Cloudsdale. Pristine city in the clouds.
Born and raised in this city, I had always been, to a degree, aware of its ugly underbelly. Visitors always painted the grandiose old city––the cloud layer distinctly recognizable for the colosseums, pillars, and other monuments––with a fixation on rainbows and pure, light overtone, but there was more to a lake than just its reflective surface.
The heart of the metropolis was buried deeper in the clouds than rainbows could penetrate through. I only learned where all the filth and imperfections went once I became big as a Wonderbolt.
When Celestia’s light fell, Cloudsdale became something else. Bad things happened in the night, on the streets of that other city. Noir Cloudsdale.
When the whole world was engulfed in darkness, Solar Wind’s bar was the only safe haven left on the planet. Tucked within the Pulsant District, flanked by the zeppelin docks, and equipped with the strongest drinks, the joint was the best escape from the problems of the present. So of course, after scouring the city from top to bottom, calling for Lightning Bolt in the early morning, I landed at the bar. My wings were shot from the search effort, sore and useless at my sides; I would have given them away to have my daughter back, wherever she had disappeared to. Nothing was ever that easy though.
I tugged on the collar of the black leather coat I had brought with me, trying to retain my warmth, lest it disappear just as suddenly. The sun did not shine too well down in Pulsant–– it would not dare. This place was condemned, abandoned to winter by Celestia.
Entering the bar was like arriving at an old friend’s house on Hearth’s Warming and smelling a banquet in the oven. There was familiar company at the tables, smiles adorned on faces that had not seen the sun in ages. The ponies here were a motley of luckless gamblers, cheating husbands and wives, and local scumbags with cutie marks of power tools. All walks of Cloudsdale ended up here, drinking to achieve that state of bliss in drunken amnesia. Needless to say, I fit right in.
I found Jetstream at the counter, taking a swig from a mug half her size. She was already slipping out of her stool when I took the seat to her right. Jetstream gave me a tipsy, puckered grin and gulped the rest of her drink. I was waiting on the bartender, desperate to order a kicking bronco whiskey.
The mare next to me slammed down the mug and threw her foreleg around my neck. “Black chariots, Fleetfoot! Look them up!” Her mumbo jumbo was hardly helping my nerves.
I took a deep sigh and got straight to the point. “What’s this talk about the Wonderbolts, Jetstream? I’m a detective now.”
She chuckled, head drooping closer to the counter every second. “With that coat, you’re more like a henchman for one of Daring Do’s archenemies. Doesn’t speak ‘CPD! Hooves in the air!’ to me.” Swiveling away from me, Jetstream tapped her mug three times and rung in Solar Wind. He materialized from behind the cloudwork, a plate and towel in his hooves. “Star Hunter, dearest of all my friends! Another cider.”
Solar Wind, a stallion with a navy blue coat and a lighter blue mane, nodded and turned to me. His expression was stoic enough to say nothing, but the concentration in his eyes suggested that he already knew my excuse for being here. “What will it be, Fleetfoot?”
“The usual. Kicking Bronco.”
Solar Wind’s hooves stopped, the towel and plate stuck mid-drying. “Beg your pardon?”
“Kicking Bronco. Your strongest whiskey, Solar Wind.” My voice was already strained like a rope ready to snap apart and lash out at the nearest pony.
“I don’t recognize the name nor the drink. You know my name and you know I don’t serve anything stronger than the Apple Family’s cider.”
That distinct buzzing returned full strength. Solar Wind, or ‘Star Hunter,’ was the last pony I expected to lie to me. I could not stop my forelegs from slamming on the counter, earning a flinch from the bartender. “Apple cider? That’s practically a soft drink to accompany kids’ meals. This is a bar. You can’t tell me there’s nothing in your inventory that has at least a portion of alcohol in it?”
Solar Wind was stock still, standing on his hindlegs against a stack of kegs. Even Jetstream cocked her head. Looking around me, I could see that my tantrum had attracted the attention of the whole gathering. And on every single table, there was a mug of cider. No vodka, no whiskey, no beer. This was it. It was the end of the world as I knew it: prohibition.
Finally, Solar Wind spoke up and broke the silence: “Alcohol? Why would you drink an antiseptic?”
“Ah, it all makes sense.” Jetstream threw her legs around in a wild attempt to emphasize her revelation. “You see, Fleetfoot lost her memories. She can’t remember being part of the Wonderbolts, so she’s drinking it to heal her brain.”
I dropped my head into my hooves and groaned. It was the end of the world, and I could not even get drunk at a bar.