dragged for a while
 
>You turn your head towards the barrack's door, and see that it's dark out
>Fuck, how long were you out?
>You check your watch, and it's a little past eleven
>Not too late, but Jesus...
 
>You lay there on your bunk for the next hour, thinking
>You've done this countless times in the past, but now...
>Holy shit, there's so much to think about
 
>In the past four days you've
>Given up your stable life and abandoned your family, just because you jested about defending an Araby populated by talking ponies
>Been given command of a bunch of people who are the bottom of the social barrel of the first world, along with a few third-world gits
>Defended a town from a bestial horde
>And gotten yourself involved in what you think was the start of a brawl
>Too much to think about in an hour
 
>You look at your watch again, and it's midnight now
>You still feel wide awake, and you start moving around in your bunk in a futile attempt to get comfortable
 
>"Hoplite, sir? Is that you?"
>You pause at the high-pitch whisper, then look over the side of the bunk
>You must have woken up Underage
>He looks up at you, concerned
"Kid, ugh."
>Having your head upside-down isn't the best for it right now
"What happened?"
 
>The kid shifts nervously as he remembers
>"Y-you didn't come back when you said you would. A... a few of us got worried but didn't wanna go out to find you, but then a guard came by and dropped you off."
>Underage then remembers another thing, and takes out a letter he was holding onto
>He sits up in bed to give it to you, and you take it with a creeping dread
>"He told me to have you read it when you wake up."
 
>You open the letter and use your watch's dim light to read it
>The dread eases off and is replaced by the feeling you get when you get whenever you have to do some menial task as punishment
"Get some sleep, kid. We're heading out in the morning."
>"W-what are we doing, Anon."
 
>You close the letter and toss it down to the floor, before trying out another sleeping position
"Chores."
 
>It's morning, and Hoplite Squad is on another train, heading eastward this time
>This train, unlike the one that delivered you from Appleloosa, is a full-on military train
>There's a couple of troop cars, cargo cars for the equipment, and two flatbeds topped with a mix of vehicles
>The oversized caboose has an honest-to-God 88 on it
>Black cross and everything
 
>Had you been ten, you would've been exited to go on a train like this
>Back then you didn't know how crowded it got on trains like this during troop deployments
>Thank God (or Celestia, you guess) that you all at least have a seat for the several-hour-long trip to the coast
 
>You'd still rather be on the roof than be scrunched between a sweating Toxetesfag and the cold metal hull
>The window is so weirdly placed that you can't look out of it
>You can't even stretch your legs since your knees are practically touching Paintfag's, who's sitting across from you
>He's lucky Underage is sitting next to him
 
>They notice your frustration
>"You okay there, Sergeant?" says Paintfag with a grin
>Oh by the way: you were bumped down from Lt. to Sgt. after Appleloosa
"Just great."
>You all remain silent the rest of the way
 
>When you finally arrive and Toxotesfag releases you from claustrophobic hell, you stretch your aching body
>It takes another five minutes for all of you to shuffle off the train
>You can hear plenty of activity outside
>When you hop off you look around
 
>Holy shit
>You're in a busy-as-fuck train yard
>Smoke, rolling metal, and Anons all over the place
>You must be near Manehatten to be in a place like this
>You look up, and note that sky is really dark
>Defensive measures on the weather team's part, you surmise
 
>Your squad grabs the gear from the train, and then you spend the next few hours attempting to traverse the industrial jungle of volunteer military might
>You're directed by multiple pegasi, who are all carrying signs pointing to certain junctions
>Following the instructions from the letter, you lead your squad towards the southern end of the train yard
 
>You finally get out of that mess of a train hub, and walk through some suburbs before coming into a camp of sorts
>It's not as busy as the train yard, but there's still activity
>Humans and ponies, moving shit around and patrolling together
>On one side is a massive open garage housing a myriad of different kinds of vehicles
 
>You take your squad and place them in a corner beside the garage, before heading out on your own to find your new commanding officer
 
>After being directed to a rather nice-looking brick building in the center of the camp, you head inside and are again directed to "Godmother's" office
>You could only imagine who you'll meet in there
 
>The quiet room on the top floor is the typical office of a military career person:
>Clean, with a few framed photos and diplomas (you think) lining the walls
>A bookcase is tucked in the corner
 
>Past the spartan desk, looking out the only window in the room, is a rather large Canterlot Guard
>Her spit-shined helmet is resting on her desk, so you get a good look at her
>White fur, dark blonde hair
>When she turns to you, she has piercing blue eyes
>Her expression gives you a feeling that she has never smiled
>Now if her voice...
 
>"Are you Hoplite Lead?"
>Sounds a little old, but is perfectly normal
"Yes ma'am."
 
>She walks around her desk, then presents her armored hoof
>You take it and shake it once, making sure your grip is tight
>First impressions are always important
 
>"I heard you were in charge of defending Appleloosa."
"Yes, ma'am."
>She doesn't smile, but nods
>"I also heard you were involved in a fight in Canterlot."
>Uh-oh
"Yes, ma'am
>She takes a deep breath through her nose
>"Did you start it?"
"No, ma'am."
>"Do you know what caused the fight?"
"No, ma'am, but alcohol was involved."
 
>She gets very close suddenly, and you do your best not to move
>The mare sniffs the air in front of your mouth, then slowly backs away
>"You don't look like a troublemaker, and from the after action report in Appleloosa you not only organized a solid defense, but was in the front line as well."
 
>She walks behind her desk, and begins to fish something out from the drawers
>"I don't know exactly what the brass was thinking when they decided to dump you here..."
>She pulls out a large scroll and places it on one side of her desk
>"But regardless of the circumstances, I'm glad to have what looks to be a competent human officer under my command."
>With a few taps of her hoof, Godmother unfurls the scroll, revealing a map of Equestria's entire eastern coastline
 
>"I understand you have already fought griffons?"
"Yes, ma'am."
>"Good, then I could just start with this:"
>The experienced soldier straightens up, staring right at you to make sure you get the message
>"There is no doubt in my mind the griffons will invade Equestria in full force."
>The statement makes you frown in confusion
"If the griffons haven't really invaded, why are there griffons here already?"
>"The griffons you've fought were only parts of advance divisions, snuck in to bolster the minotaurs and diamond dogs already attacking. The few spies we have in the griffon kingdoms are telling us they have been massing units on their western coast. At some point--I don't know when--they'll jump over here to try and steamroll over us all the way to Canterlot."
 
>Godmother begins to indicate points on the map, starting with Manehatten and shifting downward
>"I'll be attaching your squad to my second battalion. They'll be going down the coast to start setting up fortifications. They'll also be updating maps since this one is rather ancient. Do you have an Anon who's good at drawing?"
>You allow a little, proud smile to appear
"I in fact do, ma'am."
>She nods
 
>"Good. Suit up and have your squad report to the garage in thirty mikes. The sooner you all roll out the easier it is on my mind."
>You give a crisp salute
"Ma'am."
 
>Thirty five minutes later, and you and Hoplite Squad are still waiting by the garage, fully armed and armored
>You stand by one of the humvees, with your shield and spear leaning on the grill
>You have one hand gripping the belt holding your MANLY skirt, while the other rests on the pommel of your gifted sword
 
>You feel very out of place here
>Behind you is an entire line of 20th and 21st century vehicles, a lot of then heavily armored and armed to the teeth
>And here you are with your squad of hoplites
 
>"Uh, who here is Hoplite Lead?"
>You look away from the line of armor and find a unicorn Guard approaching your squad
>Some of them point to you, and you start walking towards him to emphasize
 
>You stop in front of the young-looking, green unicorn and look down at him
>He /was/ about to say something, but now he's hesitant
>You decide to get the ball rolling yourself
 
"I'm Hoplite Lead."
>You use a voice a little deeper than usual
>But hey: first impressions
 
>You tilt your head, still looking down at the apparent rookie
"You are?"
 
>The pony sits suddenly and salutes
>"Oh! Um, I'm Captain Banner, Mr. Hoplite. I-I'm the head of one of the armored companies."
>...
"A unicorn, in charge of an armored company?"
>The rookie shifts on his hunches, looking down
>"I, uh, just got out of officer's school today. This is kinda my first assignment."
 
>You fight the urge to take off your helmet and rub your eyes
>This is going to be a real fucking chore
 
 
>Ten minutes later, and you're on the road
>You have to admit: riding shotgun in a little, Cold War russian jeep isn't as bad as being stuck with Toxotesfag
>He's stuck in the flatbed of the F-150 Raptor behind you
 
>Hoplite squad has been sprinkled throughout the mechanized infantry platoon of B Company, which is a hodgepodge of both civilian and old military vehicles
>You have no idea where they got the fuel for so many vehicles, but it's not your problem to worry about
>That goes to logistics
 
>"So vhat did you do to piss of high horses?" asks your driver
>You turn to him, and the horsefucker looks like he came with the jeep
 
"You heard about that fight yesterday in Canterlot?"
 
>The twenty-some year old laughs heartily
>Who hasn't, comrade? Dat almost became its own vwar."
>Jesus, you didn't know it got that bad
>You look out the open window at the passing line of trees that are running parallel to the two-lane coast road
>"So vhat happened? You punch cheeky fucker because he made fun of skirt?"
>You chuckle at that, drowned out by the dozen of chugging engines
"No, some drunk guy picked a fight. I tried to stop it, but... I may have inadvertently escalated it."
 
>"I see, comrade. You seem to be man of profession. You vish for order in zee army. A most noble goal, though futile with horsefuckers."
>Still looking out, you nod
"Yeah... Maybe it is."
 
>After a few silent minutes of driving, the russian driver asks you
>"So, comrade Sergeant, vwhy do you dress as vworriors of old?"
 
>You think about it for a minute, then look back to the stereotypical /k/omrade
 
"Someone might have read my mind when I asked for shields and armor. I was a little pissed when we were only given spears for drilling."
>That one asshole of a /k/ommando may have reinforced your decision
 
>"Ah, you had mind read by wonderful Santa Princess!"
>You tilt your head, which is hard to do in this bouncing jeep with your helmet on
"Santa Princess?"
>The rusky's smile is now huge
>"The lovely Luna, comrade! She has gift many gifts to all of us, and horse of night has won many hearts, including our pig of a lieutenant."
 
>So she isn't favoriting you?
>You should've realized that you're not the only Lunafag out of these thousands of horsefuckers
 
"What did she give him?"
>"She gave him tommy gun, because he believes he is capitalist mobster who capture many enemies. Is how he got rank, too."
>Oh God, you can tell this is going to be hilarious
"He wears a trench coat and a fedora, doesn't he?"
>The smile remains
>"And he smoke shitty cigarettes instead of real cigar."
>You could only shake your head at that
 
>"Did Santa Princess give you gift, comrade?"
>You detach the sword from your belt and lift it up for Rusky to see
>His eyes light up under his ski mask
>"Ooo. Sword may be little, but is beautiful, comrade Hoplite. Is much more pretty than product of passionless industry."
 
>You might be a little favored by Luna after all
>A glimmer of hope remains