There's something we tell our fliers every week: treat each show like it's your last, because one day, it will be. We want them to take that warning seriously, and I practiced what I preached. I gave it my all every time. Every. Single. Time. And I've never been more grateful than I am now, looking back at the Saturday show in Horsemouth.
I was stunning, Syn. From my entrance through a trapdoor in the upper levels of the stadium, to the ring of fireworks we flew through at the start of the second act, and even as the lights went out, I delivered.
The best part was a precision gauntlet right before the grand finale. It's a modified training exercise: a souped-up cloud generator is brought out, and five of us line up on the opposite side of the stadium. The machine has a bunch of different filters that it rapidly cycles through: walls, hurdles, targets with just a small hole in the middle, that kind of thing. It's all run and choreographed by a stallion named Stratus, from the 35th Division, and that dude's an absolute artist. Rather than speed, it tests our ability to fly tightly and accurately and adjust at a moment's notice. Stratus keeps the order a secret – we don't know which obstacles will come at us until they fly out of the machine, and that's why the captain is in front. I'm given the least amount of time to look at what's coming. It's tough, and if you've ever seen a 'Bolt really screw up a stunt during a show, it was probably during that section.
But that night, I stole everypony's breath away. On the first Over-Under, I timed two powerful wing flaps to vault over the low hurdle, then tucked my wings in and plummeted, narrowly dodging the high hurdle. Next, the machine spat out a series of rings, all off-center in different directions and angles, and each flap of my wings brought me just far enough to arch my back, tuck in my legs, and make it through. My heart raced, and I had to control every movement of every muscle in my body. It took that much focus to survive the gauntlet.
And all that work wasn't lost on the audience. Next time you're at the show, take a second to watch the crowd during the gauntlet. As the stunts get more and more intense, they lean further forward, mouths hanging open and holding their breath as they wait for one of us to screw up.
The Tube was next: a cloud tunnel that zig-zags and gets narrower towards the end. The crowd let out a rising "Oooooh!" as we worked our way through the dark tube, and I had to barrel-roll from a dead hover to keep from plowing into a 60-degree turn. Of course, as I emerged from the other side, I heard the crowd go, "Aw!" It had been Silver Lining and Wave Chill – they'd popped out at the turn I'd nearly missed. I smirked and mentally projected, 'Keep it together, 'Bolts. We're gonna knock 'em off their asses.'
The obstacles kept coming, relentless, and I could feel the crowds scoot forward and stand up as the clouds flew at us faster and faster. More rings, a corkscrew-spiral, a downward-angled tube… and besides Fleetfoot clipping one of the targets with an off-beat flap (which the audience didn't even seem to notice) and Blaze stumbling on a rapid hurdle, we were flawless. And I was the king of precision. Nothing could touch me, and I felt like I was in complete control of my body. It was the last time I'd ever feel that way.
Right before the last sequence, the clouds grew darker, and the announcer gasped into the microphone. "What's this? Why, those look like… STORM CLOUDS!?"
The audience half-gasped and half-cheered as little flashes of lightning burst from some of the clouds, growing more and more intense as the clouds grew closer together. The announcer doubled down. "What's going on? Is the machine on the fritz? This is getting dangerous!" I smirked as I rolled back and forth through a series of weave poles. The machine was doing exactly what it was supposed to, but the fear in the announcer's voice was very, very well-founded. By that point, they were real class 4 storm clouds, which are illegal to fly near in everyday life. We couldn't predict where each little lightning bolt would strike, but as long as we didn't miss an obstacle, we'd be fine. And if we hit a cloud…
Well, you can guess.
I squared my jaw and hovered backwards during a tiny break in the action, and my team did the same. With less than a wing's length between each of us, we readied ourselves and resynchronized our wingbeats.
Red lights on the machine flashed to life, and an ominous siren went off over the loudspeakers. The announcer was in full-on panic mode. "What are the Wonderbolts doing? The machine is in chaos! They're not going to fly through the storm clouds, are they?" The audience roared! "I hope they're ready, because here come the clouds!"
The technicians gave the signal, and reality slowed. 'This is it.'
The obstacles came at us hard, and I only saw the first two before I had to react: another Over-Under, dark and crackling, and the first two of an unknown number of rings.
I shouted, "Go!" We sped forward, and like taut strings finally being released, all five of us snapped forward in perfect synchronization. We banked upward in perfect sequence, then flipped and dove downward, barely tucking under the second wall. We sped through the rings, and my mane stood on end as lightning crackled from it.
There was a short break, and we regrouped until the announcer shouted, "It's overcharged! The machine's been overcharged!" It was a cloud ring: thicker than any of the others, with what was barely a pony-sized hole in the middle. It was a menacing black, and it churned with unstable power. We didn't have long. "It's going to blow any second!" In a flash, we launched forward, racing towards our target. The crowds screamed in excitement and heart-bursting fear, and as we approached, the announcer shouted, "They might just do it! They–"
And that was my cue. No captain leaves their team members to face the danger alone, so in the middle of the sprint, I rotated my wings back and caught the air.
"What is Soarin' doing!?"
The audience gasped and screamed and cheered as I looped upwards, my belly towards the sky. My nerves were shot from all the precision flying, and my lungs felt like they'd collapse. 'I've got this. I've got this!' In the blink of an eye, I was behind Wave Chill, at the back of the perfectly straight line.
The cloud thundered. Blaze powered through.
It swelled, and the hole in the middle shrank. Silver Lining passed through it.
"Fillies and Gentlecolts, look away! Soarin's not going to make it!"
A small crackle. More thunder. Fleetfoot dashed through.
A gasp from the crowd. Wave Chill ducked through the hole. The shrinking, unstable hole.
My eyes widened. 'It's too small.'
The realization dawned on me. I had my limits. I'd pushed my body as far as it could go, but it wasn't enough. I needed more. Even with the safety technicians, there was no telling what was about to happen. I was mortal. I was fragile.
I was a professional stunt flier, and there was only one way my career could ever possibly end.
I sucked in my breath.
One last beat of my wings.
One last push.
A deafening silence.
A flash of light.
…
And I unfurled my wings and smirked, just as the cloud behind me blew itself to oblivion.
"HE MADE IT!!!"
The crowd went wild, stomping and shouting and wailing and cheering, louder and louder, so loud that I couldn't hear anything else. And I swear to Luna, I didn't need to flap my wings. I was able to coast on the sheer power of their voices alone.
My team settled into a V-formation around me, and we took a victory lap. They could feel the buzz, too, and together, we felt perfect. Wave Chill offered me a hoof bump, and even though I knew I'd get an earful from Spitfire for it, I gave it to him. It was a nice distraction from the smell of singed hair coming from my tail.
The roar of that crowd still echoes in my mind. See, every city has its own sound. Horsemouth has a low, masculine rumble, and it booms more than almost any other stadium. As we cruised around the edge of the stadium, their cheers coalesced into a rhythmic chant. "Soar-IN'! Soar-IN'! Soar-IN'!" My heart swelled, and as I smiled, I blinked away a small tear.
We took our places for the finale, and as spectacular as it was, I'd already gotten what I'd needed: a moment in the spotlight, a time to remember and treasure that was all my own. The rest of the team rode the energy we'd built up during the obstacle gauntlet, and the audience never came down from their high as we did our final set of spirals, tight formations, and sudden disappearance in a flash of fireworks. They cheered for us, all the way through the second curtain call, and well beyond our final exit from the stage.
And freaking everypony wanted a picture with me at the VIP event afterwards. I was backstage in the photo area for almost an hour just posing and signing headshots and backstage passes. Twenty-nine out of thirty of the VIP ticket-holders showed up, and, well… Part of me held out hope that Braeburn would show up, too. That he'd have grabbed the pile of backstage passes I'd bought him and come on a whim, but honestly? I was more proud of him for not caving in. He was doing what was right for him, so I wanted to do him justice and live in the moment, in my own life. And I did. A blur of ponies gushed on and on about how much they loved it and how inspiring we were, and for the rest of the night, my body and my heart and my mind felt full.
My skin was still tingling as I toweled off in the locker room after my shower. I was still sucking in huge breaths, like I was so full of life that I needed an extra set of lungs. Smiling broadly, I slammed my locker closed, puffed out my chest, and spread out my wings. "Naaaaailed iiiiiit!" I turned to face my stallion team members, who all stomped in approval. Of course, they were also looking at something behind me, but I didn't notice until it was too late.
Fire Streak whipped my ass with a wet, rolled-up towel, and dude, he's got a mean crack-back. I let out a small yelp as the rest of the stallion team burst out laughing.
I drew my hind leg in and laughed along with the rest of them, then flashed Streak an evil grin and asked, "What was that for?"
He smirked back and walked past me. "For getting cocky."
Silver Lining chuckled. "I'd say he earned it, captain. That was a hell of a run through the gauntlet."
I flashed a broad, cheesy smile. "Thank you, Silver Lining. I'm glad somepony appreciates good work around here."
"Speaking of getting cocky," Wave Chill said, slinging a towel around his neck and leaning against his locker. "You colts have fun chasing tail tonight. Star Drop said she's gonna show me a good time, so I'm out for bar-hopping. You guys going anywhere?"
"Nah, I'm out," Fire Streak said, tossing his towel in the bin. "Spitfire wants to go see the city together, just the two of us."
Sightseer nodded. "That should be a good time. Horsemouth has a lot of great overlooks, especially at night."
I snickered. "You're saying they should go and see the sights?"
Sightseer laughed and rolled his eyes. "Very original, captain."
"One of a kind!" I said, holding my head high.
Sightseer stretched out his wings and turned back to Streak. "You two will have a good time. I think I'm partied out, though, and Vapor gets worried if I stay out too late."
A few of the others said they were busy or tired, too, and since we'd all gone out together after Friday's show, nopony felt bad about taking it easy. Everypony else had someplace to be, and as we said goodbye and broke off into little groups, Fire Streak and Wave Chill shared a look as their broad smiles faltered. Streak stepped closer to me and said, "You gonna be okay, bro? You can tag along with me and Spitfire if you'd like."
It… hurts to think how casually I took his question. Part of me wants to go back and scream at myself, "No! No! Go out with your friends! Have fun! It's your last chance!" But then, a lot of things feel that way, like I could have gotten just one more moment of happiness out of it if I'd been a smarter pony. The same thing's especially true of my relationship with Braeburn, and I've gone over each little mistake I made a hundred times. I talked to Gentle Soul about it, and he said that my feelings wouldn't be different even if I'd gone out with my friends that night. I'd just fixate on something else that wasn't perfect: not spending enough time talking to a particular pony, getting too drunk, not getting drunk enough, feeling awkward for three seconds at some point of the night… My brain would still tell me that I could have done something different to make it better, but that's not the real issue, even if that feeling tries to eat away at my soul. My last weekend with the team will always feel incomplete, no matter what I do.
So I shouldn't feel bad about blowing air through my lips and saying, "Nah, I'd just be a third wheel. You guys have a good time."
…
You don't need worry about me. It's okay. I made the choice that felt right. It's just one more thing I have to learn to live with, just like sleeping through most of the train ride home the next morning instead of talking to my teammates. Just like flying straight to my condo instead of asking somepony to hang out, and just like everything else I did during my last week as an unbroken pony.
I guess there's one thing I'm thankful for: it was a very, very normal week.
I took Sunday easy. I hadn't gotten home until early afternoon, and since everypony was going their separate ways, I was on my own. I dug through the list of recipe cards that Braeburn had given me, and I found a pair of recipes for chili and cornbread that looked intimidating but doable. Shopping for ingredients, prepping the vegetables, and actually cooking everything took up most of the day – holy crap does chili take a long time to simmer – but that soft, melt-in-your-mouth bread with honey butter, all dipped in that punched-up, Appleloosa-style chili… Mm… It left me smacking my lips, wondering if my stomach would explode from eating the whole pot. 'Maybe I can just feedbag it in bed tonight?' Fortunately, I wasn't quite that trashy. Even I have standards.
I stuck the leftovers in the ice box once it cooled, and after my stomach settled, I made myself some chamomile tea. I didn't feel like reading, so instead, I sat in the kitchen, breathed deeply, and let my thoughts drift.
I thought about my flying formations. I wondered how "Whitewing" was going to end. What Streak and Spitfire's foals would look like. The stadium full of ponies cheering my name. Little flourishes that I could add to the routine. Whether I could take up another hobby once I'd gotten cooking down. 'Maybe sewing? I can already iron, and those quilts at Sweet Apple Acres looked really cool.' I thought about different military uniform styles. The new crop of recruits. Where I wanted my career to go and what it would be like to transition to more of a coaching role once my body started slowing down.
And after around 40 minutes, I smiled inwardly. I couldn't remember ever sitting alone with my thoughts for that long without becoming upset, and I decided that it had been a good day.
Before I went to sleep, I remembered one more thing. 'Oh! Right. Fillydelphia show next week.' It triggered something in my memory. I dashed over to a neglected pile of paperwork that I'd picked up at the Academy, and sure enough, there was a fan letter tucked between the various reports and announcements.
The thing is, most of our fan mail goes through a pretty strict screening process. You never know if some whacko is going to start making death threats or stalk you or ask you for the fortieth time to go on a date, so it all has to go through some poor pony in a back office somewhere, and most of the time, we don't even get to open the envelopes. Every once in a while, though, we'll meet a fan that's special to us, and we want to make sure we don't lose contact. A couple years ago, management finally gave us an option: we tell them to draw a picture on the envelope – something specific, different for each Wonderbolt – and then the mailroom ponies know that it's safe.
And this envelope had my picture on it, with a return address from two of my favorite fans: Cobalt Breeze and her husband Sunburst. Maybe you don't remember them, but I always will. The day I'd been cut from the team, I'd gone to Bad Sun Rising. They'd recognized me there and, without trying, had made me feel better, just by graciously accepting that I wasn't going to be in the show. They hadn't been mad, and they'd still been super excited to see me. It might seem trivial, but when you're at your lowest, the tiniest act of kindness goes a long way.
Their letter wasn't long. Mostly they said they were writing because I'd asked them to hit me up before our Fillydelphia show, and the rest was a polite check-in and a few quick anecdotes about their vacation in Cloudsdale. They didn't expect me to remember them, but I absolutely did, so that night, I wrote a letter to the kind pegasus couple who'd picked me up when I'd needed it.
Writing that letter left me feeling ragged. I had to make it seem perfect, since even if they were trustworthy, I couldn't let on about my condition. With enough deep breaths and a few do-overs, I was able to do it, and when I'd finished, I had that satisfied feeling you only get after you do something kind for somepony else. Or when you have some alone time and just push all the right buttons. They're pretty similar feelings, honestly.
I left the envelope unsealed so that I could include a couple backstage passes. I wrote myself a note to swing by Celestial Hall the next day after therapy and grab them, and I set the envelope by the door so I wouldn't forget.
It was pretty late by then. I stepped out onto the porch and sat down to watch the stars. 'I've still got my fans,' I thought. 'I'm a very lucky pony.' The air was cool that night, especially for late summer, and I spent a long evening looking up at the big, blue sky, letting my thoughts drift further and further away.
…
There are… so many details I could tell you from that last week. Silver Lining was late to the team brief on Monday and had to do two-hundred additional laps. My wing ached after I strained it practicing on the Dizzytron. It was hot on Wednesday until the rain started at 2:04 pm, and two sets of dumbbells were missing from the weight room. I could go on and on and on, because for whatever reason, every little moment is etched onto my brain like pictures on a stone tablet.
These days, I have nightmares about that week. Not about anything specific that happened, but being back there, experiencing that week again, and remembering that it was all about to end. I don't want to keep dreaming, because it seems so cruel to know it's fake, but I don't want to wake up, because then I'll be back in this stupid, broken body. Either way, I lose, but… but I–
* * * * *
Soarin's pace slows considerably, and together, we stop in the middle of a roadway. It's nighttime now. The moon is a waxing gibbous, and it seems so much bigger up here. The rich, dark blue sky reflects off the cloud buildings all around us, painting them a mellow hue that glows softly as light disperses in the vapor. The only other movement in sight is the flicker of gem lamps inside homes as pegasi settle in after a long day of work.
I drink in the chilly air, invigorating and pure. It's like the first taste of winter back home, breath after breath.
Soarin' sits down, and I join him. He stares at my legs and frowns, and his voice becomes weak and sickly. "You get to walk all day, and it doesn't hurt."
My chest flexes, and I look down at my forelegs, sturdy and fluffy and ending in wide hooves that sport softly glowing horseshoes. There's nothing spectacular about them, but they carry me where I need to go, they help me write my notes, and I have, nearly every day of my life, taken them for granted. Not tonight. "I'm very fortunate."
Looking up, I find Soarin' staring at his own legs. His eyebrows are furrowed. Slowly, he lifts one foreleg, then sets it down, as if testing to see if it's real. The brace creaks. "I don't hate them."
My head cocks to the side. "Your legs?"
"Yeah." He lifts the other in the same manner, then sets it down. "They've taken a lot of abuse. Landings put a lot of strain on them, and you end up flexing them and drawing them in a lot to minimize wind resistance. They're usually the first things to go for a stunt flier, even before the wings, and it can be career-ending." He shakes his head. "But I don't hate them. They do everything I ask, and they've been through Tartarus and back, but they keep going. They persevere."
Soarin' looks up to the sky. Even sitting and with those braces, the silhouette is striking. His blue fur is nearly indistinguishable from the cloud we sit on, and his mane melts into the starry sky, as if his body and soul go on forever. He fades into the cool blue palette of everything around us, and I can almost see stars twinkling in his mane.
I look up to the sky with him. "They're not the only ones persevering, Soarin'."
The breeze is mild out here. Soft sounds echo across the Cloudsdale skyscape. Every time I blink, more stars appear above us, and as huge as the universe seems right now, every mote of life feels as if it's been masterfully placed, from the whole of the Equestrian landscape to the weary pegasus and the curious earth pony sitting together, looking up at the endless universe.
The silence is broken by a faint breath. "I'm not giving up, Syn."
I turn to see him looking at me, eyes brighter than the moon.
He smiles. "I got taken down from the height of my career, but it won't stop me." He looks skyward again. "I'm going to fly with the Wonderbolts again. I'm gonna earn it, too. Some honorary position isn't good enough for me. I've climbed the ranks before, and even with a setback like this, even if I'm getting late into my career and I'm nearly past my prime, I'll earn it back." He chuckles. "Heh heh. Plus, I wanna watch Streak sweat when he realizes I'm gunning for his spot as captain." He wipes his eye with a fetlock and lets out a quivering sigh. "I'll get there someday. I know I will."
He's a respectable pony, that Wonderbolt, more than I ever knew. I wouldn't be able to keep my spirits up after all he's been through. I don't know any other pony who would. Softly, I say, "May I be honest?"
Soarin' nods. "Please do. The world needs more honesty."
I smile. "I believe you."
His smile quivers wider, and he takes a deep breath. He looks me over again: down, then up, eyes scanning every bit of me and finally locking with my gaze. His face relaxes along with the rest of him, and he makes a point of speaking clearly. "Little pie. Wings and a parachute. Lower left corner on the back side."
…Huh?
I collect myself. "Excuse me?"
He sticks his lower lip out. "Whaaaat, you haven't been waiting for it? Check your notes." He lifts his nose, indicating towards my bag.
What is he getting at? I haven't used my notes for hours now.
Cautiously, I reach into my saddle bag and take out my notepad. I flip to the beginning, to my first impressions of him. 'Reserved. Putting up walls with humor. Unlikely to get much during first interview.' I snicker at that last one, then look up. "There's a lot here. Is there–"
He tilts his head back and smirks. I imagine what Jetstream must have looked like doing that. "C'mon, what were we just talking about?" He makes little circles with a forehoof, goading me, and speaks slowly. "I wrote a letter to…"
Oh. Cobalt and Sunburst. The paper crinkles as I quickly flip to that moment, the first time he mentioned Bad Sun Rising. Let's see: they were big fans. He gave them headshots, told them he'd be in touch, and gave them some sort of secret way to communicate.
My eyes widen, and I smile. "Oh! Haha. Of course." I look up to see that cocky grin. "Getting fan mail straight to you."
He grins. "Theeeere ya' go. Like I said: little pie. Wings and parachute. Back side of the envelope, lower left corner." He winks at me. "Better write it down, or maybe just sketch it."
I quickly begin scribbling and curse my lack of artistic talents, but then, I stop. I look up again. He's telling me now, and he's telling me for a reason. "You… want to meet again."
"Heh. Yeah." He stretches out his wings. "Least I can do for all the time you've spent listening to me." He takes a deep breath, and his voice stiffens slightly, like he's dipping a hoof into cold water. "And hey, the book idea? Not so bad. Might–" He blinks a few times and looks away. His voice is softer now. "Might finally be time to come clean." He reaches into his saddlebag and pulls out small sachet.
I finish my drawing and my notes. I have a feeling I'll use that secret method in the very near future. "Your secret's safe with me."
"Ha! It better be. It's a pain in the ass to get a new one." With incredibly meticulous, practiced hoof movements, he takes something tiny from the sachet and holds it up to his ear. His tone mellows. "But it'll be good, y' know? I've been hiding for so long, Syn." He tenses, then begins working the object again. "I don't want to do it anymore. Ponies might listen. They might want to hear the whole story, and maybe they'll get something out of it." Slowly, he pulls his hooves away and gently rotates his ear, testing the stud's hold.
It really does look beautiful like that, and I'm warmed to see him put it on in front of me.
I stand up and put my notes away. "That's why we do this, right? No matter how it turns out, some good might come from sharing what we've learned."
Soarin' smiles at me. "Right. Exactly." He stands up tall and looks down the road, a confident smile on his face and a yellow stone glinting in his ear. "One thing at a time, though. The future comes later. I still need to deal with the past." He jerks his head towards the ever-shortening road home. He sets his jaw, and though his body quivers just slightly, his words don't falter. "Let's finish this."
* * * * *
Fillydelphia. Friday night.
Like usual, there was a meet and greet for the VIPs before the show. And like usual, almost everypony showed up. There were a few that never seemed to make it early enough, which was a shame, but that didn't stop the ones that did make it from, well…
"We are JUST so HONORED that you thought of us, Soarin'!" Cobalt Breeze kept shaking my hoof, long past the point that it had started tingling. Her hoof was a pink blur, and her blue mane bounced with each shake. "I NEVER thought you'd send us tickets, but BACKSTAGE PASSES? We must be the LUCKIEST ponies alive!"
Sunburst finally lifted an orange hoof to stop her, and he flipped his blonde mane just before he nuzzled her. "This really means a lot, Mister Win– Hee, sorry, Soarin'."
I snickered. "No problem, guys. Glad you could both make it."
Cobalt was about to shout again, but Streak cut in, his ears flat against his head to shield themselves. "Hey, captain. It's about time for our guests to find our seats."
I nodded to him. "Thanks, cap–"
"Is that FIRE STREAK?" Cobalt's eyes lit up again. "CAPTAIN Fire Streak? We saw you fill in for Soarin' a few months back! You were PHENOMENAL!"
The conversation looped around again, but eventually, a bored-looking security officer shuffled the two of them away with the rest of the VIPs. I called at them, "Cheer loud! I know you will!" They smiled and waved all the way out the door.
The team left to get changed. The meetup had gone long, so we all had to hurry. As we pulled on our flight suits in the locker room, Streak commented, "Lots of VIPs tonight."
"Yeah, a little crowded, but that's fine," I said. "They got their face time. I just hope they thought it was worth it."
Streak laughed. "If Cobalt's excited now, then I'm terrified of what she'll sound like after the show."
I snickered and took my Braeburn stud out of my ear, then stuck it into my suit, gem side in. I'd gotten pretty good at poking the back into the seams so that it was practically invisible.
Streak grunted next to me. "You know, one of these days I'll have to confiscate that. At least stop being so blatant about it."
I shrugged. "Eh, it helps me fly better." That much was true, at least. "Besides, I never ratted you out about that lucky tail clip of yours."
He blushed. "That was only a couple times. And it wasn't jewelry."
I smirked. "Still against protocol."
He nickered. "Fine, bro, but at least pretend to be stealthy? Help me out here."
"You got it." I pointed behind him. "Hey, look! Spitfire's fitting her whole hoof in her–"
Streak slammed his locker closed. "Oookay, bro, I get it." He pulled his face mask on. "Let's get these colts psyched up."
I smiled wickedly. I knew what came next.
The team lined up when we called them, and Streak and I stood tall, stoic, just like we'd practiced. The locker room already stank like riled up stallion, and the air threatened to crackle with energy. I started out with, "Wonderbolts! Are you ready to give the show of your lives?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" Their voices echoed in the small locker room.
Streak boomed, "And will you uphold the honor and prestige of our esteemed organization?"
"Sir, yes, sir!"
Streak and I glanced at each other, smirked, and shouted together, "And will you attest that I am the better captain!"
Mouths opened, eyes widened, and Wonderbolts froze, slight smiles breaking across faces.
Streak feigned offense. "What's taking so long? I'm obviously the superior captain!"
I gasped dramatically. "What? I'm your superior, Captain Fire Streak, because I am superior!"
Together, we turned to our team, which was already starting to crack. In tandem, we shouted, "So which is it?"
I jabbed a hoof towards Sightseer. "What do you think, newbie? Who's better?" Sightseer hesitated, and I shouted, "I can't hear you, newbie!"
His tail twitched behind him. "Y-y-you are, sir!"
Streak immediately swooped in next to him. "Disrespecting a captain! That'll be fifty extra wing-ups on Monday, Wonderbolt!" Everypony stifled a snicker, and he turned to Silver Lining. "What do you think? Or are you still stuck in the Tube from last week's disgrace?"
Silver was ready. "You're both great, sir! The best team of captains we could ask for, sir!"
I stepped up to him and fake-glared. "Weak answer! Cowardice! That's a hundred wing-ups, Silver!" My head whipped to the side. "Wave Chill!"
Chill puffed up his chest. "Captain Streak's marefriend is the best, sir!"
"Buttering me up, huh?" Streak said. He scrutinized Chill. "Nicely done private. You've earned some R and R." Chill started to let out a sigh, but Streak cut it off. "After two hundred thousand wing-ups!"
We bullshitted for a few more minutes, our demands and punishments getting stupider and stupider, and when we both felt the team had loosened up, we lined up again in perfect formation. Streak shouted, "Wonderbolts, salute!"
As one, hooves stuck out and met foreheads.
I shouted out, "Wonderbolts, scramble!"
The wind whipped up. The fire was stoked. We were ready, and without needing to cue them, we took off as the Wonderbolt Stallion Squad, ready to conquer the world.
Iiiiiit was a little less exciting for me, since I was still only in the second act, but my heart raced along with the team all the same. At least I got to help critique. We were giving Sightseer more of an opportunity that week – or really, we wanted to push him hard and see what he was made of – so he was staying in for the whole show. Streak and I were going to switch off, so that I'd be fresh for the obstacle gauntlet again.
The first half of the show got off to a strong start. Everypony was precise, just like we'd hoped for, and Blaze and Silver Lining had taken the notes we'd given them well. I watched from my viewing area just off stage, hidden from most of the audience and with a clipboard in hoof. It was tough writing so quickly, but as we'd learned over the previous weeks, I could more or less interpret what I'd written in the moment. On the plus side, Spitfire didn't make fun of my hoofwriting anymore.
Between stunts, I snuck glances to the VIP section. I spotted Cobalt Breeze and Sunburst late into the first act, and even if I couldn't hear them, I could see from the flattened ears around them that they were cheering as loudly as they'd promised. I smiled.
And I frowned when I saw an empty seat near them, a seat belonging to a pony that wouldn't show, that shouldn't have shown. It was Braeburn's seat, the one that I'd gotten him a season's worth of backstage passes for. My heart ached, and a small part of the back of my mind told me, 'Maybe someday.' I shook that thought away and sighed. "I love you, Braeburn. I hope you're okay."
Intermission rolled around, and I'd gotten out of my funk enough to give the team wing-slaps as they dived backstage, out of breath. We spent fift–
…
Excuse me. Sorry.
We spent fifteen minutes stretching out and rehydrating and making sure we wouldn't need any last-minute changes due to sudden injuries. Everypony was ready, and nothing seemed out of place. Just like in Horsemouth, the team would enter one at a time for the second act, appearing in a burst of fireworks. The biggest difference was in Fillydelphia's stadium layout: the trapdoors were located between the lower and upper levels instead of at the rim of the stadium, and the technicians – who really just had to set the fuses and open the doors for us – were already in place. I'd been paired with Spotlight, one of our senior technicians, and I knew I was in good hooves.
After one last safety brief, I passed off my notes to Streak and Spitfire. Since I was appearing from a trapdoor at the far end of the stadium, opposite the main stage, I left first.
But as I turned to go, I felt a hoof on my shoulder. Streak had stopped me. Something rippled in the air as I looked at him, and I got a chill. "What?"
Streak frowned. "I… don't know. Never mind." He shook his head and held out a hoof. "Good luck out there, bro."
You can feel in your gut when something is wrong, and most of the time, I know better than to ignore it. Most of the time.
I smirked. "I don't need luck." I gave him a hoof-bump, which he half-heartedly returned, and with a final wave to my teammates, I flew to the cramped backstage tunnel that ran between the upper and lower seating levels.
Alone.
The lights were dim in that corridor. They were enough to see, but you couldn't risk letting the audience know somepony was down there with stray beams of light. It was a long walk, too. Fillydelphia has a huge stadium, and they knew how to pack it full. I could hear the thunder of hooves and feel the vibrations all around me as ponies rushed back to their seats at the end of intermission. In the dim light, I saw the remnants of spilled beverages that seeped through the ventilation holes, and I smelled the stale popcorn of hundreds of shows. Flying as silently as I could, I rounded the last curve towards my entrance place at the far end of the stadium.
A bolt of lightning shot up my spine, the same way it always did before I surprise a giant group of fans, and I landed with silent hooves as I saw my target: thirty meters in front of me, just outside the light of a dimmed gem lamp, sat my usual technician, Spotlight. He leaned against the wall right beside the trapdoor, motionless and in nearly complete darkness, next to the fireworks mechanism. I whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the roar of the crowd, "Hey, Spotlight! You ready for–"
But I was interrupted by a low, impossibly smooth voice that came from behind me. "Mister Windsong!"
I looked over my shoulder and squinted. A stallion dressed head to hoof in Wonderbolts merchandise galloped towards me. He had a large ball cap with our insignia pulled down on his face, and his wings were folded in tightly against a replica Wonderbolt jacket. Some aviator sunglasses – just like Spitfire's – stuck out of one pocket. He slowed his pace to a canter as he approached, breathing heavily. "Mister Windsong! I'm sorry to bother you, but I couldn't make it to the VIP event."
'Ha! We've got a sneaky one,' I thought. 'Somepony's getting fired over this.' I cocked my head and smirked. "Heh. Did you give security the 'can't find the bathroom' story?"
He paused, chuckled nervously, and mumbled, "Fuck, I thought I was being clever." I could hear the blush in his voice, which had a rich, thick accent from somewhere in the midlands. He walked slowly, like most star struck fans do, but as stepped closer, something seemed off. His steps were solid, not shaky. They were unnaturally slow. Pensive.
Deliberate.
I turned and sat. "Sorry, dude. We've seen it all." I thought I had – this wasn't the first time a fan had snuck past security, and I'd learned long ago that it was usually easier to just pacify them and send them along. "Need an autograph? You've got sixty seconds." Looking over my shoulder, I half-shouted, "Just a minute, Spotlight." Spotlight didn't answer.
"That's mighty kind of you," the stranger said, and I admit, I melted a little. His voice hit that sweet spot, and I shuddered and rolled my eyes back into my head. It was like chocolate, and it got a small tail thrash out of me. "And here I was fixin' t' give you a whole sob story."
I snickered as I looked back at him. "Sick grandmother?"
As he stepped up, I noticed how tall he was: around my size and with a similar build, but just a little more filled out around the shoulders and with slightly larger wings. With heaviness, he said. "Coltfriend in the hospital." He stepped closer. "He's a big fan, of course. Gave me his ticket so it wouldn't go to waste."
Closer.
My tail stopped moving. I sulked until I remembered that I was in front of a fan and perked back up. "Yeah, that probably would have worked, too. I'm a sucker for that kind of thing." My mind spun through all the things I would have done for Braeburn when we'd been together. If sneaking backstage and risking arrest would have made him happy, I wouldn't have hesitated. "Hope your coltfriend's okay."
"He'll come around." The stallion's voice took on an edge. "Worst part is that he's blamin' me of all things, even though I'm tryin' my best out here." He was less than five meters away. "You know how it is."
I sighed. "Yeah, I do." I shook it off. "Hey, you got a marker? I don't carry one, because, well, you know."
About a wing's distance separated us.
"Right here." Without looking, he pulled a marker out of one of his jacket pockets and gave it to me. "All yours."
"Cool. Thanks." I took it from him as the announcer's voice echoed with the pre-act warmup. "Sorry, I need to hurry. What do you want me to sign? Hat? Jacket?" I pointed the marker at his neck. "Badge, maybe? That's pretty typical."
He sucked in a quick breath, and then, after a long pause, he laughed loud. "Hahaha!" He wiped his face with a fetlock. "Yeah. Sure. This'll be good." He slipped the badge over his head and his oversized ball cap, then passed it to me.
As I took it, I said, "Sorry you couldn't make it to the meet-and-greet. There's another one after the show. And hey, maybe you can bring the coltfriend next time."
He snorted and growled, "Oh, that ain't gonna happen."
I rolled my eyes. "Chill, dude." I took the cap off the marker. "You said coltfriend, right?" I squinted at the badge. "Who do I make it out t–"
My eyes finally settled on the badge's text, and in the dim light, my blood ran cold.
The Wonderbolts in Fillydelphia
Saturday, August 3rd
Braeburn Apple
Time slowed, moving one heartbeat at a time. I couldn’t feel anything except the dawning realization that was rapidly overtaking my brain.
It felt like it took hours to lift my head, and when I did, I saw a snarling, scowling pegasus stallion whipping himself around. Every detail of his body filled in at once as he spun in place, raging like a tornado. And at each heartbeat, Braeburn's voice echoed inside my head.
'…voice is low and smooth.'
He growled, his body half-twisted away from me.
'Lean. Muscular. Broad hooves.'
His body was pulled taut, winding up for something big. He planted broad hooves on the ground, sending an echo through the tunnel.
'…and big, healthy wings that spread wide enough to block the sun.'
His massive wings flared out, stabilizing him as he pulled his hind legs in.
'…golden eyes that sparkle, even in the dark.'
As he sucked in a large breath, he looked over his shoulder at me, and I saw them: flecks of gold that shone through the darkness of the dim hallway, tainted with malice and shooting arrows through my skull.
He flexed, and I saw a color, beautiful and haunting and mesmerizing and alive and – most of all – angry.
'…and a coat that shimmers like wildfire.'
My jaw had dropped. I'd stopped breathing, and I finally gasped, "Bron–"
His rear right hoof connected with my jaw, and time sped up a thousandfold. "FUCKER!"
A ringing sound flared up in my ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd. My body flew into the wall. My bones felt like they'd been dislodged, and when my head hit the brick wall with a loud crack, the ringing shot up half an octave. My joints ached, like I was a foal's toy that was falling apart. Everything was out of focus, and I tasted copper.
And I had a splitting headache.
He was fast. As my body crumpled to the floor, he grabbed me by the shoulder. Before it even registered that I was moving, a forehoof came down on my face. I felt a scream in my throat, but I couldn't hear it.
He hit me again, sending a sickening, low thud through my head. "You wrecked him!" Another thud, and my heart skipped a beat as I realized that my eyes were closed and I hadn't even felt his hoof make contact. "You wrecked everything! You stupid!" Thud. "Fucking!" Thud. "Asshole!" He threw me across the small hallway, and a sharp pain shot through my wing and up my spine.
I sobbed.
'His coltfriend's in the hospital?'
…because I was thinking about Braeburn.
Rage flared up inside me, and I growled. 'He hurt Braeburn.' Lightning surged through me, but my muscles didn't respond, and I stayed down. 'I'll fucking kill him!' I imagined him doing to my Applebutt what he was doing to me, and suddenly, I couldn't feel any pain. All I could feel was white-hot anger.
When I felt his hoof on my wing, I flailed wildly, filled with fire, and threw him off balance. With a surge of fury, I leapt up and flared my wings out wide, eyes trained on him like a hawk chasing a sparrow. "I'll fucking kill you!" His eyes went wide, and we both knew: he was my prey, now.
I've never moved so fast in my life. I kicked off the wall behind me, both forehooves in front of me, and tackled him with the whole force of my body. We crashed into the opposite wall, and I heard something pop. I didn't know whether it was a part of him or me, and I didn't care. I jabbed a hoof to his throat with as much force as I could, and I didn't care if I was killing him. He choked and flailed. His eyes bulged out, and I found the strength to press even harder. "What a do uh Braebur!?"
And when my words didn't cooperate, the heat vanished in a single breath. I realized how woozy I was. My eyelids were fluttering. I tasted bile and blood and held down my vomit. The room spun, and somewhere in the background, I heard the fireworks shoot off and the crowds outside the tunnel cheer. It was all I could do to try and keep this one pony, this bad pony who'd hurt Braeburn, to keep him from hurting him anypony else.
But he flapped his wings, creating just enough lift to wiggle free. I took two hind hooves to the chest and reeled back as he stepped forward. "You stay away from him! Braeburn's my stallion!" He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth, and he barked through tears, "He's my Applebutt!" He kicked at me, but I narrowly rolled away and staggered to my hooves. He sobbed a raging, pained sob. "Braeburn's ALL I HAVE! I love him! I know he still loves me!"
I seethed, and for a moment, my vision cleared, even as I choked on the blood running down the back of my throat. I dived at him, trying to keep my thoughts straight. 'He won't hurt Braeburn anymore. I won't let him.'
…and I missed him completely. My skull felt like it was tearing itself apart, and I crumpled to the floor, screaming as pain wracked my body in violent, churning waves. Some of my screams were choked off by the liquid spilling out of my mouth. I couldn't taste anymore, and I only hoped it was vomit.
He cried and barked through gritted teeth, "You ain't gonna hurt him no more, you pathetic mother-fucker!" He loomed over me and grabbed my mane, pulling my head up. I couldn't open my eyes, and he screamed at me, "Don't you fucking get it?" He slapped my face and shook my head. "Applebutt needs a strong stallion! Deserves one!" He dropped my head to the floor and kicked me twice in the ribs. I barely felt it. "He must've been pretty fucking desperate to–"
"Bro, where the fuck are you?"
I knew that voice. I knew that I knew that voice. I just couldn't remember who it was.
The pony above me – the choked, crying voice – shouted, "Aw, shit!" I heard the rapid flap of wings. I felt the air brush against my face. I sensed a calm in my body that I didn't understand.
And I kept thinking, 'Hospital. I have to help Braeburn.'
I stumbled to my hooves, and that thought kept looping over and over in my head. I realize now that it was the only thing keeping me conscious – if Braeburn needed me, then I had to go to him, and I couldn't give in. But the rest of my body was in too much pain, and I wanted to fall asleep forever.
Streak landed with heavy hooves. "Soarin', who the f–" Streak sniffed the air twice. "Wait… Soarin', are you–" He lifted my chin. All the color drained from his voice, and he spoke in rushed, clipped whispers. "Bro. You're bleeding."
'I have to help Braeburn.' The stud poked my chest, and I finally opened my eyes. "I have to help Braeburn."
Streak shuddered in front of me, and even in the dim light and with his light coat, I could tell he looked pale. "I… I-I didn't catch that, bro." He gulped. "Sit down. Sit down! Stay here! I-I'll get help."
I shook my head. "N… No, I–" It felt like I was losing something inside me all over again. The words in my mouth felt like the words in the books: I knew they were there, but I couldn't grasp them. "No."
Streak looked me dead in the eyes and spoke very slowly. "Soarin', something's happened, and you need help. Think about your head. I need you to–" His words were fading behind the ringing in my ears.
But I understood his message. 'He wants to stop me. I have to help Braeburn.' With one fluid motion, I hooked a hoof around his shoulder and knocked him on his ass, much harder than I'd wanted to. I tried to say, "Sorry," but the word only half-fell out of my mouth. Before he could recover, I dashed to the trapdoor, where I saw Spotlight, unconscious but breathing, leaning next to it.
"Soarin', wait!" Streak took off after me, but with my head start, I was at the trapdoor by the time he'd stood up. "HELP!" he screamed, so–… so loud his voice cracked. "Security! Safety! Anypony!" But the thunder of the crowd above him was too strong. The show had started. I had missed my cue, and there was too much noise for anypony to hear. And–
Oh, f-f-fuck.
Through my haze, I-I kept moving forward, driven by one panicked, delirious purpose. 'I have to help Braeburn.'
…
I… once promised Braeburn that I wouldn't fly unless I was feeling one-hundred percent.
And I… broke that promise that night, and I'm going to pay for it for the rest of my life.
I felt–… Streak tried to latch onto me as I opened the trapdoor myself. He – my brother – tried to save me, but I kicked him away, and he stumbled back. To my left and right, dark blue fireworks went off, and the blinding light of the stadium flooded my eyes as I was met with a wall of cheers. The announcer said over the sound system, "Always one for suspense, here's Captain Soarin' Windsong! What an entrance!"
Captain S–…
The crowd cheered wildly, and if I'd been able to see clearly, I know I would have found the same ocean of smiles and bright eyes as always. My team was half a revolution across the arena, flying in formation. Streak was recovering behind me. Thousands of eyes were on me, and yet, in that moment, I was completely alone.
'I have to help Braeburn.'
As I took off, forward and upward to fly out of the stadium, I heard Streak wailing behind me, "Safety! Safety!"
With the first flap of my wings, the world fell away from me at what felt like impossible speeds. I rose higher, concentrating with all the brainpower I had left and forcefully willing every single feather to move. Everything became blurry, and every muscle and bone felt like it was being wrenched from my body, but I kept going. 'Help Braeburn.' I rose higher. Higher. I don't know if the audience was still cheering, but I was nearly to the rim of the stadium. I could almost see the hospital deep into the city, the one that, somehow, I knew I'd find him in. 'Brae…'
My wings stopped working.
My mind went blank, and my body went slack. I didn't even realize I'd stopped moving upwards. It felt like drifting through a starless night.
The audience screamed as I fell directly towards a section full of ponies.
And I had no idea. I had no idea that it was the end of my career. I didn't know that I was about to die. All I had left was a feeling, a feeling that Braeburn was in trouble, and that I was letting him down, all because my stupid head couldn't take a punch and my stupid wings refused to carry me. I began to cry as I hit freefall, and I faded in and out. Each time I blinked, I saw screaming ponies scrambling away from below me, both frenzied and motionless at the same time, and I thought, 'I'm so sorry.'
…
I was intercepted by a safety technician names Sharp Spotter. Metal clanged as we tumbled through sets of chairs and benches and across concrete steps, narrowly missing the audience members as Sharp Spotter wrapped his body around mine. For a few seconds, it was all so loud, and my body felt like it was being ripped apart. I wanted to die, just so I wouldn't be in so much pain.
But my body halted and collapsed in on itself. We'd stopped. Spotter writhed and screamed next to me, his face so close to mine. I could barely lift my head, and the first thing I saw was that my legs looked… wrong. I didn't understand them. They pointed in all the wrong ways, and I saw colors and sharp points that made me queasy. And they hurt. Sweet Luna, did they hurt, in a way that made me want to gnaw them off.
But that wasn't even the worst of it. As my head rolled back, my tongue hanging out of my mouth, I saw them: thousands of eyes and slack jaws, all facing me. They were frozen, terrified of accepting what was in front of them. Even the announcer wasn't saying anything, and you could hear each individual gasp of the crowd. The last thing I can clearly remember is that look, the one they were all giving me, and it told me the whole story. They'd all seen me crash into the stands. They didn't know if I was hurt, but they were all too afraid to ask. It left every pony in that stadium paralyzed, and, well…
I told you: I never liked the quiet.
'I'm sorry, Braeburn.' Tears burned my eyes, and the concussion took me. As my head fell back and the medics descended on me, I felt the stud poke my chest one more time.