Bravado

by Blade

Chapter 1

The crowd leans forward with anticipation. Music starts to play. The announcer's voice trumpets out above the clamor.

“Please welcome Rainbow Dash, the spectacular young athlete, here to try out for … the Wooooonnnnnderbolts!”

That's my cue. I stand up, spread my wings, and burst forth through newly-opened doors, making a quick circuit of the arena before alighting gently onto a conveniently-placed cloud. From my new perch, I look into the cheering crowd. I see the excitement upon the faces of so many. There, too, I see my friends—here to cheer me on. Here to watch me prove myself.

The announcer begins to speak again, and the crowd's voices fade to a dull roar. “You're witnessing history here, folks. Rainbow Dash is the youngest pony ever to be given the chance to try out for the Wonderbolts! Furthermore—”

I stop paying attention to him. Just another distraction. I've come this far, and I'm not going to let nerves get in my way this time. There is too much at stake. I send a silent plea to Celestia, hoping desperately that things will go my way. I stand for a long moment, staring at the crowd. So many ponies. All here to watch me.

I tune back into the announcer's words. “—and now, everypony, it is time to start.” He pauses, letting the crowd fall almost silent in anticipation. Looking directly at me, he speaks again. “Rainbow Dash. The stage is yours in three … ”

I take a deep breath.

“Two … ”

I lean back and flex my wings.

“One!”

And I'm off! I leap into the air, pushing myself to go faster and faster, speeding around the circular arena again and again. This is just preliminary stuff; give the audience a taste of pure speed before focusing on the maneuvers.

Shut everything out. There is no crowd. There is nothing on the line. Just … fly. Minds do not shut off on command, though; while most of mine focuses purely on the thrill of flight, a small, rebellious portion returns to thoughts of my past.

“You'll never amount to anything.”

No, I will not think of this. Not here. Not now. I stop my frantic circuits of the ring in seconds, levitating in space for a moment before speeding towards an obstacle course in the center. The first part is a series of cloud-covered posts for me to wind around—an almost exact duplicate of part of the Best Young Flyers competition that had first brought me into the public eye. My first big moment of success.

It had been a bad day at work, and I hadn't recognized the signs. I had been waiting eagerly for my dad to come home. When he did, I practically bounced over to him, shouting in youthful exuberance. “Dad! Dad! I got to see the Wonderbolts today!” His response was a noncommittal grunt, but I pressed on, oblivious.

I dart around the first post. I will not lose control this time. I have practiced again and again. This time, I will be perfect. More posts flit by at the edge of my vision, as I speed through the course, weaving between them with incredible speed. Still, though, my mind wanders. It always does.

“Dad! I'm going to be a Wonderbolt some day!” As I said it, I knew I'd crossed some line. He'd turned to me with a twisted combination of rage and sorrow in his eyes. I backed away, wondering what I had done. In a fit of rage, he shouted those words.

I'll never amount to anything? Dad, I will show you what I will amount to. I round the last post full of a quiet sort of rage. I channel it, use it to direct my actions and add precision to my flight. The next obstacle is a series of hoops arranged in a tricky pattern, meant to force me to slow down and fly carefully. I rush towards them.

He was crying as he shouted them. Confused, I started crying too. Still he walked towards me. Still, I backed away. With a sudden burst of speed, he pinned me against the wall and held me tight, staring into my eyes. I squeezed them tightly shut and turned away, too scared to say a word.

My eyes are wide open now, though. I am flying through the hoops faster than I've ever flown through them before; to become a Wonderbolt, I cannot simply succeed. I must excel. I have to angle myself sharply to the right to reach one hoop; I throw myself over vengefully, then pull back to get to the next.

“You'll never amount to anything.” He repeated the phrase, throwing more force into it. “All the world wants is to beat you down. Nobody is going to be looking out for you there. They want to see you beaten down. Just … like … me.” The last words were said with cold, quiet rage. I shuddered, not knowing what to expect.

A rebellious tear comes to my eye; I ignore it, letting it blow away in the wind. No more come after it. I turn my attention to the final part of the course—a complicated tangle of clouds requiring maneuvers such as loops and sharp changes of direction. I've failed this portion badly in some of my practices.

Suddenly, I felt his rough touch. My father grabbed me, held me tightly. I was too scared even to struggle as he brought his hoof down onto my back. “This is what the world will do to you.” He hit me again, with more force. “They pound you down.” Again. “Destroy your hopes.” Again. “Destroy your dreams.” Again and again and again. “Don't try to fly high, Dashie. The lower you go, the shorter your fall.” He was almost crying as he hit me.

Focus, Dash. And I do. I am flying like never before, darting through and around obstacles without hesitation or error. I know this course, and today I am its master. For a moment, as I loop around one cloud formation, I lose myself in the sheer exuberance of flight. I am brought back to reality swiftly, though, and my dark thoughts return to keep me company once more.

That was the first time he had beaten me. He apologized later—he pleaded for my forgiveness. I was his daughter. How could I not forgive? He begged for me not to tell my mom—not to tell anyone. I was a confused, hurt little filly. I promised. Told her that the bruises were from a crash landing after a wild flight.

I am past the first part of my tryouts, and I fly to a small cloud to rest briefly as workers pull the obstacles away. My eyes are damp; I blink rapidly a few times, almost convincing myself that it's just the wind. I look towards the crowd, dimly realizing that they are cheering for me. I grin jauntily.

For months after, everything went fairly well—or as well as it could. Eventually, though, I stepped too far again. Once more, my father beat me viciously. Once more, I told the same lies. After I had made that first decision not to say anything, it became far harder to imagine. This time, he didn't apologize. Something seemed to break within him that day, and he started yelling at me and beating me almost weekly.

The vague realization that the announcer is shouting my name shakes me out of my contemplation. I give my head a short shake to clear it and begin to listen once more. “—Rainbow Dash will now fly in formation with two current members of the Wonderbolts. Please welcome Spitfire and Soarin'!” With a burst of wind, the two pegasi I had asked to join me flew out into the arena and stood by my sides.

They reminded me vaguely of my father and mother during one of the happy moments. After much begging, I had convinced them to let me go to a summer flight camp. With my mother around, my father had no excuse to keep me from going. I remembered them walking off with me and waving goodbye as I flew up to the camp. If only everything else had been more like that.

This part of the tryout is a wild card; I am expected to keep pace with the two as they fly around the arena. I have flown in formation before, but I don't know entirely what to expect—they could take it easy, or they could fly in complex, tricky patterns that would take all my attention to follow. The announcer says a few more words, counted down once more, and we are off.

At camp, I was given the chance to shine that I never really got at home. I quickly rose to the top of the group, desperate to prove my father wrong. This was my chance to excel, and I was going to take it. With every race, thoughts of my father grew further away. Finally, one day, my destiny became clear.

This is my destiny. Spitfire leads us in every movement. Soarin' and I lag slightly behind, watching her movements and following them closely. I find myself rather enjoying this portion of my tryout; the movements she leads us on are taxing, but doable, and there is a certain feeling of freedom to it. Suddenly, Spitfire loops around, and I follow exuberantly.

The filly and I were complete opposites; that was clear. When she cowered in front of vicious, small-minded bullies, though, I saw a bit of myself in her. And so I did for her what I could never do for myself: I stood up for her, and found myself in the most intense race I had ever experienced.

I smile as I remember the occasion, and then put on a burst of speed to keep up with Spitfire. She is beginning to push us all faster; we are doing nothing but circling the arena at this point. It feels almost as if we are racing. I like the feeling.

Those punks had nothing on me. The first one lost control around one of the first bends; the second was more resilient, but I soon pulled away from him too. Then, well … I created a Sonic Rainboom, got my cutie mark, and flew away with destiny calling my name.

I smile blissfully, and coast to a complete stop, matching Spitfire's movements. The three of us hover in the air for a few seconds, and then Soarin' nudges me. I lean in, and he whispers, “All right, kid. You're on your own.” I realize that the announcer has also been speaking. It is time for the final section of tryouts: individual freestyle.

All good things must end some day. At the end of summer, Flight Camp finished up and we all headed back to our homes. I stepped gingerly through the door, not sure how I would be greeted. I dimly remember my mom asking how it had gone; she may have hugged me. The things that happened next resonate much more clearly in my mind.

I fly rapidly towards the center of the arena; the two Wonderbolts curve away to the sides and are gone. I hover there briefly, regarding the crowd. Three things to show here: Speed, agility, and style. Give the audience an unforgettable display. I start my routine.

My mom headed off to do some shopping; soon afterward, my dad came into my room. He looked at me with a vague hint of a smile, and said, “Dash?” I stared blankly at him, making no move to respond. “I'm glad you're home, kid. Families need to be together.”

I need no family now. I can make my own path. I shoot straight up into the air, twisting around again and again as I rise. I go up perhaps fifty feet, and then stop. Panting with the exertion of the previous move, I angle into a dive—aiming directly for the announcer's platform.

“I had a good time at flight camp, dad.” He seemed like he was in a good mood, and I hoped that if I gave him a chance, he might love me again. I wanted to love him. I opened up a little more. “Dad, I was the best flier there. I got my cutie mark. See?”

Moments before impact, I swerve to the side and fly over the crowd, doing barrel rolls above their heads. After a few rolls, I straighten out and aim for a large column that separates sections of the crowd; upon reaching it, I flip over so that I will hit it legs-first, then push off. My legs scream with the force of the impact.

My dad paused for a moment—thinking, perhaps. After a long, tense moment, he smiled in a melancholy way. “My little girl is all grown up now.” I realized that I had tensed up, anticipating a beating. I began to relax; I looked up at him and smiled hesitantly.

I shoot into the arena again, angling sharply upwards. When I start to feel my initial acceleration lessening, I angle downwards and loop around. I do another loop immediately following, and begin to fly wildly around the arena, doing trick after trick.

He frowned. “You think you're happy now. It won't last. The world doesn't want you to succeed. Once, I thought it did; it beat me down. It'll beat you down too.” The grim darkness had returned to his eyes. I began to tremble involuntarily, knowing what was coming.

Finally, I stop. There is one more trick to do. Everyone has seen it before, I am sure, but that will not lessen its impact. Briefly, I look around the crowd. All eyes riveted on me. I shoot straight into the air, flying high in preparation for the move to come.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he approached me and raised a hoof. As he brought it down, I thought of Fluttershy cowering before the bullies. I would not be bullied. Not again. I raised a forehoof forcefully and hit his away.

I begin my descent. I have struggled to do this in the past; today, I feel confident that I will succeed. I tuck my wings in close to my body.

“What?” My dad roared the word in almost-incoherent anger, and I flinched back, anticipating more blows.

I dive faster and faster. It's the type of speed that only one pony can manage. Me.

“Leave me alone!” I too was shouting; I was filled with an unusual energy and there was force behind my words.

The familiar barrier begins to form around me as I dove. My eyes began tearing up. I told myself it was just the wind.

It was my dad's turn to back away, and I pressed forward. “I don't care if the world tries to beat me down. I will not let you destroy me before it gets a chance. You are wrong, dad, and I will prove it to you.”

Just a little bit more. The barrier turns conical; I just have to break through the point.

He stopped backing away and looked angry—angrier than I had never seen him before. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, and it was worse than all the times he'd yelled. “You shouldn't have said that, kid. You need to learn a bit of respect.” His expression was murderous.

Almost there. The pressure is mounting; I can hardly maintain control. I push myself. Just a bit further.

“No!” Before I knew what I was doing, I twisted around and kicked him in the chest. Once. Twice. Three times. “I told you to leave me alone!” I began sobbing, and ran out of the room. Out of the house. Out of his world.

With an explosion of sound and color, I break through. I swoop upwards exuberantly, leaving a rainbow trail behind as I arc over the arena.

After that, I struck out on my own. I moved to Cloudsdale, then Ponyville. I made a life—and, more slowly, a name—for myself.

I land gently on a platform set aside for me. Quickly, I blink away my tears. They are my own weight to bear, and I don't want anyone trying to help me. I can do just fine on my own. My friends are approaching me, and I smile.

His blood is on my hooves.

Twilight is in front, as usual, and she speaks for the entire group. “Dash, that was amazing! I'm sure they'll accept you!”

If only dad could see me now.

I flip my mane back with a jaunty grin. “Well, what did you expect? I'm Rainbow Dash—best flier in Equestria.”

Comments

[Falgantil]

Wow. That sure is... Quite a different tale from the original one :o Great story ^^

[Longshot]

This is a really well written story. I think that using the thoughts and contrasting the thoughts to the actions is a tool rarely used in Fanfiction. It was especially well done during the part where Rainbow Dash was performing the Sonic Rainboom. I am awaiting your next post.

[SuperPinkBrony12]

So Pinkie Pie was an actual physcopathic murder who tried to hide her feelings by smiling, and now Rainbow Dash was beaten up by her father for no apparent reason, so who's going to be the next one to reveal their dark secrets?

[SuperPinkBrony12]

845718 Fluttershy huh, wonder what she's hiding and on I don't think it's a shed where she secretly murders other ponies.