A ball of tightly-crushed paper flew from his hooves. His breathing, ragged with rage, filled the room. Soarin', the Wonderbolt, a light-blue pegasus, flyer of the highest esteem, paced in anger. The paper ball hit the wall, bouncing lightly. It landed at his hooves. He frowned at it, flapping his wings. The light breeze lifted the ball, hitting him in the face. Annoyed, he stomped out of his living room, slamming the door of his cloudflat behind him.
Earlier-
Soarin' smiled, doing what he did best. Flight was liberating, even when it was inherently mundane; such as a flight home. It was late spring, training season for the Wonderbolts, which meant Soarin' was up bright and early for practice and home by sundown. It was kinda nice, he found, to actually sleep in his flat, even if it meant more sleep than other activities.
He dove into a wind current, spiralling wildly. Recovering fast, he dove again, banking to his left. He shot into a tight corkscrew, levelling out. His hooves dug into the cloud surface, just before his flat. He laughed; a few stunts made a great landing, even without an audience. He kept grinning as he opened his mailbox, strutting into his flat. He unzipped his flightsuit and shrugged out of it, still beaming. He flipped through his mail. Bills, advertisements, and a letter. He blinked, staring at the letter. No stamp, no return address. Puzzled, he tore it open with his teeth, his smile gone.
He read, and his expression darkened with each line of text.
Soari,
I'll cut to the chase. Remember the Flightmare Tour, about nine years ago?
Right, I mean, who doesn't remember that tour? Ticket stubs are still selling for hundreds of bits. Anyway, remember the third night in Manehatten, when we all went to that one bar afterwards, where you and that one green-coated mare were flirting it up? And then you pulled me into it, and we all ended up drunk in my hotel room and things just happened? Things involving... Well, you know. Things
Remember how I got pulled off the tour a week later, in Fillydelphia, then came back for training the next season. Well, I was sorta pregnant. With your foal. And I wish I'd told you before now. I gave it up, though. I'm not sure where our foal is right now. But, Soarin'... I want you to know I don't regret anything, except not letting you have input. It was your mistake, too, and your foal. We should have decided together.
Your Friend,
Spitfire
Soarin's face twisted. He snorted, crumpling the letter into a ball between his hooves.
A Few Minutes Later-
Soarin' unfurled his wings, leaping away from his flat. He flew furiously, growling at passing birds and motes of dust. Tricks were left behind, opportunities unfulfilled in the flurry of an enraged flight. Soarin' growled as he weaved through a group of pegasi, headed towards an apartment building halfway across Cloudsdale.
Landing hard, he felt his legs bounce with the strain as he sunk into the cloud. He slammed his hoof against Spitfire's door. She answered, and he brushed passed her, pacing the front room of her penthouse in a huff. She rolled her eyes, looking at him with familial affection. He was like a brother to her, though certain elements of their past told a different tale.
“Hello, Spitfire. Nice to see you, Spitfire. How's your day, Spitfire?” She stared at him, frowning at his pacing. “Not even 'Sup, Spits', huh?” She turned, heading towards her kitchen.
“I got your letter, Spitfire.” He grimaced.
“No shit, Fetlock. Why do you have to pace in my living room, though? I was looking forward to a bit of down time after practice.” She moved to hug him, surprised when he backed away, glaring at her.
“You expect me to just let it go? Just say, 'I do not care that Spitfire and I have a foal somewhere', and move on?” He turned, looking out her window, fighting back tears.
“No, Soarin', I don't. I do expect you to talk to me about it. We're friends. Let's deal with this like friends.”
“Friends don't let friends father their foals, and if friends did, they'd certainly tell their friends that they'd had a friend-child while drunk under the friend-table!” Soarin' huffed, breathless.
She put her hoof on his shoulder, looking at him sincerely. His eyes wobbled. Spitfire didn't know she'd driven him to tears. She sighed. “Calm down, Soarin'. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, alright? Look, if you want, I can try and find her for you.”
“Her? You know it's a her?!” sputtered the irrational stallion.
“Of course I do, I'm the one who birthed her,” laughed Spitfire, hugging her friend. Soarin' hugged her back, chuckling despite the tears streaming down his face. “Oh, Soarin', you cheer up quick when you want to. Stop that, somepony'll think you're schizophrenic.” He grinned at her.
“I'll try. Maybe. You say you know who our daughter is? Tell me. Give me a name, at least.” Soarin' looked serious.
“Alright, Soari'. But first... You need to understand what we'll do. Sit down,” she instructed, and once he had she sat next to him, her head in his lap, her body curled on the couch next to him. He looked down at her, eyebrows raised. “Oh, lighten up, Soarin'” She sat up.
“Well, what do you want to do with her?”
“Nothing, Soar'. Nothing at all. That's why I gave her up. I don't see myself being a single parent,” said the yellow mare, “not at all.”
“What if I want to be there for her,” asked Soarin', “whether or not you are?”
“Fine with me, that's why I told you about her. I'll try my best to arrange the introduction, just don't drag me into it.”
“Alright, you.” Soarin' chuckled and hugged her. “So what's our beautiful little girl-”
“Don't call her that.”
“Fine. Well, Spitfire? What's her name?” Soarin' looked at the mare expectantly. She sighed, staring back at him.
“Scootaloo.”