//------------------------------//
// Crunch 
// Story: How to Disappear Completely 
// by shortskirtsandexplosions 
//------------------------------//

	Prince Blueblood craned his neck.  "... ... ...do they see anything yet?"

"Give them a moment, Your Eminence," Fancy Pants insisted.

Prince Blueblood craned his neck in the other direction.  He leaned closer and closer towards the edge of the Midnight Oil's bow, scouring the edge of the immense plateau below with is regal eyes.  "How about now?  Any sign?"

"They are still searching," Fancy Pants said, watching the Wonderbolts from afar.

A tense breath shot through Blueblood.  His cheeks puffed as he tightened his hooves against the top deck and spat, "Well, if they're not there, then they've sorely neglected their promised obligations—!"

"Have some patience, Your Royal Fussiness!  Land's sakes!" Filthy Rich grumbled.

"I beg your pardon...?!"  Blueblood gasped.  "Do you even know who you're talking to?"

Fancy Pants was chuckling up a storm.  "I'm quite certain he does, good chap."

"Our contacts in the pack will appear when they are ready," Filthy insisted.

"Mrmmmffff..."  Prince Blueblood folded his forelimbs with a pout.  "Even non-citizen ponies know a thing or two about punctuality."

"We did get here awfully slow," Fancy Pants suggested.

"Only because we're carrying hundreds of thousands of pounds of Mr. Rich's offerings!"

"I don't even think there are that many pies in the world, Your Majesty," Filthy Rich said.

"You know what I mean!"

There was a light pitter-patter of hooves.  Canterloy poked his head out from behind Blueblood's fetlocks.  "Are the dogs here or are they not?"

Blueblood instantly barked at the youngster.  "Back below deck with you!"

"But Uncle Blue!  You promised that I could see them—"

"First we have to see them without spears!  Now go!  Leave from hence!"

"Grnnnnghh..."  Canterloy shuffled back below deck in a surly gait.  "I swear!  I'm only here for background noise!"

Flash Sentry observed this from where he hovered between the gondola and the dirigibles.  The atmosphere of the Midnight Oil felt noticeably stale without the presence and voice of Soarin', he felt.  In truth, he greatly admired the likes of Fancy Pants and Filthy Rich, but something about their polite and pretentious airs made them a great deal more... distant.  At that very moment, Soarin' was also distant—albeit in the literal sense.  From afar, Flash could see him, Spitfire, and the rest of their fellow Wonderbolts circling the upper heights of High Paw, presumably searching for canine dwellers in a daring attempt to make contact.

Equestria was a bright and fuzzy world with bright and fuzzy things.  Nevertheless, Flash would have been lying if he said that he didn't feel a tiny ounce of concern.

So, feeling bold, Flash hovered lower until he was at deck-level.  He drifted sideways until he was within murmuring distance of Captain Typhoon, the senior officer of the Midnight Oil.  "So... like... if the diamond dogs of High Paw turn out to be super hostile, we'll know about it immediately... right?"

Typhoon blinked, then pivoted ever so slightly to give Flash a pointed glare.

Flash smiled nervously.  "I am allowed to talk to you, right?"

"Ahem..."  Composing himself, the Captain returned his gaze to the plateau below.  "The Wonderbolts are a resourceful bunch.  No doubt, if trouble shows its head, they'll be quick to make a hasty retreat with their full bodies in check.  You needn't be so worried about the wingpony with whom you've formed an evident camaraderie."

Flash's ears twitched.  "Really?  We're evident?"

"One should choose to be more concerned about the potential for this entire operation being a complete waste of time and bits," Typhoon droned.  "If the fickle canines choose to be completely and unrepentedly against negotiations, then I shudder to think of the sheer cost it will be to Fancy Pants' career."

"You care a lot for your employer, don't you?" Flash asked.

Typhoon looked at him pointedly.  "Pardon?"

"I dunno.  It just seemed..."  Flash shrugged with a tiny smile.  "...evident."

Typhoon's eyes narrowed.  "Perhaps—being in possession of wings as you are—you could go assist the Wonderbolts."

"Whoah, really?"  Flash blinked.  "You serious?  I mean... I-I don't exactly think I'm 'negotiation' material.  I'd royally mess things up with sapient bipedal canines.  Hell, this one time at a comic book convention, I mistook a bunch of Homestuck cosplayers as 'Invader Zim' fans.  Heh... boy that that not go over well."

Typhoon muttered:  "That was my attempt at jocularity."

"Jocu—"  Flash did a double-take.  "Oh, you were being sarcastic!"  The teenager laughed uproariously, slapping the Captain on the shoulder.  "Heyyyyyyy!  There's hope for you yet, dude!"

The officer's hat shifted askew, although his iron-stiff body made no attempt to register it.  Just as his nostrils started to flare—

—Spitfire, Soarin', and the rest of the Wonderbolts returned with a mutual gust of wind.

"Good news!" Spitfire's raspy voice thundered.  "Two of their messengers just poked their heads out.  According to those smelly mutts, the leader of High Paw still wants to make contact."

"Smashing!" Fancy Pants cheered.

Filthy Rich craned his neck.  "So they haven't changed their minds about the negotiations?"

Spitfire grunted.  "Presuming those runts can be trusted."

"I do believe it is worth the risk, Mr. Pants," Blueblood insisted.  "We've come too far to give up now."

"Hmmmmm..."  Fancy Pants rubbed his chin in thought.

Flash spoke up:  "Can the Wonderbolts hang around the scene and look after the negotiations?"

Spitfire threw the teenager a glare for having the audacity to speak up.

Soarin' blurted:  "They made no objection to our presence.  In fact..."  He smiled.  "It seems like they respect the show of strength."

"Is that right, Captain Spitfire?" Filthy Rich asked.

"Ahem..."  Spitfire cleared her throat.  "They seem okay with us.  Which is good.  Because we intend to watch after the party at all times.  But make no mistake..."  She gestured.  "I've seen the spears these bozos are carrying.  Mighty thick muscles on their arms.  They could skewer us in mid-air from fifty feet.  If we let our guards down—no matter the air superiority—they could get the upper hoof."

"Or in this case, 'paw'," Flash said.

Soarin' chuckled.

Spitfire rolled her eyes and opened her muzzle to argue—

"Well, I suggest you keep your distance at about one hundred feet," Fancy Pants insisted.  "That way you'll be out of range of the estimated danger, and yet you'll still be close enough to provide emergency support with your wingmates."  He looked at Captain Typhoon.  "Would you agree with that strategy, dear Captain?"

Typhoon nodded.  "Sounds like a good plan to me.  I leave it in Captain Spitfire's court."

"Very well."  Spitfire nodded.  "I'll establish a perimeter along the southeast edge of High Paw.  Now... the messenger canines have been made aware of the cargo we're carrying.  They've given us the signal to bring the materials down."

"So..."  Blueblood shifted where he stood.  "...do we set the entire Midnight Oil down?"

"Not a good idea," Spitfire said.  "It's too much of a risk, and we haven't an alternative way to carry the entire crew back to civilization in the event that this whole thing goes south."  She gestured.  "I suggest you allow my Wonderbolts to carry the supply crates down to the plateau's surface, one at a time."

Filthy Rich squinted.  "Can... you do that?"

"Nothing we can't handle," Soarin' said with a smile.  "Trust us.  We're used to carrying even heavier loads with fewer numbers."

"Soarin'!" Spitfire barked.  "Less bragging and more dragging!"  She spun and pointed at the rest of the jumpsuited pegasi.  "That goes for the rest of you!  I want all of the ship's cargo carried down to the summit of High Paw within the hour!  On the double!"

"Hey!"  Flash waved his hoof as several of the uniformed ponies flew into action.  "Uh... can I help?"

Spitfire looked ready to retort.  Her goggled eyes reflected Soarin's innocent expression, and eventually moaned:  "Ehhhhhh... fine, kid... but if we drop a single ounce of this precious dog food crap, it's on you!"

Flash saluted with a smile.  "I'll try and make you proud, ma'am!"

At hearing "ma'am," Spitfire rolled her eyes and dashed off into action.  "Let's open the cargo doors already!  Move it!  Move it!  Move it!"

Flash Sentry flew up to join Soarin's side as they made for the cargo doors.  "Check it!  I'm helping!"

"Heheh..."  Soarin' shook his head.  "Easier said than done, kid."

"That's okay.  I'll just... uhm... handle the lighter parts!"

"The boxes are cubicle."

"So?"  Flash shrugged.  "I'm too hip to be a square."

Soarin' sighed through a tired smile.  "I don't know what I understand less about you... these turns of phrase or the gall it takes to interrupt Spitfire like that."

"I dunno what it is... but I suddenly feel like I can make friends with anyone!"  Flash winked.  "Must be something in the air of this place."

"You don't say..."

"I was just chatting it up with Typhoon a moment ago."

"For real?"

"Yeah!"  Flash giggled.  "Turns out that me and the Cap'n can make it happen."

"Heheheh..."