//------------------------------// // Forsaken // Story: A Job With Benefits // by Boomstick Mick //------------------------------// The hour moved seamlessly as Soarin and Braeburn worked to repair the wagon axle. Soarin hadn't any experience to speak of when it came to metal work, but Braeburn stood close by, his black goggles reflecting the intense strobes of light as he instructed Soarin through the task. Fire flashed, metal hissed, and slowly the fracture in the wagon axle melted, joined, and mended, the flame making contact on the metal like a white-hot rose spewing forth a bronzed shower of blazing pollen. The barrage of sparks stung as they singed Soarin's fur, but it was a sensation that was becoming easier and easier to ignore. As long as his face and eyes were shielded, he'd be fine. "That should do it." Braeburn announced. "Yer a natural at this." Soarin removed his welding mask and twisted the valve on the side of the torch head, causing the blue flame to retreat soundlessly into the nozzle. The raised line where the metal had bonded glowed cherry red as warped tendrils of blurred air wafted about the crease. "We'll give it a few minutes to cool down before we move it," Braeburn advised, removing his goggles. He approached the metal axle where it lay clamped over an iron bench between two large vice grips and gazed appraisingly at Soarin's work. "Solid work," he critiqued with an approving nod. "Ah can't believe this is your first time using a welding torch; this is journeyman's level craftsmanship, at least!" Soarin grunted in compliance as he unscrewed the acetylene cylinder from the butt of the torch. He then carried the head piece to an oil-stained craftsman's table where he began its disassembly. "So," Braeburn said softly, "anything on yer mind? Anything at all?" "The task at hoof," Soarin replied curtly as he proceeded to disassemble the torch, securing each metal part within the loops of a leather welding kit laid out across the table. He had become standoffish since his outburst, speaking only in laconicisms when spoken to. Braeburn shook his head, unsatisfied by Soarin's answer. "Can ya open up just a bit? Ah'm startin' to think that ya don't like me." "Huh," Soarin replied disinterestedly, slipping another piece of the torch into the kit. Braeburn sighed impatiently. "Look, Ah ain't gonna dance around this subject all day with you." "Then don't." "You seem upset. You've seemed upset since the first day you were here - now even more-so. You remind me of some sort of brooding war veteran, and you only seem to be getting worse." "That so?" Soarin tried to sound like he wasn't interested, but Braeburn's statement piqued his curiosity. "Its like you're manically depressed. Ah ask if you're okay, and you say you're fine, but Ah look into your eyes, and Ah can tell that... Well... Yer not. The only one Ah ever heard you open up to was Apple Bloom, and that was the first day Ah met you. Somethin' about how its a blessing to know where you belong?" There was a long silence before Soarin spoke again. Finally, after pondering carefully over his answer, he said, "Kids are easy to talk to." Soarin spoke slowly, methodical not to betray any emotion in his tone. "They're easy to understand. They cry when they hurt. They smile when they're happy. They wear their hearts on their sleeves, and don't care what anyone else thinks of it. Children are genuine. Sometimes they're even brutally honest. That is, until they grow up, become more socially aware of all the fakes around them, and the choice to either assimilate or become an outcast is thrust upon them." Breburn nodded as if he had confirmed something. "So, you admire a child's ability to express themselves openly? Is that because its something that, deep down, you wish you could do?" Soarin turned his head slightly and cast a glare upon the prying earth pony from over his shoulder. Something about his questioning was coming off as derisive. "And what are you, a psychologist? What's next, you gonna ask me if my daddy ever hugged me?" "You see that?" Said Braeburn, pointing a confirming hoof. "You use sarcasm and snark to mask your feelings. You say you admire forwardness, but you just seem to be one of those fakes you have so much contempt for." Soarin whirled his body around to face him and spat, "I'm not masking anything! I don't go on about myself because no one cares. And why should they? Everyone has their problems, so why should mine matter? And why do you keep pretending to care? Are you digging for ammunition to use against me?" "Wow," Breburn retorted with exaggerated amazement. "Borderline cynicism, trust issues, misanthropic tendencies towards society, anything else you got to add to this laundry list of yours?" "You think I'm some sort of puzzle for you to solve?" Soarin demanded. "I'm not falling for this nice guy facade you're putting on for me. You're just trying to lull me into a false sense of security, and I'm not going to fall for it!" "And paranoia to boot," Braeburn concluded. "Ah ain't tryin' to be mean, but you got some demons, partner." "Who doesn't?" Soarin asked. "Ah'll bet you're an alcoholic, too." "You know what, how about I ask you a question?" Soarin said, evading the prying stallion's speculatory, albeit accurate assumption. He tugged his welding glove off and pointed a demanding hoof toward Braeburn. "How about you tell me something candid about you, for a change!" "Why do you want to know about me?" Soarin shrugged. "I answered one of your questions. Several, actually. Now, it's your turn to answer one of mine. An answer for an answer." "Sounds fair, Ah suppose." Braeburn removed his hat and scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Well, this may be a bit of a cliche, but Pa' skedaddled after Ah was born. 'Cause of him, Ah never got to go to school. Soon as Ah was able to walk, Ah had to help 'Ma tend to our farm. Ah don't even so much as remember what the dirty ol' rascal looked like. Good thing, too. Ah might kill him if Ah ever see him." Braeburn paused, and he concluded with a light-hearted laugh, "But hey, 'least he didn't name me Sue before be ran off." "Oh, so you're a bastard, then?" Soarin scoffed. "My dad's dead. What else you got for me?" "Hey, look at that, We just had ourselves a breakthrough!" Braeburn suddenly announced with a proud smile. Soarin tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow, bewildered. "What?" "You finally shared something about yourself!" Braeburn placed his hat over his chest and closed his eyes mournfully. "Ah'm sorry to hear about yer daddy. Ah don't know what it's like to have one, but if Ma' ever left me, that'd be heartache Ah just wouldn't be prepared to deal with." "Oh, come off it with the good guy act, would you!" Soarin spat. "Mister Soarin, if you'd just tell me what's goin' on with you—" "Hey, Braeburn, where you at?" Big Mac's deep resonating voice called out from somewhere outside accompanied with the thump of heavy lumbering hoof steps. "Ah'm in the tool shed," Braeburn replied. A few moments later the door to the shed opened, and Big Mac's imposing frame blocked the light from the outside as he entered. He turned his head to Soarin with a silent nod of acknowledgement. Soarin returned his gesture with a curt wave. "Brae, need yer help with somethin'," reported Big Mac. "What is it?" Asked Braeburn. "The city stage needs to be fixed before the Ponyville day festival in a few days. Mayor's willing to pay a fat commission for its repair. You in? Fifty fifty?" "What's wrong with the stage?" Soarin asked with half interest. "You broke it," Breburn and Big Mac replied simultaneously. Soarin rubbed the back of head with a sheepish grin. "Oh, yeah." Braeburn placed his hat back on his head and asked, "when would we be headin' out?" "Right now, We only have a few days, so it's gotta get done quick." Braeburn turned to Soarin, but before he could say anything, Soarin said, "Go ahead, I can finish up here on my own." "You sure? Ah could help out with the axle, and then go meet up with Big Mac in town later. That sucker's pretty heavy." "We unbolted the wheels and dismounted the axle together, It shouldn't be too difficult to do the process in reverse. If I hit any snags, I'll come find you." "Alright," surrendered Braeburn with a shrug. "Why don't you go ahead and take the rest of the day off after yer done here. Ah think you need some time to clear your head." "Might as well," Soarin replied, doing poorly to restrain the maliciousness in his tone. "It's not like I'm going to be around here much longer anyway, right?" Braeburn looked perplexed by Soarin's statement, but he shrugged it off. "You got all the tools and lumber we need for the job?" He asked, looking to Big Mac. "The Mayor is supplying us with all the resources we need. She's even having her personal chef provide us with a free lunch." "What's the job pay?" Braeburn inquired as he started toward the door with Big Mac following close behind. "Two thousand up front - two thousand when it's done." "City folk sure are generous," Braeburn chuckled as they exited the shed, closing the door behind them. The two stallions' chatter became faint to Soarin's ears as they distanced themselves further from the shed. Soarin turned to the axle and sighed listlessly. It did look pretty heavy, but if Braeburn could lift it, then so could he. He inspected the freshly welded crease to make sure it was safe to touch. The glowing red seam was now a cool raised line, like freshly-healed scar tissue from an experienced surgeon's scalpel. Soarin ran his hoof over it, appreciating his work. "Might as well get this over with," he sighed reluctantly. Soarin unfastened the clamps and, with a heavy grunt, heaved the axle onto his back. The veins in his neck pulsed as they raised from his skin, he clamped his teeth, his legs shook violently. He was just about to let the axle slam down on the ground so he could think of another way to get it out of the shed, but he realized that if he dropped it he might damage the floor. Seeing no other option to his disposal, he dragged himself toward the door. Damn Braeburn for making this look so easy! Soarin tapped the door open with the tip of the axle and painstakingly strafed his way through the narrow exit. Blots were beginning to form in his vision, and his breathing became labored as he made his way to the side of the tool shed where the upturned wagon awaited him. He didn't know how he did it, but he eventually made it. Methodically positioning himself between the two brackets where the axle would be placed, Soarin heaved the heavy piece shoulder level. Breathing heavily and irregularly through his clenched teeth, he grunted loudly and, with another heave, thrust the axle over his head, as if he were gorilla pressing it. He then dropped it down, letting it slam down onto its iron placings with a thunderous crash. A numbness rushed through Soarin's body the second he was relieved of the weight, and all he could feel was an intense burning sensation in his back and legs. He slumped over the wagon with a heavy sigh. His mane was soaked with perspiration. It stuck to the sides of his neck and hung in front of his face, obscuring his features as he gasped to catch his breath. He blinked and rubbed his eyes vigorously in an attempt to snuff out the dark spots that threatened to envelope his vision. "My, my, what an Impressive feat of brute strength!" Applauded a flamboyant voice. Soarin's head snapped up, but his sudden movement sent a twinge of pain through his soar body. All he could make out in his exhausted state was a bronzed blot standing across from the wagon. "Who's that?" "I'm absolutely heart-broken that you wouldn't recognize me!" The blur exclaimed. "That metro sexual idiolect..." "Oh, my dear Soarin, metro is soooo last week. Get with the times, man!" Soarin zeroed his vision in on the blur until the pony's features became more distinguishable. He was a unicorn: thin, tall, and wiry - sporting a designer sweater with a side pocket that accommodated a hair comb. "Trenderhoof," Soarin groaned with dismay. "Very good, I'm flattered!" Said the unicorn through a row of gleaming white teeth, which seemed far too bright to be natural. Soarin grunted as he pushed himself up from the wagon and said, "I believe all the Wonderbolts know who you are. You've shown up to enough of our after-show parties." "Good sir, it is my job as a traveling writer to attend and review the many soirees and shindigs of Equestria." "And yet, you always go on about yourself as if you're the one being interviewed." "Well, I am the most interesting pony in Equestria," Replied Trenderhoof, patting himself on the chest with a pompous air of self-appreciation. "Who wouldn't want to know all about me?" "Whatever you say." Soarin rolled his eyes. "So, what's such an omnipotent being who drinks only the finest elder wines from the holy grail doing among us lesser dirt-grubbing mortals? And let me know if I should avert my eyes." Trenderhoof removed his glasses and began cleaning them, sighing passively in response to Soarin's impertinence. "I'm here to write a review on the Ponyville day celebration. I came here early to tour the town and take in the sites so I can get a vibe for the place." "Uh huh, well, this isn't Ponyville." Soarin informed with a blunt rudeness in his tone. "This is Sweet Apple Acres." "I know that!" Trenderhoof shot back. "But - as is the unpredictable nature of these things - I have fallen deeply, madly in love!" The edge of Soarin's lip curved into a sly smile. "Sorry, but you're not really my type. Maybe it's the glasses?" "It's nice to see that you haven't lost that sense of humor of yours, but no, I wasn't talking about you. Her name is Applejack." Soarin eyes narrowed. "Applejack, huh?" "Yes, Applejack!" Trenderhoof said, suddenly thrusting his hooves in the air like an overenthusiastic poet reciting the writs of Quilland Ink. "She is the most beautiful mare in all of Equestria! I have come to extend to her the incredible honor of being my escort for the Ponyville day celebration. She will accept, of course, and it is there where I shall make her fall madly in love with me, as I have with her!" Soarin remained silent as he retrieved a ratchet and some bolts from an old coffee can he and Braeburn had stored them in. He aligned the threaded holes of the axle with those of the wagon, adjusting them accordingly to properly fit the bolts. "But does she know that?" He asked, keeping his eyes focused on his task. Trenderhoof turned his head and smiled. "She'll know soon enough. One look into my luscious lavenders and she'll know who her very special sompony is meant to be." Soarin inserted the bolts in the aligned threadings and twisted them into place. "Huh," was all he could think of to say. He was doubting that this guy would be Applejack's type, which brought him to another thought: why did he care? "May I ask you why you're here, Soarin?" Trenderhoof Finally asked, shifting the subject. "Last I heard, you had quit the Wonderbolts. I must say that I am quite surprised to run into you here." "News travels fast," Soarin observed as he continued working. "I'm employed here." "You... Work here?" Trenderhoof asked, his eyes widening with astonishment. "You lucky bastard! You must get to see Applejack all the time!" "A position for a new farm hand will be opening up soon," Soarin said. "I'm pretty sure I'll be out of here before tomorrow comes." "Oh, so you're leaving?" Soarin grunted confirmingly. Trenderhoof's eyes narrowed as if he were deep in thought. "This is uncanny. It's like the universe is trying to tell me that I belong here. As exciting as my life is as a writer, I wouldn't mind working and living here along side that beautiful mare." His expression softened, then he said, "She is beautiful, wouldn't you agree?" "She's..." Soarin paused. He wanted to disagree, but the memory of Applejack's soaking wet form suddenly intruded on his thoughts. The tips of his ears turned red, and a strange churning sensation could be felt in the pit of his stomach. He had to clear his throat before he could speak again. "She's okay, I guess," he stammered. "Oh, I dare say, she's more than okay. Now, if you'd excuse me, I must inquire my Applejack about the job opening before anypony else can swoop in and takes it." The unicorn's smile gleamed like sunlight upon polished marble as he politely dipped his head before turning away. "Farewell, Soarin. I do hope that our paths will cross again." Soarin glared at him as he sauntered away with that annoying spring in his step. For reasons that he wasn't completely sure of, he was beginning to harbor an intense loathing for that unicorn. With the axle firmly mounted and the wheels bolted on, his job was complete. Soarin had pushed the wagon over onto its wheels and rolled it back and forth experimentally to gauge his work. Satisfied, he looked around at the surrounding orchards and remembered that he now had the rest of the day off. Soarin wasn't used to having free time. There was always something that needed to be done at the academy, or when he was on tour with the Wonderbolts, but what was there to do here? He would need to find a hobby - some means of productive entertainment while he wasn't on the job. He thought for a second, then remembered he wouldn't even have his job for long. It seemed that all he would have from now on was free time. He decided to walk instead of fly back to his barn, so that he could explore the orchards and meditate over what he would do with his life after his employment with the Apples was terminated. Now, he thought to himself as he strolled at a lazy pace, what could a stallion with plenty of funds and unlimited free time do to occupy himself? When Soarin had finally made his way to his barn an hour later, a somber sense of detachment loomed about him. He had been weighing his options out for the past hour and he still didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. He didn't know what hobbies he would enjoy, or what kind of job he should look for next. Soarin had been a Wonderbolt his entire adult life - the thought of being anything else felt strange to him. It was like he lacked an identity now. He entered his barn and surveyed the plethora of ancient tools and dusty old crates piled up against the walls. His barn must have been used for storage after it had served its purpose. Soarin chuckled at the irony. "Storage." That was a good word to describe him. He wasn't good at anything, and he wasn't particularly passionate about anything either. He simply existed to occupy space... Like storage. Out of sheer boredom, Soarin decided to inspect some of the relics within the old wood crates. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. He came across a few antiques: some glass figurines, some tools, a few dusty old black and white photo albums. He even found an old duster coat. It was brown and faded like old raw hide, but the material still felt tough and resilient. Soarin thought it kinda neat. It reminded him of what the cowboys would wear in those corny old silent westerns. He folded it as neatly as he could and set it aside, not being able to bring himself to stuff something so intriguing back into the crate with the rest of the obscure crap. Soarin continued his impromptu salvage expedition and, among the antiques, he found a flat, circular object. The outer rim of its circular body had an elegant design to it, like the pattern of a tightly braided rope made of solid gold. Whatever it was, it seemed valuable. He blew the dust off of its surface, and found that, under the thick layer of dust, was himself staring back at him. It was an antique pocket mirror. He looked hard and long at his reflection. Those craggy bags under his eyes that seemed to be his trademark facial feature were deeper and darker than usual. The reflection he cast was gaunt and grim, green eyes with no trace of vitality left in them. He might as well have been staring into the face of an old world-weary stallion as he drew his last breath on his deathbed. He set the mirror face-down upon the folded duster, not desiring to witness his haggard visage any longer. Soarin was tired, depressed, and lethargic. His eyes pretty much said it all: he had no energy, no motivation. He was exhausted - physically as well as emotionally. He looked to the hay loft in the upper tier of the barn where that filthy make-shift bed of his had been. If there was one thing on this farm he knew he wouldn't miss, it would be that itchy, flea-ridden straw pile. He then turned his head and eyed his pillow and blankets that were still piled on the ground where he had left them that morning, which once again raised the question of how his bedding got there in the first place. He thought about it for only a moment, then he shrugged, disregarding the riddle. There's no point in wondering why anyone does the things that they do while they're drunk, he finally decided. Whatever reason he had, it was a drunk reason, which probably made a lot more sense last night when he was intoxicated than it would now while he was sober. With a sigh and a yawn, the somnolent stallion approached his bedding and collapsed into it. Itchy pile of straw, hard wood floor, it was all the same to him. As tired as he was, he could have found comfort on a stone tablet in the Canterlot dungeon. He yawned one last time, curled up, closed his eyes, and drifted away effortlessly into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. A voice suddenly cut through the ether of Soarin's unconsciousness. The voice sounded distant and distorted, but it was vaguely familiar. "Hey, how long have you been in here? Why are you sleeping on the floor? Can you hear me?" Groaning, Soarin opened his eyes. He looked up at the blue Pegasus standing before him. It took a second for his half-awake brain to register the face. He scrambled to his hooves in surprise when his mind finally identified the stallion. "Wave Chill!" "What's up, dude?" Soarin's former teammate greeted in a soft-spoken tone, which was different from the usual Western Equestrian up beat surfer dialect he was accustomed to speaking in. Oddly enough, his mouth was smiling, but his eyes betrayed something different: it was a sadness of some sort, but it was lost on Soarin as he struggled to gather his faculties. "Hey!" Soarin replied, still surprised. "How did you— When did you—" "You were easy enough to track down." Wave Chill cut him off, as if he had anticipated Soarin's question. "I figured you'd be somewhere in or round Ponyville. It was all just a matter of asking questions around town. Found a couple of earth ponies that were working on the stage you messed up last night. They pointed me in your direction." "Oh," Soarin yawned, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing here? Not that I'm not glad to see you, but you're on the tour roster for this season, aren't you? Shouldn't you be getting ready for your trip?" "I, uh..." Wave Chill faltered. That was when Soarin noticed he had a canvas messenger bag slung across his shoulder. Soarin observed his old friend's accessory with a wry smile. "Cute purse," he joked. "Did you come all this way because you wanted me to help you shop for some matching shoes?" Wave Chill tried to laugh at the joke, but even he himself seemed to be aware of how painfully fake his weak chuckle was. Soarin was starting to feel uneasy. Why's he acting so strange? "I have something that I think you should see," Wave Chill announced after a moment of silence. He reached into his bag and produced a rolled up newspaper. "The headlines," he stated vaguely. Soarin looked down at the paper clenched in the crook of his friend's foreleg, bewildered. "You know, I got a glimpse of the headlines this morning. I'm well aware of the carrot shortage in Baltimare." "That's the Ponyville newspaper, Soarin. This is the Foal Street Journal." "Since when do you read that over-hyped sensationalist bullsh—" "Soarin!" Wave Chill cut him off hotly. "Just read it." Soarin took the paper from him, curious as to why Wave Chill could be acting so strange. He sat back on his haunches, unfolded the paper, and checked the front page headlines. He blanched as he read them out loud. "Soarin abandons Cloudsdale; Wonderbolts fans in outrage." The edges of the paper rattled in his shaking hooves. He glanced up at Wave Chill, as if confirm the legitimacy of the article. "Read on," he advised. Soarin did as he instructed. Sources have indeed confirmed the unfathomable: it appears that the Wonderbolts will not be taking home the gold in the Equestria games this year. In fact, they will not be competing at all. It's hard to believe this and accept it as reality, as it is well known that Cloudsdale has won the gold in the Equestria games for the past ten consecutive years. The Wonderbolts, since they had started competing in the games a whole decade ago, have never lost, but this year they will not even be competing. Why is this, you may ask? Because the beloved bolts have decided to give some other team a chance this year? That's a good guess, but no. It turns out that the Wonderbolts have been having issues as of late, and when we at the Foal Street Journal say "issues," we mean Soarin. The beloved poster boy of the Wonderbolts, as difficult as it is to believe, has abandoned Cloudsdale over reasons that have not been confirmed, however, our sources have reason to believe that it was due to "financial issues." Now, when we say "financial issues," we don't mean like the kind of financial issues that an average pony like we, or you, our dear reader, would have. No. While it is unfortunate that many of us normal ponies may have difficulties feeding our families and keeping up with our bills, or Celestia forbid, drowning in debt, we have Soarin, who's salary has been confirmed to be but a meager 3.5 million bits a year, which apparently was not enough for him to etch out a living for himself. Soarin continued reading, the outrage within him intensifying with every sentence. The media had sought to embellish the facts with half-truths in order to demonize him as much as they possibly could. The story was laced with conjecture that was written in a way to have the believer perceive them as facts. Every time the paper would disclose information about him that was complete bullshit, it would validate the falsities by saying it was confirmed by a "witness" or a "reliable source." It didn't take Soarin long to guess who this "source" was. "Spitfire," he growled as if her very name was a curse. He set the paper down and cast a feral glare toward Wave Chill. "Where is she?" "This isn't Spitfire's fault." "Then, who's is it!" Soarin roared. "Do you have any idea what this is going to do to me? I'll never be able to show my face in public again!" "Calm down! Spitfire didn't say those things about you." "That so?" Soarin said doubtingly. "Yes, that is so. Look, the press did come to Spitfire for answers, but all she gave them were unembellished, unbiased facts. I was standing right there when she was being interviewed. The publisher is just running wild with the story to sell papers. You know how the media is. Besides, you have no right to be mad at anyone but yours--" Wave Chill stooped himself. He knew he had just crossed a line. "I'm sorry?" Soarin demanded in an unstintingly calm voice. "What was that?" Wave Chill paused, thinking of a way to rectify his statement. "Look," he said, "I understand what you've been going through, I do... But... Soarin, man, I just... You shouldn't have bailed." "I 'bailed' because I was sick of being lied to and treated like dead weight!" "You didn't have to quit right before the preliminaries!" Wave Chill shot back defensively. "Oh, but you didn't quit there! You somehow forced Spitfire into spoiling that grand finale we've been working on for the Los Pegasus air show. And thanks for that, by the way. She's only fricken livid about it, and she's been taking it out an anyone who crosses her path!" "And she should have been happy for the honor. She owed Rainbow Dash a debt that she never intended to pay!" "I owe who now?" Spitfire's voice rang out, bringing a sudden halt to the argument. Wave Chill paled, his posture stiffening as the captain entered the barn through the hole in the roof. The dust from the ground raised all around her as she landed. "C-captain, where— how—" "I followed you here," said Spitfire. "I figured your little bromance with Soarin would cloud your judgement and convince you to make a stupid decision like this. You know we can't be seen with him anymore, Wave Chill; it would further damage our already wounded reputation." "I was just trying to help Soarin to see the weight of his— uh... Decision to, uh... The repercussions of him abandoning us, ma'am." Soarin's eyes widened in betrayal and disbelief. "Excuse me!" Wave Chill glanced back at Soarin with a combination of panic and guilt in his eyes, as if to offer an unspoken apology. Spitfire smiled, looking rather pleased by Soarin's hurt reaction. "That's okay, Wave Chill," She began. "I can forgive you this one time. But, as I have said, we shouldn't be mingling with such disreputable company." The captain's wrathfully accusing eyes fell upon Soarin with the last two words of her sentence. They glared at each like two wild beasts ready to rip each other apart over the slightest indiscretion. Soarin had never felt such an intense loathing in his entire life, and he knew such was the same for his former captain. But she started it. It was her fault. It was all her fault. She chased him away from the team, and now she was dragging his name through the mud for some sick sense of retribution. He should have known things would happen like this. Spitfire always, always got the last laugh. He had never heard of anyone crossing her and getting away with it. "Wave Chill." Spitfire broke the silence, her gaze remaining hotly zeroed like a glaring statue - never moving - never faltering. "Why don't you head on home now. I would like a quick word with Soarin... Alone." Wave Chill hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do. "Wave Chill!" Wordlessly, the Wonderbolt turned around and paced toward the barn door. "Waves," Soarin called out to him. "Whats all this about how you can't be seen with me anymore?'" The Wonderbolt came to a dead stop, but he didn't turn around. The silence was all the answer Soarin needed. He felt a solid lump forming in his throat as he began to understand the meaning of Spitfire's words. It took all his strength to speak without his voice quivering. He refused to cry. He wouldn't give Spitfire the satisfaction. "Am I ever going to see you again?" Silence. Wave Chill continued toward the door. "Waves... We've been friends since flight school. We enrolled in the academy together... Please..." Soarin breathed heavily as a tear rolled down his face. He did his damndest to hold them back, but he couldn't. They flowed through his ducts and forced their way through like a battered dam giving under the force of an overflowing river. He knew he looked stupid, but his dignity was the last thing on his mind. Wave Chill stopped again. His body tremored. Spitfire rolled her eyes with a sigh. "Wave Chill, just say whatever it is you want to say!" Again there was only silence. "Spit it out!" "Waves," Soarin pleaded. The Wonderbolt turned around, keeping his head down, not wanting to make eye-contact. He sighed, then finally said in a shaky voice, "We've had some good times, man. But this is my career. I'm not as eager to leave it behind as you were. I came here to say goodbye, and, I'm sorry." And with those parting words, he turned around and made that long walk to the door, closing it behind him. Soarin felt cold as a profound feeling of emptiness came over him. "Are you happy, Spitfire?" He said. "I made you lose out on the games - you've taken everything from me. My reputation, my dignity, my best friend, everything. You won. I have nothing now. I ask you, are you happy?" There was a long silence. And then, "So, how was she?" Her voice was so casual, almost cheerful. Soarin looked up at her. She was now standing across from him at an arm's length. "How was who?" "Rainbow Dash. Was she as sweet and tight as you hoped?" Soarin cocked his head to the side, legitimately astonished at the accusation. "I don't... What?!" Spitfire's face contorted with disgust. "Oh, don't even try to play dumb. You must have been hoping for something pretty special in return for dragging me and the others to that girl's birthday party," she spat. "Typical stallion!" "Why are you doing this to me? You've already won. You've taken everything from me, and now you're just throwing baseless accusations around, and for what, just to kick me while I'm down? What have I done to deserve—" Spitfire suddenly laughed over Soarin's voice, then her face relaxed into a mocking grin. "What did you do to deserve this? Were you really going to ask me that?" She laughed again. "You, Soarin, are the biggest screw up I have ever had the displeasure of flying with! You never took anything seriously, and all you did was bring the team down! And then, what do you do? You found a way to make us suck even more: you bailed on us when we actually needed you for once! But no... Oh, no! You weren't finished there. You really had to find a way to rub some salt in the wound. You come blackmail me, you force me to throw away the grand finale I have been spending the past six months developing and practicing for. And for what? To spite me? For a booty call? I don't care what your reasoning was! You're destined for nothing but misery, with nothing else to look forward to but a filth-ridden gutter as your grave, and you won't rest until you've pulled everyone around you down with you!" Spitfire about-faced, and made her way to the exit, not bothering to wait for a retort. Just as she placed her hoof on the door, she turned and tossed over her shoulder, "From what it sounds like, you didn't even get laid. You got nothing for all your efforts. Look around you, Soarin. Look how far you've fallen. You have nothing, and that's all you are now: Nothing!" She turned to the door when it suddenly opened, and in ran a group of four little fillies who bumped into her. Soarin recognized the fillies: They were Apple Bloom and her friends from the school. He didn't know what he was going to say to them. He was too stunned from Spitfire's speech. He could have expected her to say the cruelest, most vile things to him, yet she'd always end up saying something that took him off guard and cut through the emotional armor he bolstered up around himself. "Oop, please excuse me!" Spitfire said to them with a mellifluous trill in her voice. Soarin's jaw dropped. "Oh my gosh!" The the ivory unicorn exclaimed. "Spitfire! It's captain Spitfire!" "That's me!" Spitfire replied with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Are you little ladies just coming from school?" "It really is her!" The silver one who tried to make a move on Soarin that morning put it. "Oh, my gosh! Can I please have an autograph? I can't believe it's really you - here, of all places. Did you come by to visit Soarin?" "Something like that," replied Spitfire, still smiling. "You said you wanted an autograph? Do you have a pen?" Soarin watched in utter disgust as Spitfire suddenly had these fillies wrapped around her hoof. She signed their binders, told them a joke, and they all shared laugh, and she bid them farewell, tossing back one last glare at Soarin before leaving, which the fillies didn't seem to notice. Soarin learned all the fillies' names as he watched the exchange. "I can't believe how nice she is!" Silver spoon exclaimed. The other three, Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo, seemed to be just as starstruck. Soarin felt an immeasurable and inconsolable animosity flowing through him. He knew that, for all his frustration, there was nothing he could ever do about it. Nobody would ever take his side, not against Spitfire. Her craft in the ways of speech could lead one to believe the opposite of everything they believed with one or two words. She was a master, and he knew that she had intended for him to see the act she had just put on. She wanted to show him how potent her powers of manipulation were. It was a way of saying 'don't mess with me. I can make this worse.' The four fillies continued to go on about how cool and nice Spitfire was, until they approached Soarin, who just stared vacantly, as if he were an empty husk drained of vital essence. Apple Bloom tugged at him, but he didn't respond. "Mr Soarin?" She said. "You okay?" Soarin didn't respond. It was as if he was catatonic. "Mr Soarin?" Silver Spoon looked at him sideways and batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. "Hey there, future hubby." Again, no response. "What's wrong with him?" Sweetie Belle asked. "Not enough protein in his diet, perhaps?" Guessed Scootaloo. "Rainbow Dash told me that can mess with your reaction timing." Applebloom thought for a moment, then brightened as an idea came to her. She dug through her book bag and pulled out her potion manual, then flipped the pages until she came to her book mark. She ran up to Soarin and held it out for him to see, but he didn't look. "Mr Soarin, you know you were tellin' me 'bout how ya can't remember last nights events? Well, Ah might'a found a way to help you with—" "Alone..." Soarin said under his breath, gathering the newspaper off the ground so that the little ones couldn't see it and bare witness to his shame. "What was that now?" Apple Bloom asked, setting her book down. "Alone... I want to be alone." With a blank look, Soarin turned, shuffled to a corner of his barn, curled up, and it was there he laid, completely unresponsive to the fillies' efforts to communicate with him. After almost a half hours of trying, Apple Bloom finally said, "Ah think we better leave him alone for now, girls... He'll talk to us when he's ready." "But what's wrong with him?" demanded Silver Spoon. "I can't have a vegetable as a husband!" "Knock that off!" Scootaloo barked. "Let's just do as Apple Bloom says. I don't think we're going to get anything else out of him." the fillies groaned reluctantly in agreement. Soarin could hear them scampering away, but he suddenly felt his blanket draping over him. He turned, curious, and he saw Silver Spoon smiling at him. It was an act of kindness. Something that was so foreign to him. "...Thanks, kid..." He managed. She blushed before turning and scurrying away to catch up with the others. Soarin waited until he heard the door close. He looked back to insure no one was around. Satisfied that no one was there or near, he wrapped his arms round himself and curled into a fetal position. The newspaper with that detestable article plastered across it lay only a few inches from him, face up, as if to mock him. His identity, his team, his friend, his dignity, his reputation, everything gone. Soon enough he wouldn't even have his job anymore. He would have nothing. Soarin's grip over his chest tightened. A strange, insecure feeling came over him. He felt like a ghost, like he had nothing or no one that could validate his existence. He felt like he had no anchors to this world, like he could just float off from the plane of existence at any moment. The abandonment he felt was like a weight in his chest. But it wasn't abandonment. It felt more like he was forsaken.