• Published 1st May 2015
  • 7,799 Views, 195 Comments

Records of an Academy Disaster - Fahrenheit



Spitfire is apparently the only thing standing between the Wonderbolt Academy and total chaos. Temporary Captain Fleetfoot is not Spitfire.

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Don't Screw This Up

5 DAYS UNTIL WING FLING

FOUR DAYS UNTIL WING FLING

~*~

"I'm taking Soarin with me, so you'll have to run practice AND make sure the Academy doesn't burn to the ground." Spitfire pauses to toss another folder onto the pile of paper adorning her desk, then continues rooting through the file cabinet. "Frankly, I'd be more comfortable with leaving him in charge, but some bakery apparently just opened up a new branch in Canterlot and he pouted until I agreed to bring him." Kicking the drawer shut, Spitfire turns around to survey her office.

Agenda with timetable for the next three days? Check.

Dossiers (and medical histories, emergency contacts, etc.) of everypony currently at the Academy? Check.

Nonplussed Fleetfoot, complete with sunglasses? Check.

Perfect. Now she just needs...

"SOARIN."

A blue-maned stallion pokes his head through the doorway. "Ready when you are, Cap. Oh, hey Fleetfoot! Excited for your big debut as somepony with actual responsibility?" He wags his eyebrows.

Fleetfoot scoffs. "Puh-lease, you wouldn't know responsibility if Tender Greens baked it into a cookie and hit you in the face with it."

"Ha! That stallion can't bake to save his life. Has Supreme Leader briefed you yet?"

Spitfire trots to the door, saddlebags fastened over her flight suit. "I'm getting to it. C'mon Fleet. Most of what you need to know is somewhere in that stack of paperwork, but I'll brief you on the way down."

"Brace yourself," Soarin mutters.

Spitfire takes off down the hall, talking a mile a minute and leaving Fleetfoot and Soarin scrambling to catch up.

"—time for free flight, too. Fast Clip keeps the Reserves on a pretty tight schedule, so they should be out of your mane, but keep an eye on Lightning Streak and High Winds. They keep saying they weren't the ones who hazed the Third and Fifth Squadrons, but somepony's been getting packages from Cheese Sandwich's Joke Emporium—"

"Ugh. Is this really what you have to put up with every time she leaves?" Fleetfoot asks, raising her voice over the stream of instructions rapidly issuing from the captain's mouth.

Soarin laughs. "Nah, I think it's just you. That, and she has no idea why the Princesses summoned her."

"Maybe it's a stealth mission or something."

"I doubt it," Soarin shrugs. "If it's anything cool, I'll tell you when we get back. You kind of do want to listen to Spitfire, though. I talked her into letting you take charge, so unofficially, it's my fault if you blow anything up."

Fleetfoot tunes back in to Responsibility Radio right as Spitfire transitions into a broadcast on joint practice sessions. Does she ever think about anything other than the team? Sheesh.

Spitfire certainly doesn't appear to have thought about pausing for breath. "—can throw the squadrons together if you want to; it's not a bad way to build morale. Let the Reserve flyers try out some of the routines, then mix up the teams and have a competition or something, I don't care. Just don't let a bunch of rookies outperform you, or I'll give them your uniform and promote you to a desk job at Headquarters."

A promotion would be nice. "You got it, boss."

"Also, don't place Misty Fly into any sort of leadership position," Spitfire continues. "I mean it. You were off running errands the last time we made that mistake, but she—huh?"

In the dying light of the courtyard, half-shrouded in shadows, stand two royal guardstallions, a silver chariot harnessed behind their unmoving forms. Fleetfoot snorts. "They must have heard you were bringing Soarin and figured you'd need help getting to Canterlot sometime this week, eh Spitz?"

"Gosh, Fleet," Soarin says with mock sincerity. "It's a good thing promotions are based off of flight ability and not humor, because then you'd be—oh, sorry. You actually are the lowest rank on the team."

"Hey, not cool! Spitz, give him a demerit or twenty! I feel victimized."

"You'll live," the Captain says curtly. "Soarin, you know better. Now get your flank into the chariot."

"Yeah, Soarin! Maybe you should ask the chariot drivers for flying lessons, while you're at it. Y'know, since the Princesses think you can't handle flying to Canterlot..."

Soarin fwaps his tail in Fleetfoot's face as he walks past her. "We'll see who's laughing tomorrow, when I've got croissants and you're eating oats!"

Fleetfoot rolls her eyes, grinning, as she turns to Spitfire. "Sounds like somepony's got it all planned out. Have fun!"

Spitfire is in her personal space, gah instantly, jabbing a golden hoof into Fleet's chest. "No, there will be no fun. Not for me, and definitely not for you." Oooh. She's using her Scary Captain Voice, which usually means somepony's either done something stupid (like forgetting which way is left and which is right during a routine), or something suicidal (like accidentally calling her "sir"). Fleetfoot isn't sure which category she's unwittingly placed herself into, but judging by the lack of lasers shooting out of Spitfire's eyes, 'suggesting the presence of fun' is roughly on par with 'locking Rapidfire in the armory on Inspection Day and forgetting about him.'

Whoops, she's still talking.

"I'm giving you a chance to prove yourself here, Fleet. If this Academy isn't still functioning flawlessly when I get back, I swear to Celestia, you'll fly laps until your feathers cry and then you'll use the tears to scrub the bathroom floors." Spitfire turns around and joins Soarin in the chariot, who waves cheerily at Fleetfoot.

"Don't burn the place to the ground while I'm gone!" he calls.

Pfft. As if. Fleetfoot heads back through the quiet halls of the Academy, the chariot a distant speck against the horizon. She grins to herself as she trots into the Captain's Office and plops down into Spitfire's chair. This is the opportunity she's been anticipating for months, if not years.

It's show time.