The form-fitting blue and yellow bolt-streaked jumpsuit was a mite uncomfortable to wear – in fact, it was so tight that it was oft-found clinging around some of the more interesting points on a pony's anatomy – but it certainly caught the attention of the appreciative audience below, glittering as it did in a most captivating fashion when the rays of the early afternoon sun danced off of its resplendent material; clad in this, the official uniform of the Wonderbolts, the new recruit dive-bombed their way toward the flotilla of floating islands that made up the Wonderbolts Reserves' training compound, barely aware of the sound of their own throbbing heartbeat pounding against the inside of their chest when confronted with the all-consuming rush of air pressing at them from all sides as if they were miles below the sea rather than soaring through the skies.
Muzzle pointed toward the ground – a makeshift runway constructed in the fabric of the clouds – the new recruit felt the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of their mouth; with their lean legs tucked primly against their underside and their graceful wings folded neatly against their body, there was nothing but the wild flapping of their frizzy, multi-hued bangs to offer any friction in resistance to their self-created maelstrom. The protective goggles didn't quite hide the new recruit's bright, shining purple eyes. Though there was a slightly playful aspect to them, there was also an element of steely focus.
A split-second, a moment of hesitation or indecisiveness, was all that stood between them and calamity; if they failed to pull themselves out of their death-dive in that instant, well, they would soon be feasting upon the tarmac … followed by a few months of feasting on liquid meals through a straw whilst their broken jaw was wired shut.
Spitfire, watching the new recruit through a pair of binoculars, was almost moved to smile at the display of sheer arrogance; no matter how much of a kick she got out of observing the newbies – especially when they tried to pull off something spectacular and screwed it up mightily – it was unprofessional to do so, and she had to maintain a clinical, austere demeanour around them.
Still, if it had been any other pony but this one, she would already have sprinted halfway across the runway by now – pausing only briefly on her way to toss a reproving comment over her shoulder as soon as she heard the unmistakeable sound of squishy bone coming into contact with solid ground – to get the team doctor prepared for yet another grandstanding rookie who was going to need their spinal column reattached. To say nothing of a few months of intense physical therapy just to get them flying in a straight line again.
This was no ordinary rookie, however. This time, Spitfire couldn't stop the slight twitch of her lips, and she was glad that her fellow Wonderbolts were so focused on the recruit that they didn't notice the slip in her mask. Remaining detached was all well and good, of course, but it was difficult to not get caught up in the moment when one encountered a genuine prodigy.
When this particular recruit's application had arrived on her desk amongst a stack of so many others almost a year earlier, she had been intrigued by it; in addition to achieving a perfect score on the written portion of the test, they had also demonstrated an impressive depth and breadth of knowledge when it came to the Wonderbolts' early history, too. That they were also an excellent flyer, filled with the bravery, boldness and sheer tenacity that was the hallmark of the greatest names in pegasi history, on top of having a deep-rooted respect for the tradition and ideals of the uniform … well, could you say perfect candidate? It was Spitfire's job to turn the perfect candidate into the perfect Wonderbolt, and that meant putting them through a gruelling training regime that had broken many, many so-called perfect candidates in the past.
It was no secret that they had made more than a few blunders on the way here – the embarrassing nickname that they'd been saddled with was a testament to that fact, but there were much, much worse ones out there, including Spitfire's own and she was not averse to using her position to unleash Tartarus upon those who dared to mention it outside of the Wonderbolts' own inner circle – but they had also proven themselves time and time again to be one of the finest flyers ever produced by the flight school in Cloudsdale. They'd swept so many titles on their way here, including Best Young Flyer.
About the only thing, Spitfire knew, that was stopping them from actually staking a claim for a place in the Wonderbolts proper was the lack of space; their roster was full, and until a current member of the team either retired or took up another position that did not require active flight-time the new recruit would have to languish in the Reserve squad. It was unfortunate – more than once, potential aspirants had been stolen out from under their noses to join other, lesser display teams because they didn't have the patience to stick it out for upwards of a year or more when they wanted to be out there entertaining the crowds – but she hoped that it would not be the case here. She didn't want to lose this one. Not after … everything.
Pegasi had by far the most acute senses of all the pony races and, to them, entire lifetimes could come and go in the blink of an eye: the split-second had now all but passed and Spitfire's attention was instantly resettled on the new recruit's heedless plunge toward the runway. Their wings had now unfurled themselves in a smooth ballet of feathers and with what seemed like only the most gentle of flaps they arrested just enough of their excess momentum to pull out of the steep dive into a smooth, shallow arc. Another flap brought them to a halt no more than a few short yards from where Spitfire was standing. With an almost dainty flourish, they extended all four of their legs and gently brought their hooves flush with the track.
“I'd like to see you try that landing in the rain,” Spitfire said, almost but not quite managing to keep the faint note of envy out of her voice.
“Bring it on,” replied the new recruit, familiar cocky grin in place.
Spitfire had been a Wonderbolt for over fifteen years now, more than five of them as captain; she knew in her heart that her best days of flying would soon be behind her, and that she almost certainly didn't have the wings required to pull off a stunt like that any more. Once, she'd been filled with sorrow at the prospect of no longer being able to keep up with the best, but now she was more sanguine about the prospect. When there were candidates this good to take her place, to carry on her legacy – and the legacy of the Wonderbolts as a whole – into the next generation, then what was there to feel depressed about? What was life but a continous process of change and renewal?
Pushing aside these thoughts, Spitfire spoke in a tone more befitting that of a captain, “Cadet Scootaloo, I can say with some confidence that you've passed the practical part of the admissions test. Congratulations-” she placed a hoof on her shoulder, betraying just the slightest shred of the emotion that she was feeling “-you're officially a member of the Wonderbolts Reserve Squad.”
“Thank you so much, Spi... er, ma'am,” Scootaloo said, flushing slightly and looking every bit the young filly that had once idolised Rainbow Dash's every step. She managed an awkward salute and grinned abashedly. “Um, I'd like to tell you just how much I appreciate the confidence that you've shown in me since I applied to join the Wonderbolts. Especially after what happened on that first day.” She shuddered inwardly, recalling the accident and the sobriquet that would follow her for the rest of her career.
Spitfire's composure deserted her in that moment and she allowed herself a small chuckle; Scootaloo was far more than just another recruit, but the others on the team were tactful enough not to call attention to her fondness for this singular pony. After all that she'd been through, it would've been so easy for her to give up on her dreams, but every setback had only made her fight back ten times harder. “Nopony ever has a good first day, so don't worry about it. After a few years, the nickname won't sting as much.” She flashed Scootaloo a smirk. “Besides, it's not like Butterhooves is even going to make the top ten of most terrible things to be called.”
Scootaloo's flush deepened into a full-blown blush at Spitfire's mention of that dreaded name; she shook it off quickly, though, and stood proudly at attention as she accepted the congratulations of the other members of the team. She was determined not to let anything ruin this moment, especially not the memory of an overzealous janitor who had taken his orders a bit too literally when told to polish the runway to a shine. It had been so slippery that, when Scootaloo had come in for her first landing – feeling just a bit smug after what had been, in her opinion, a pretty good practice run – she'd gone skidding across the tarmac and had barrelled into dozens of ponies like an errant, pony-shaped pinball before being hurled back out into the wild blue yonder, finally coming to a rest in a thick bank of clouds.
Finding this unforgettably hilarious, the nickname Butterhooves had quickly been attached to Scootaloo by the rest of the team and when the Wonderbolts were concerned the names had the irritating tendency to stick for life.
Cruel nicknames, however, were something that Scootaloo had a good deal of experience in and she'd never let them get the best of her; she reflected on how it had been many years since the day the Cutie Mark Crusaders had finally succeeded in reforming Diamond Tiara and accepting her as a friend, earning their own cutie marks in the process, but until then Scootaloo had dealt with much carping and snide remarks from her about her inability to fly. Here, though, the names they applied to each other were never used in a mean-spirited fashion. The opposite, in fact: they created a sense of camaraderie amongst the team. They all had their horror stories, they all had their humiliations forever emblazoned as part of their uniforms.
“If she were here to see you now, Rainbow Dash would be almost as proud of you as I am,” Spitfire said, a look of sadness etched into her muzzle as the memory of receiving the awful news of her passing replayed itself in her mind's eye. Loyal to the end, brave to a fault, she'd deserved the chance to go out in a blaze of glory like a true Wonderbolt. “Celestia knows, she'd be in raptures over your hair alone. It was a nice tribute, by the way. I sure that she would've appreciated it.”
Wishing to hide the tears that were forming at the corners of her eyes from Spitfire, Scootaloo quickly turned her muzzle in the direction of the sky; she made an elaborate show of scanning the horizon, though there was nothing much of interest to see at the moment. Not a day went by when she didn't think of Rainbow Dash: adopted big sister, friend, mentor and almost a second-mother at times. At the funeral, Twilight Sparkle had tried to explain to her what happened when a pony died in order to provide her with some small comfort. While she couldn't pretend to fully grasp the mechanics of the process, she understood that a pony's latent magical reserve was released from their body upon death and was reclaimed by the thaumaturgic field which bound all of Equestria together in harmony. What she took from Twilight's words was that, in some esoteric manner, Rainbow Dash was still out there, watching over her just as she'd done while she'd been amongst the living.
I hope, wherever you are, that you've found peace.
I hope, wherever you are, that you're proud of me.
“Shall we go?” asked Spitfire quietly, unsure as to whether or not it was polite to break the reverie that had descended over them. “There are a few, ah, formalities that we need to take care of.”
At that moment, a polychromatic trail lit up the sky for the briefest of moments; For the rest of her life, Scootaloo would never be sure whether she'd imagined it or not, but it didn't matter. She had the answer that she'd been looking for and was content with it. She turned to face Spitfire, her expression one of indomitability, and smiled. “Yes, let's.”