Chapter 18: “And I didn’t even have to turn gay!”
Runway and I, still nursing our hangovers, both flinch as the office door bursts open to reveal what might be the angriest pegasus and unicorn in existence. Might be, if I hadn’t already seen Captain Spitfire and Princess Twilight Sparkle in their primal outraged glory at one point or another.
Although, come to think of it, using an alicorn for reference might be cheating. Still.
My mother, Foxfire, is a middle-aged pegasus whose bank account can easily be measured by the length of the stick up her ass. She sports a mane of light green with specks of white that belay her age, and a sickly-green coat. She’s one of those business executives that nopony really knows what her company does, and nopony wants to. Even less the details of how. I wouldn’t be surprised it the phrase ‘Back-Alley Dealings’ was merely a prophetic account of her birth.
My father, Picklebush, is every inch the trophy husband ponies think he is. Tall, strong, and an ex-receiver for the Baltimare Brawlers, he’s one of those ponies who wears middle age like a well-tailored suit. Which is good for him, running that silver fox routine, otherwise my mother would have dropped him for a newer model as soon as he stopped being useful as a parent. Which if you ask either me or my sister, was way before we moved out. A bright silver mane, with remnants of the twine-brown it used to be, sits carefully maintained over a copper coat.
“Where is my daughter?!” our dear, dear mother looks around the room like she’s priming a targeting system. Finding Runway, she storms over to her, and goes off. “What do you think you’re doing, getting drunk with… that-” she points a hoof at me, “-that disappointment at some Goddess-awful hour?! And in front of the Captain of the Wonderbolts! What special little brain cell in that cavernous head of yours did you have to kill to think any of this was a good idea?!”
Spitfire looks so incensed that I think I’ve never seen anypony so offended. Which, given Runway’s long, long history of Freudian antics, is an impressive bar to set. Yet, somehow, the next words out of Runway’s mouth cause my mother not only surpass this bar, but kick it in the shins and say horrible things about it’s sister.
“The same ones that said listening to you for any length of time was at all productive,” she spat.
I don’t think that many jaws hit the floor that quickly since Princess Celestia announced the return of her sister to the throne. I can’t even think of anything to follow it up.
My mother tries, and fails. “Wha-what did you say?!”
“I’d repeat it word for word, but if you didn’t get it the first time I seriously doubt a second iteration is going to do you any favors. So maybe using less, smaller words will help: GO. AWAY,” Runway growls.
I give my Captain a very confused look, wondering if she has any more insight into the brand new shiny pair of ovaries my dear twin sister seems to have grown overnight, but her expression is such a mix of confusion and amusement that I expect Cronenbit to burst down the door screaming copyright infringement. So, in a rare move, I look to my father, who up to this point had been standing around acting huffy, if quiet.
I swear to Celestia, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was a shadow of a smile.
“Where do you get off talking to your mother like that, you ungrateful little-” Foxfire starts, only to be cut off, which, if you knew my mother, was about as foreign a concept to her as doing her own shopping
“Oh, please go on,” Runway sneers, “Do tell me how ungrateful I am for all the work I DID to maintain my modeling career. Or how you spent so much money taking me to all the best schools in the country just to shove me down a career path that didn’t use a single second of my higher learning. I know you love gossip, mother, so here’s some juicy news for you: I QUIT. I’m not resigning that modeling contract, I’m not going anywhere with you or that empty-headed meatbag you tote around on a chain, and frankly, I couldn’t give two bits about how bothered you are by any of it.”
No seriously, am I being Punk’d? Where the hell did this mare come from, and where did she hide my twin? I glance around the room for answers, trying not to admire the brilliant new shades of red my mother’s face is inventing, and find nothing.
My father, in what I can only assume is a rare moment of clarity, steps forward, and rests a reassuring hoof on his wife’s shoulder. “Now, honey. She’s obviously just hungover. You know how angry our family gets when we’ve had a few. I’m sure if we come back this afternoon, she’ll be just fine.”
Now, to understand the sheer volume of surprise that comes next, you should probably understand one very important thing about my family: my sister and I have drastically different relationships with our parents. My mother views me as nothing but a disappointment. A spare tire she didn’t ask for, and can’t return. As far as she’s been concerned, ever since I came out of the closet, I was just a tumor on the family spine leading us to a slow and painful death.
My sister, on the other hoof, was Celestia’s gift to mothers everywhere. Easily manipulated, simply because she loved our parents way more than I seem to, and wanted to do everything she could to make them proud. I felt like that too, for awhile, until everything went to shit for me. Still, my life could have turned out worse.
Our father was a different story. Where I saw an indifferent parent who simply towed the company line and fell into step behind my mother, Runway saw a save haven from all the harshness and bile my mother could spit at a moment’s notice. She’s always been daddy’s little girl. Always.
So you can imagine the near palpitations I get when she looks him dead in the eye and tells him, “If you think my opinion of either of you two narcissistic plotholes is going to change in the next few hours, it better be the best fucking hours of our lives.”
“Wha-honey, dear, don’t say that. You know how much I love you, right? Of course it’ll be… ‘ours’? What do you mean, ‘ours’?” Dear old dad asks, queuing into the conversation a day late and a dollar short.
Runway trots up to me, and wraps a hoof around my shoulder. “Do you know what I’ve been doing the last two weeks? Hm?” When neither of our parents answer, either too mad to speak, or too flabbergasted, she continues, “Having fun. With my sister. You know, the one you kicked out? My twin? Coolest mare in the family?”
I blush slightly, but don’t interrupt her. Mainly because I want her to say more nice things about me while she’s on a roll. “Well, over the last two weeks, we’ve gone partying, shopping, went to the movies, hell, she even took me mini-golfing. I’ve had more fun, and been more of myself, in the last two weeks than I have since she left in the first place. I’ve been trying to find a good reason to leave the modeling industry for years. YEARS. And I finally found her!” she yells, shaking me slightly. Or, slightly for her. My eyes bounce around a little. “I HATE strutting around just to get stared at, in uncomfortable outfits I only wear once, for a crowd of ponies I don’t know. Hell, modeling isn’t even my special talent. I bet you can’t even remember what that is.”
She pauses, waiting for them to come up with an answer. At this point, the anger in my mother’s face has given way to exasperation, and my father seems to be awash with a strange mix of confusion and what I would dare say is pride. On a good day. Like, not today. My mother stutters her way through a few words, while my father offers, oh-so-helpfully, “Of course I do, dear! You’re meant to shine in the spotlight! That’s even your Cutie Mark!”
I facehoof harder than I’ve ever facehoofed. Even combining the sharp pain of my hoof against my forehead, the aching in my skull from the hangover that hasn’t quite subsided, and the emotional pain from just dealing with these two, I still can’t imagine the pain Runway must be feeling right now.
No kid should ever watch their parent forget their special talent.
“NO, DAD,” she barks, and I’m close enough to see her fight back tears. “My talent is shining the spotlight on other ponies! Helping them shine! Finding what makes them the best at what they do and pushing them on to do great things! I became a model so I could shine the light on all the designers trying to make their way in the world!”
I wrap a hoof around my sister as she tries not to cry. Missed birthdays is one thing. Forgetting what makes your child special, what they love most in the world? That’s just cruel.
Unfortunately, unhelpfully, and completely in character for her, my mother recovers quick enough to say, “And what does that have to do with anything? What good is your talent if you’re unemployed?!”
“Ex-CUSE me,” Captain Spitfire intervenes, “But she’s not.” Leaping over her desk, and landing in the middle of the conversation, she continues, “She’s here because I’m offering her a job. Although I can see how that might be foreign to you, given that it involves actual work.”
“Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?!” Foxfire spits, having a new, seemingly easier target to unload on. Big mistake. “I could easily buy out this little stunt team of yours and-”
“And BULLSHIT,” I jump in. Watching my sister fight for us is one thing. But As much as I like my boss, she’s not family. Family fights for family. “You couldn’t lay a single penny on this team, or the land they walk on. They’re a branch of the guard. Captain Spitfire here only has one superior between her and Princess Celestia. And I’m just sure he’d be more than happy to hear all about this busybody corporation who thinks they can undermine the Department of Aerial Defense with a quick bit. In fact, he might like to know where all those quick bits come from.”
Just like that, my mother seems to think she has another easy target. Me. Easiest target she’s ever had. The queer Wonderbolt dropout who has to work two jobs just to stay in her own home. The whiny little mare that got booted to the curb as soon as it was legal with nothing more or less than a backhoofed smile and a few torn up Daring Do posters. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, young lady! You will show your mother some respect!”
She uses the same tone of voice I remember from being six years old. Trying to keep up with my perfect little sister. All the yelling and disappointment and not being good enough. It should all come flying back, and it almost does, if not for the slight squeeze from my sister. So I get right in my mother’s face, and say with more satisfaction than all the defiance and awesome-hot ladysex I’ve ever had: “If I see her, I will.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother so affronted. For once in her entire life, she has nothing to say. She takes one look at me, one look at my defiant twin sister, who I’ve never been more proud of, and turns to walk away. She stops at the door, and barks behind her: “Bush! We’re leaving!”
As if the surprises today won’t stop, my father turns to her, and regards her like a curiosity, instead of the bossy tyrant she’s always been. “No, I don’t think so. I want to hear all about my baby girl’s new job.”
He turns to look at me. “Both of them,” he adds, and for the first time since I left, I see him wear a smile. A true, proud smile.
Foxfire stands there with her mouth agape, as everypony in her family she’s ever had control over give each other a hug, completely ignoring her. I don’t even see her walk away through all the hair and wings in my eyes.
After a few heartfelt moments, Runway raises her head. She’s got that ‘hamster-on-the-wheel’ expression again, the one that comes with its own soundtrack of grinding gears. Then she turns to Spitfire. “Um… what job?”
Captain gives her a sideways smile. “Well, to be honest, I’m gonna have to kick somepony out to make room, but that’s ok,” she says, rubbing a hoof against her chest and staring at it interestedly. “Our current PR official sucks wad, anyway.”
My dad gives Runway a big proud hug, like she’s his ten year old princess all over again. “That’s my girl!” I stand back and let them have their moment, until they both drag me into another hug. “Both my girls! I can’t believe my little stars work for the Wonderbolts!”
“Yeah!” Runway cheers. “And I didn’t even have to turn gay!”
“RUNWAY.”