Spitfire gazed out at the temperate midday sky, a moderate breeze blowing through the air as the sun refracted off of the suited wings of her newest recruits, who were currently flying loops of the obstacle course. Through her dark, translucent shades, she knew it was nigh impossible for any of her airborne recruits to tell where she was looking, much less what she was thinking. Spitfire was immensely grateful for that.
She held a clipboard in an unfolded wing, a pen in her muzzle. Before her was a performance sheet with each new recruit’s name, along with a load of boxes complete with corresponding star ratings, which would allow the captain to grade her new recruits on the many diverse elements that made up the art of stunt flying.
Spitfire had originally implemented the shades as a part of her training attire in an attempt to evoke fear from the new recruits, the idea being that she could be watching any of them at any time and they wouldn’t be able to tell unless they stopped and stared, which no one wanted to do. Because of that, ponies were less likely to slack off.
It was only over the last few months that Spitfire had realised the glasses carried a second use: Because of the first fact, no one thought to look at what she was doing while she was wearing them, meaning she could quite easily get away with what she was currently doing, should she manage to hide the guilty little grin on her muzzle.
She gazed and she gazed, but her attention wasn’t with the spritely mare zipping between three of the smallest hoops in fluid motions, nor the lithe thing that seemed to have a talent for tight loops, or even the large struggling stallion that appeared to be having trouble keeping up with his lead. In fact, her thoughts were somewhere else entirely, dancing between words, words she occasionally jotted down on a second page beneath the evaluation sheet, a page which had no business being on her clipboard.
Withholding a smirk of satisfaction, Spitfire admired her current hoofwork, reading over the little scrawls that populated the furtive sheet. It was a work in progress, but not bad for half an hour’s writing, especially considering how preoccupied she was, or at least, was meant to be. Through the haphazard lines and scribbles, the page read:
Give me a minute to explain my situation, bare weight on the scales no wonder the room's rotating, five bits for the bag don't give a fuck about inflation, it'll be zero to a hundred in a quick sec when I bill up the ting and blaze it.
Sit back, procrastinate: Keep waiting for salvation, thoughts branching off so fast it's like my mind's mutating, every venture meets success it's no wonder my ego's inflating, sacrilegious bars dipped in radiation, no tribulation when I’m hitting you with damnation.
If you hit me with a strike like a nailed in pin I'm still standing, your favourite rapper's scared to leave her house so I suppose I'll stand in, simple offer quit while you're ahead you might still be standing, every time I perform I'm met with applause it’s no wonder the ovation's standing.
They said to me state your name so I flipped it back on them like ‘who's asking?’, everyone wants to know when the album’s out voices left and right keep asking, you wanna know how I do what I do you're desperate I hear you asking, succubi in disguise I hide behind rhymes tempter or temptress just shed her last skin.
The beat she had in her mind was a strange and skippy thing. She imagined each of the first three lines being recited at a usual hip hop speed, and then the fourths being sprayed at almost double that. She wasn’t too sure about the last two stanzas though, the bars were messy and she imagined she’d have to take pauses to make the rhythm work on the level she desired.
Scowling at her sudden self-criticism, she began to parse each sentence, examining the syntax and counting the syllables, considering scrapping the entire page for a short time. That thought relented, but she couldn’t help noticing issues with some of the diction. She appreciated the inclusion of similes and metaphors, along with other elements of wordplay, but still had needling concerns, such as whether the pluralised ‘succubus’ made any sense.
She reread the sentence, then read the preceding lines, scowling all the while. If I change it, it’ll completely screw with my assonance, but if I don’t then it doesn’t make any sense. So lost was Spitfire in her train of thought that she barely noticed one of her recruits –the loop flier, she recognised– descending before her, lightly panting. The heaving of her chest suggested that she was hiding her true exhaustion.
Looking up from her sheet with a quizzical expression, she waited for the recruit to speak.
She saluted, and Spitfire returned the gesture. “Captain.”
Spitfire slipped the pen onto the side of the clipboard with her mouth, angling it away from the recruit. “Yes,” she briefly glanced at the first sheet, “Skipper?”
Skipper took a shallow breath before continuing. “Me and a couple of the other recruits were wondering when we’d be rotating on these drills, ma’am.”
The question caught Spitfire off guard. “Rotating?” she echoed, head askance.
Skipper locked eyes with Spitfire’s tinted visage, or at least tried to. “Yes, ma’am, you told us earlier that we would be performing timed trials to build versatility, but, uhh…” she trailed off, her nerve dissipating, her eyes shifting as she tried to work out whether Spitfire was looking at her or past her..
“B-but… ah, well…” Spitfire imitated, irritation from her secret project bleeding into her disdain for a lack of assertion, “Spit it out!” she barked, “I’ve not got time to stand around guessing.”
The recruit instantly stood straighter than before, wings tucked. “You told us the drills would be fifteen minutes apiece, but it’s been over half an hour since we started. Were you going to allow us to swap soon?”
Spitfire’s eyes widened in surprise, now it was her turn to stutter. “W-well, the reason for that is…”
Skipper leaned in intently.
Shit. Come on, Spits, just bull your way out of it. “It was a test!” she exclaimed suddenly, then slowly started nodding, affirming the excuse in her mind. “Yes, a test to see if you’d take the initiative to do it yourself, and clearly you’ve not managed.” Spitfire adopted a scolding tone, an unsurprisingly easy feat. “If one of you had approached me about this sooner, I’d have been impressed, but the fact it took the six of you almost…” she checked her pocket watch, “forty minutes to say something is pretty damn poor.”
The mare glanced at the floor, dismayed by her response. Despite Spitfire’s constant hard demeanour in front of trainees, this wasn’t anyone’s fault but her own, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as the recruit brushed her hoof against the grass, pensively looking up at her. “Am I going to be reprimanded?” she whispered, eyes wide.
Spitfire threw a hoof to her forehead. It was instinct; she felt idiotic. Seriously, all of this because you’re not willing to come forward and admit your mistakes? Some teacher you are. She sighed, briefly looking away as she spoke her next words. “You’ll get off with a verbal warning this time, but in future, I expect you to be more observant of the situation and rely on your intuition. Both of those skills are really going to be important to you and the rest of the team in the future, you won’t be able to blindly rely on me or another CO for directions and instructions all the time.”
Spitfire couldn’t decide if the mare before her looked worried or relieved. When she spoke, it was with determination, but the spark that had punctuated her earlier aerial movements seemed to have wilted somewhat. “I won’t let you down again, ma’am.” she stated, eyebrows straight and face serious.
“Good, see that you don’t.” Spitfire nodded, swimming in her falsified righteousness as she eyed the pony before her. The recruit turned to leave with some gusto, and in doing so produced a small current of air in the vicinity, knocking Spitfire’s clipboard away from where it had been perched atop her primaries.
Cursing, the rookie sped towards the clipboard, picking it up in mid-air.
Spitfire’s throat tightened; her eyes shrank in worry.
“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to do that, let me just—“ suddenly, she paused, seemingly intent on examining the strange writing on the second page, the first resigned to billowing in the wind.
As soon as her eyes moved towards the second page of the clipboard, Spitfire had taken flight. With a burst of frantic energy, she violently snatched the object from the trainee and swivelled around to face her, face flushed and heart pumping. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Snooper?”
“Uh, it’s Skipper, ma’am—“
“Coulda fooled me!” Spitfire wheezed, aware that her wings were fluttering erratically as she held her reclaimed possession in her forehooves. “You do not touch a commanding officer’s possessions without explicit permission, especially a document containing sensitive information such as this one! Did I at any point ask you to fetch my clipboard, let alone look at it?” her eyes bore into Skipper, her hooves clutched the clipboard tight.
“Well, no, ma’am, I just wanted to help though, I—“
“Well you weren’t helping!” Spitfire’s voice cracked, and she soon realised just how high her pitch was. Taking a deep breath, she adjusted her voice. “You saw nothing, do you understand?”
The mare hesitated where she hovered.
“Well?” Spitfire pressed, “Do you?”
Her eyes wide, Skipper nodded. “No, captain, I swear I wasn’t looking at our performance appraisals, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Spitfire stopped in her tracks, her head cocked. “…Performance appraisals?”
“Yes, ma’am, performance appraisals. That is what those sheets are for, isn’t it?” she continued, clearly confused.
Spitfire exhaled a sigh of relief, hovering limply for a second with her hooves dangling. She hadn’t seen anything, it was fine. Straightening herself, she looked at the recruit one last time, her eyes a mite softer. “Go and tell the others to move around the course clockwise, each group is to do what the pony before them did, and hope to at least match their time.”
Spitfire turned to leave, but hesitated. “You’re not in any trouble. I’m sure you were only trying to help. You’ve been doing some good work out there, now stop slacking off and get back to it.” She risked a small smile, which was returned in earnest. A quick salute, and Skipper was gone.
Spitfire floated back down to earth, small wingbeats keeping her steady. When she landed, she eyed the sheet in front of her once more and felt a frown forming on her face.
The shower’s hiss ceased as Spitfire turned the nozzle, the rain speckled window of the shower a sea of scattered thoughts. She sighed as she ran a towel through her coat, then under her wings, absorbing the moisture that clung to her. Her clipboard sat in hoof’s reach the entire time, despite the shower being an extension of her private quarters.
Following the cessation of practice, she had promptly torn out the extra page and screwed it up, but soon after, she found herself stuffing the crumpled ball into her flight jacket. Despite her anger at earlier events, she wasn’t about to let her moment of creation go to waste. That thought elicited a second, deeper sigh. Every lyric she had ever written had done just that, gone to waste.
Spitfire had started writing in her youth, back when she had aspirations of being a musician, of painting her name across the biggest cities in the brightest lights, of having ponies flock to see her and being awed by her talent, wanting for more. She had achieved that goal, but not in the way she had wished to.
She didn’t consider herself ungrateful, she reminded herself once more as she scrubbed behind her ears with the towel. Her flying ability was a gift, and she loved to use it, but she couldn’t help but feel a distinct emptiness with her role in life. To her, artistic performance was a wonderful thing because it had not only the ability to amaze and astound, but to challenge perceptions and change lives. There was a difference between that and what she was currently doing, what she had been doing for years.
Spitfire was an athlete. She had the distinct tone on her wings and withers, the nimble figure, and the rank and commendations to prove it. She was an entertainer too, but that entertainment was surely fleeting. Rainbow Dash had been a strong reminder of that.
When the Wonderbolts performed, what impression did they leave besides a desire amongst young pegasi to be like them? In fact, how often did you even see a pegasus working in a non-flight related job? Spitfire once again wondered if her role was to do anything but perpetuate the cycle of ponies growing up believing that they can only achieve the things they were born to do, solely because of the appendages they were born with.
What made it even worse was that the Wonderbolts were such a selective and elite team. Of every filly that was lucky enough to join their ranks, there must have been another thousand or more that would kill for their place. Was Spitfire proud of her fliers? For their talent, maybe, but she failed to find a purpose for their existence besides flaunting said talent, making a few ponies gasp and exclaim for an hour or two, and at extortionate prices to boot.
She had once referred to her team as a glorified circus act. A few ciders had played their part in the forming of this statement, but Spitfire occasionally found herself returning to it, realising the truth of the words. Despite every flight routine, every practice drill and every show, Spitfire found herself enjoying the training side of her job more and more, and even that was beginning to lose its lustre.
Training felt a lot more personal, more real. When she instructed new recruits, she was shaping them, moulding them into exactly what they needed to be, having a tangible and lasting impact on their lives. Even then, the satisfaction of doing so eventually waned, as even with her ministrations, her meticulous work to ensure that each trainee was crafted into an elite flier, what purpose did they serve?
Equestria fought no wars. The time for an aerial guard had long passed, and most national threats were vanquished by the elements or the princesses—threats Spitfire and even her strongest fliers would be near powerless against. In a defence capacity, the Wonderbolts were obsolete, and now only served as a showgoer’s reprieve, a young pegasus’s needless aspiration, a shot at hollow fame. All of the members only three generations before her had already been forgotten.
Spitfire knew that music was different in a great many ways. Music was a chance for personal expression; music could influence others, it could change things. It wasn’t just a needless demonstration of talent, it was a chance for one to convey a mood, to impart their views unto the world, to push on a trend until it became the norm. The exhilaration that came with a powerful song was everlasting. Once it was saved and distributed, it would always exist somewhere, and the really good ones never fell out of circulation completely no matter how much time passed.
Spitfire had toyed with instruments as a filly, she even learnt to play a couple proficiently, but it was when she discovered rap music that she sensed a profound change in her opinions and sensibilities. She quickly lost interest in pursuing other types of music, the allure of the spoken word, mixed with a mesmerising beat, coalescing to produce such powerful and thought stimulating messages was mind boggling. This was poetry for the masses, something that any generation could get behind, a tool with which language could be utilised to create meaning, denounce fakery, fight opinions and express individuality.
Spitfire scrubbed down to her hooves and back up, reminiscing over her younger days when she had written songs on everything that her mind could conjure. At first she had mixed results, but over time her expressive voice truly developed. She punched out her feelings on royalty, her thoughts on class disparity, even her resentment of her parents’ choice to push her through flight school when she would rather be pursuing her dream. Everything she had an opinion on got a verse, a song, a line, or even a passing mention. Even when she first joined the Wonderbolts, she had dreams of eventually superseding her place there and going on to bigger things, to really changing lives and showing Equestria exactly who she was.
Spitfire frowned as she floated up, intent on reaching the difficult areas under her wings. She thought of her advancement through the ranks of the Wonderbolts, and the concurrent halt in her writing activity. Ruthless pragmatism kept her steady, she tried to be content in ignoring her desires and seeing the benefits of the cushy job she had landed.
It all felt too superficial. The money, the fame, the status, she hadn’t attained it through hard work or determination, but a skillset that was rigorously drilled into her. Spitfire had always had a natural ability for flying, one that shone when she was given the correct tutelage, but her musical skill was all self-taught, and the process had been difficult and laborious. When she was finally able to say that she possessed some lyrical skill, maybe even enough to make a bit of a name for herself, to get away from the regime and do something truly thrilling, she no longer had the time, nor the drive to do so. As such, she resigned herself to the Wonderbolts, swiftly becoming captain and putting all notions of a musical career out of her head. She knew that if she was to head down that path, there was no guarantee she would be met with success or even enjoyment, and she couldn’t stake her job nor her reputation on something so uncertain.
Spitfire’s face twisted in confusion as she mulled it over. I really don’t get why I’ve started writing again. Am I just trying to cling on to some weird sense of nostalgia, or is there something really there? She had been wrestling with the thought for months. The idea was so asinine, so childish, and yet she almost bounced with excitement at the thought of getting on stage, of hearing the cheers and the screams for encore, not just for some Celestia given gift, some innate sense of purpose, but for something that she truly believed she wanted, that she had worked and worked to achieve.
It was beginning to interfere with her work life, she knew. Any time she had but a hint of inspiration, she rushed off to find a pen or something to write on, became fully absorbed with the task of fleshing out her new creation, and forgot about even the simplest of things until she was done.
After a long period of consideration, wherein she weighed a plethora of possibilities and outcomes, Spitfire finally reached a conclusion. She had to get a second opinion on this. If she carried on as she was, her performance would begin to slip, but she couldn’t bear the thought of cutting out her artistic side completely either, now that she had rediscovered it. In her eyes it would be synonymous with being voluntarily lobotomised.
Spitfire threw the damp towel to the side, walking out into her bedroom, mostly dry. Who to ask was a simple question: She had only one musically inclined friend, and she was just the pony that would be able to understand what she was going through. They may not speak as much as they used to, but they essentially grew up together.
Slowly, a smile spread across Spitfire’s face. It had been a long time since she had thought of her, a mare who had done the exact opposite to Spitfire, despite being faced with similar pressure to conform and behave as expected. She knew that her old friend had had to make sacrifices to go after her goals, and briefly wondered if they had brought as many rewards as she assumed. Nonetheless, she would never find out by sitting around wondering.
She approached her desk, opening the top drawer and taking out a fresh piece of lined paper, then a pen. After deliberating over what to say for a minute or so, she began writing.
Dear Vinyl,
Hope you’re well! Crappy way to start a letter, huh? Seriously though, I hope you’re doing well.
I’m not gonna mince words here, this isn’t really just a social thing… Remember when I was all crazy about the idea of becoming an artist and making my own music? I mean, of course you do, that was most of my life, but still. Ugh, I’m really bad at this.
Basically, even though I’ve been working with the ‘Bolts for ages now, that urge hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s resurfaced worse than ever, and I just can’t work out why. Like, surely it was meant to be a phase? Apparently it isn’t, something about me really wants to do this.
Sorry if that sounded offensive, I don’t mean it like that. Obviously, making music isn’t just a phase, but I kinda thought it was for me, if that makes sense? Sorry, getting side-tracked here.
I really wanna try it out. I was thinking, I must have written like two hundred songs in my life now, and I’ve never even been in a studio, let alone on a stage. Closest I ever got to performing was jamming in your bedroom with you… Have I been missing out? I’m starting to wonder if my life could have been more fulfilling all along if I had just listened to my heart.
I need to talk to you about all of this soon, it’s been killing me. I know we haven’t seen each other in like six months, and it’s a bit shitty that the first thing I do when I contact you is spring this on you, but it’s really really eating at me, I feel like I’m gonna go nuts if I don’t do something about it.
I just need to know what it feels like. I’ve spent so long wanting to do it, so many daydreams and wasted opportunities, I just need a shot at it. I’m worried about work, I’m shit scared about the others finding out, but if I could just try it, just for a moment, I think I’d at least have an idea of what I want to do.
I’m gonna be thirty in a couple of years, Vinyl. It’s alright for you, you’ve got your career set up and it’ll last for a long time, but with a change like this, if I don’t make it soon I’ll be too old to try, I need to come to a decision, and I need your help to do it.
If you’ve got any free time in the next couple of weeks, please let me know, and I’ll come see you? Again, I’m really sorry to spring this on you, I wouldn’t have if I thought there was another way around it, or someone else I could go to, but I really don’t think anypony else could help like you.
I would ask you how life is, and throw in a load of small talk for good measure, but I figure you’ll tell me everything when we meet up, if you’re free, that is. Of course, if there is anything you need to tell me ahead of time, feel free to send it in your reply.
I love you, Vinyl. You’re the best friend a mare could ask for, I already know you’re gonna snap me out of this crap and wake me up, and I’m already so grateful for it.
Looking forward to seeing you,
Spits.
Spitfire’s eyes surveyed the letter once, twice, thrice more. Eventually, she decided that the rambling scribbles were about as true to her thoughts as she could get, and Vinyl would appreciate that more than a wooden letter full of niceties. She folded the paper and put it in an envelope, and then, hesitating, took a couple of sheets of lyric filled paper out of the drawers and enclosed them. Smiling, she went back to the letter.
P.S. Remember when I said I’d finish this one? Try not to laugh too hard.
Satisfied, she sealed the letter and wrote out an address on the envelope, placing it on her desk. She had half a mind to drop it off herself, but figured it might come across as obsessive.
There were two reasons she was taking the formality: One, Vinyl appeared to be becoming more and more busy and famous with each passing month, and she didn’t want to intrude during what might be an important time, and two, it was easier than approaching her outright with such a request.
Luckily, her letter wouldn’t get lost with the fan mail, because instead of a PO Box, Spitfire was sending the letter to Vinyl’s real address, unknown to most.
Spitfire didn’t know if she was more excited for Vinyl’s response or nervous about the course of action she was about to take. Putting the thought out of her mind as best she could, she attempted to pen another lyric, but found herself struggling to rhyme anything with real correlation. This wasn’t a new problem, she couldn’t be productive all the time. Screwing up the failed attempt in her hooves and throwing it, Spitfire left her room, her mane unstyled and bouncy, envelope in her mouth.
She didn’t make it more than five yards before her progress was impeded by Rainbow Dash, stood with a large grin on her muzzle. Spitfire suppressed a groan.
Spitfire was a big fan of Rainbow, she considered her to be an amazing flier and a good friend, and when she was on duty she was an extremely capable Wonderbolt. However, every now and then she could be extremely overbearing, usually evidenced by a look such as the one Spitfire was currently receiving. It would be a hefty task to get her to stop talking.
“Heya, Spits!” she started, as she always did.
“What’s up, Rainbow?” Spitfire smiled, slotting the envelope into her folded wing, where it protruded obviously. It was cordial, it was friendly, but she had made the same mistake as always, responding with an open question.
“Ehh, not much,” Rainbow dangled in the air, her wings keeping her aloft, “How about you?”
Hm, maybe she’s not in that mood after all. Spitfire withheld her sigh of relief, she wanted to be sure first. “Not much myself, just finishing up for the day and getting ready to head home.” With that, she made to take a couple of steps forwards and quickly found Rainbow tailing her, belly to the air as she glided along.
“Oh, really?” Her eyes narrowed, as if she thought she knew something. “Cause I just finished talking to Bulk Biceps, and he said that you looked really distracted at training today!” Rainbow started nudging her with the elbow of her forehoof. “Something on your mind? Huh, huh?”
“Nothing on my mind, Rainbow, just a little distracted earlier.”
“Huh. Never thought the illustrious Captain of the Wonderbolts would get distracted,” she mused jokingly, “Guess I was wrong! What was so important, anyway? Something to do with that letter you’re carrying?”
Spitfire’s eyes travelled to Rainbow. “N-no, nothing whatsoever. What’s it got to do with you, anyways?”
“Huh?” Rainbow laughed, “We’re friends, Spits. If you’ve got a problem, Rainbow Helping-Hoof Dash is here to solve it!”
Spitfire could feel her eyes struggling not to roll. “Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I need to tell you every little thing that crosses my mind.”
“Nah, of course not, we’d be here all day otherwise!” Rainbow chortled, seemingly innocent. “However,” she smirked, “If you needed someone to deliver that letter, I’d be happy to help.” She idly examined the back of her hoof as she flew. “I noticed that it’s addressed to Ponyville.”
Spitfire almost jumped at that. She quickly ruffled her wing, making the envelope fall deeper inside. “H-how did you see that?”
“Basic pegasus eyesight!” Rainbow winked. “You should know,” she continued sagaciously, “you were there for my sensory cognisance test, after all.” She paused for a moment in the air, apparently in thought. “Ya know, that’s definitely one of the weirder records I hold around here.”
How about a record for the snout deepest in other ponies’ business? Spitfire internally grumbled. “Well, I don’t need you to deliver it,” she said, a little flippantly. “In fact, forget you saw it at all?”
“Huh?” Rainbow seemed to mull this over for a few seconds. Gradually, a massive smile started to take over her face. Spitfire recognised that smile.
“No, Rainbow,” she said rather forcibly, “It’s not that, so wipe that stupid grin off your face.”
This only seemed to egg her on. “Hey, the harder you deny it, the more I’m gonna think you’re hiding something.” Another wink. “Anyways, I’m gonna go hit the hay, long day tomorrow. If I bump into your secret lover I’ll say hi.”
Spitfire smirked hard. “Well, you go do that, Rainbow. While you’re at it, I’ll just go and have a little chat with Princess Twilight, how’s that sound?”
Rainbow gasped, her tone quickly melting into shock. “You wouldn’t.”
Spitfire’s smile reached her eyes. “Hey, so long as you don’t start poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, you won’t have to worry about what I would or wouldn’t do.”
Rainbow gulped, flipping around so her belly faced the floor as she began to move ahead. “Point taken.”
“Fly safe, Rainbow Dash.”
“And you, Spits!”
Spitfire was caught between a grin and a grimace. As much as she hated to admit it, her back and fourths with Rainbow were never as bad as she made them out to be in her head, in fact she enjoyed them plenty most of the time. What had her on edge was how easily Rainbow had spotted the letter. If someone had picked up on just where that address was, questions would have been raised, and while it was a big jump to make a connection between Vinyl’s house and Spitfire’s intention to do, well, something, it was still possible, and Spitfire was sure that result wouldn’t have been good for her in the slightest.
When she left Wonderbolts HQ, she flew towards Canterlot for about five minutes as she usually would before circling around, riding an updraft to high altitude and travelling to Ponyville amongst the clouds. She would deposit the letter in the closest mailbox to the edge of town and leave, less chance of it getting lost that way, she supposed.
As she flew –the sight of a Ponyville evening marred by the density of the clouds– she imagined storming up to Vinyl’s house, bucking down the front door, dragging her into her home studio and making a hit for the ages. The idea brought her a warm comfort and a few laughs as she imagined Vinyl’s flailing, mixed with childish excitement, and she silently hoped that Vinyl would be receptive to her desire to finally create some music, and potentially have a few ideas of how she might go about it.
Spitfire was nervous; Spitfire was conflicted.
None of that stopped her from dropping the letter in a mailbox on the outskirts of Ponyville, nor the buzzing sense of satisfaction she felt from having done so.
She quickly took wing, looping through the clouds, smile-clad as she raced herself back home. It might be tomorrow, it might be the next day, it might be a week from now, but one of these days wasn’t only going to be a new day for her, another day of brushing her teeth, bossing her recruits around, and hiding her goals like they were something to be ashamed of. It was going to be a new life, a new goal, and a new challenge. At least, that’s what she hoped.
As Spitfire twisted through the soft clouds, she started to sing, slowly and with all the soul she could muster:
I told him I ain’t looking for a problem, so why’ve you gotta hurt me like that? Looking back now I coulda stopped him, coulda found all the things that you lacked.
I still don’t know why I didn’t drop him, didn’t worry ‘bout feelings or tact, it won’t change now because I’m locked in, gave him a chance and he pulled me right baaack.
I told him no more of the heartache, look to the sky if you’re after the blues, he asked me ‘how much more can your heart take?’ I said ‘well, that depends what you do’.
He went to take his leave at a fast pace, I told him ‘I’ve had enough and we’re through’, I think we broke up about half-eight, but we were back together by two-oo…
I told him I ain’t looking for an issue, so why’s it always hurt when I’m with you? I told him I ain’t looking for no heartache, so why d’ya always wanna make my heart break? I told him I ain’t looking for a break up, now there’s black lines running down my makeup, I told him I ain’t looking for a problem, but even though you left me I’ve still got them.