The last few days had been a blur of stagnancy. Spitfire vaguely remembered working, travelling, speaking, and even making an attempt to listen to others speak, but she couldn’t discern exactly when any of it had transpired, let alone how she had been present for any of it.
Her mind had been a hive of activity. At first, it was nervous anticipation, wondering when Vinyl might get back in contact with her. After a week had passed with no response, she began to worry that another letter might not be coming at all.
The implications of that fact were in the forefront of her head, tuning out the monotony of her day to day life until it became a translucent haze. She would hold a dialogue with other ponies, check boxes, mark sheets, write templated letters and send them off—half the time she wondered if she was actually inhabiting her body, or just spectating. She felt like she could leave herself on autopilot for a month, even a year, come back and nothing would have changed. This was it, it seemed. Day in, day out, she was destined to live her life just as she had been for countless years up until now, and nothing was there to help her break the mould.
She hadn’t been writing either. The day after penning her letter to Vinyl, a flurry of manic activity had helped her produce enough lyrics to fill an EP, but the high had quickly worn off when her friend neglected to respond.
It took a lot of focus and a good measure of conscious effort to tear her gaze from the bedroom window, which she had been staring at for reasons that currently escaped her. It seemed pointless; it was so dark outside that she couldn’t see anything, yet she stared anyway.
Grunting, she shifted her attention to the bowl of cereal in front of her, devoid of milk. She chose not to question the fact she had decided to eat breakfast at night, nothing made sense lately. Her eyes widened as she realised just what had caused the rather habitual staring she had slipped into. The mailbox on the other side of the window, which was in clear view during the day.
Was she becoming obsessed? She had tried making the excuses to herself, reasoning that Vinyl was probably exceptionally busy, or that perhaps her letter had in fact been lost? Maybe her reply had been lost… Was that reaching? Or, worst of all, maybe her reply had been sent to HQ’s mail department, rather than her directly? There was always the possibility of her mail being screened, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time command had issued a random check.
Gritting her teeth, Spitfire dismissed that idea; Vinyl wasn’t stupid enough to do that. She knew she had to face facts: Either her friend was too busy to deal with her shit or she just didn’t want to. Hell, Spitfire wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t want to. It was all a little tragic really, wasn’t it?
Maybe Spitfire should have just grown up by now, maybe she was chasing an impossible dream. She fiddled with her cereal, picking at it with a spoon as she lamented her lack of autonomy, her inability to just fuck it all off and do what she wanted. She crushed the flakes of bran under her spoon, attributing each piece to a conflicting voice in her mind, one telling her to do one thing, and a million telling her to do others. She wasn’t sure why, but the thought of those infernal cunts being quelled for a few moments brought her a tranquility that had been lacking for a long while.
First it was elation, then confusion, and now despondency. The music was supposed to matter, it was meant to mean something... It was meant to be her purpose, wasn’t it? Spitfire had no clue what her purpose was, just as she had no clue why she was practically pummelling a bowl of dry cereal with her hoof, the spoon abandoned. Sighing, she took her hoof out of the bowl, taking it to the sink to clean off.
The bowl lost in the sink, she found herself gliding through the air, the door left open as she left her home behind, breathing in the night sky—the smell of which was mixed with a tangy musk. Two full days since her last shower, her smell was beginning to grow pungent. What did it matter? She was the only one up here who could smell herself, and she hardly noticed.
Gliding in a tight loop around her home – the occasional intermittent flap maintaining her velocity – she pondered those same thoughts she’d been having for days now. The flight brought no clarity.
She landed soon after taking off, feeling no less internally incongruous but a tad more dizzy.
Kicking her door shut behind her, she trotted straight through the kitchen to her bedroom, not bothering to so much as glance at the bowl of discarded thoughts, nor the window that held her future.
Spitfire didn’t often feel hungover. Part of the reason for that was that she didn’t drink very often, the rest was her reasonably high tolerance for alcohol.
This morning she had a hangover, of that she was sure. The reason why eluded her. She was sure she hadn’t had anything to drink the night previous, yet the queasy feeling in her stomach and pulsating head were difficult to mistake.
Stifling a groan, she slipped out of bed, finding she hadn’t bothered to even get under the covers. That, or she had kicked them off during the night, it was hard to say.
She didn’t bother making it. She hadn’t for almost a week now, and who did she have to impress? Standards such as cleanliness and hygiene were pretty inconsequential when you’re not bothered either way, right? Limping over to a full length mirror she took in her image. Her mane was knotted and disfigured, it was starting to look a little greasy too.
Sighing, she opted to take a shower. She wouldn’t have bothered if it wasn’t for the freaking intervention work would try to stage if they saw her in her catatonic state. Still, there was always a chance it would wash away that familiar nauseous feeling too, even if she wasn’t particularly bothered by it.
She turned the nozzle to find that the water came out scalding hot, shocking her awake as she leapt back, an act of self-preservation to remind herself that she was in fact alive. Making a mental note to reduce the pressure in the boiler, she allowed the shower a moment to cool before stepping under again, letting the lull of her indifference envelop her once more.
She was past debating whether this was an overreaction. It took a lot of willpower for her to not sit in her bed and fester, which almost hurt as the concept was so alien to her. Somehow, the notion of slipping back into sleep almost felt endearing now, wasting away her day would be a welcome escape from work on three fronts.
Work by functioning as a pony, work by interacting with other ponies, and work by actually working. Still, what was she gonna do, quit and become a vagrant because her oldest friend had rejected her and she couldn’t play out a foal’s dream? Bewail the fact that she had to go and work for the same bureaucracy that had made her life so difficult as a filly? That had made lives for others she had known terrible also? Complain that she was the acting face of an organisation she truly didn’t believe in?
No, she was gonna clean her damn coat, wash her damn mane and go to work. No matter how fragile she might have been feeling she wasn’t going to ignore her obligations, and if she had to force herself to put on a brave face and deal with things then she would.
The minutes trickled by as she scrubbed her body, working suds into her fur before wiping them away like many forgotten desires. Eventually, she deemed herself clean, and that was enough.
Her mane and tail were a similar process, she afforded them no extra care and as such was out and drip drying within minutes, foregoing the towel that idly hung before her. It was a warm spring day, she’d dry on her way to work.
Spitfire walked into the kitchen, grabbing a pair of crumpets and throwing them in the toaster. When they were ready she poured them out onto her unfolded wing, depositing them on the worktop to be buttered, barely feeling the heat. She took a knife in her mouth and buttered them both, devouring one before grabbing the other in her hoof and taking wing. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten more than a few bites of something.
She bolted out of the door, not bothering to lock it behind her. She didn’t spare a glance at the mailbox this morning; she figured her day would be somehow different if she didn’t look. Not feeling any profound change, she flew away from her Canterlot home before barreling off of the mountain, dropping her crumpet in the process.
She could have caught it. She saw it careening towards the distant ground even when it was a mere speck with the growing distance between her and it, and even then she could have thundered down to its rescue, but she didn’t have the energy. Shaking droplets of water out of her mane, she tore her eyes away from the remaining half of her breakfast as it landed on the cobbles of outer Canterlot, buttered side down.
Shrugging in midair, she realigned herself and took off.
Spitfire’s flight to work was uneventful. There was no singing, and even her usually speedy movements were languid and dull. The scenery rolled over as if it were being generated just for her dismissal, and the sun’s rising eye only served to remind her that it was in fact daytime.
The mountainous region before her along with the cloudstone structures built around it summoned dread from deep within her, she hoped she could get through the day without having to deal with anything too egregious. Knowing her luck, there would be an accident in training and she’d have to fill out a shit ton of forms, or the directorate would decree that she and her team help shovel snow in Yakyakistan or some shit.
Usually, the thought of travelling somewhere so outlandish, even for her, and doing something of at least some real significance would be enough to excite her, to put a curve to her muzzle. The fact that the idea brought about none of that almost made her shudder, or maybe it was that she was still damp.
Tucking her body into a neat nosedive she plummeted, levelling herself out at the right moment and skidding to a stop two thirds along the runway. She’d get to her office and check her itinerary, delegate whatever she could and spend the rest of the day sleeping if she could help it. Well, not really sleeping, more like still restlessness, but it’d do.
Doing her best to respond to nods and waves from colleagues, she hopped into the main building, careful to avoid the crowd of ponies lining up to punch the clock in machine. One perk to her job was not having to clock in, her hours were already pre-set.
Spitfire moved along the corridor and up the stairs, dodging the receptionist as well as the admin staff. She grabbed a mediocre coffee from a nearby machine as she went, tucking it under her wing. Soon enough she reached her door, opening it and stepping inside, taking a breath of relief as a physical barrier was erected between her and any nearby ponies.
Now, Spitfire only hoped things would stay that way. Traipsing over to her desk, she tried to piece together her schedule from the river of spilt papers, as well as the performance appraisals that had become her favourite coaster. Spitfire knew that some of the cadets on that sheet were showing some pretty low scores, and couldn’t help but feel that her recent behaviour might have played a part in their slow development. Besides, the idea of having to axe any of those ponies hurt right now, probably more than it should have. Shaking the papers and squinting past the semi-recent coffee stains, she was able to see that they didn’t need to be sent off for filing for another three days, a small victory.
Still, she could do with a little less clutter on her desk. Spitfire was a firm believer that a messy workstation was in fact a productive one, but right now she just wanted somewhere to plant her rear hooves without knocking paper everywhere. Her eyes half lidded, she began collecting up forms and letters, giving each a cursory glance so as to know which stack they belonged in. If she could help it, it’d be the most work she did all day.
Something on the far side of the table of the table caught her eye; reading the new addition to her stack made her growl, she had a pigeonhole for these things. Squinting her red, tired eyes, she began to read the contents:
Captain Spitfire,
It has been brought to our attention that a cadet under your tutelage was recently arrested in Manehatten for possession of a class A substance. On the 8th April, police reports suggest that a Cloud Gazer was apprehended whilst in possession of just over half a gram of cocaine. Gazer attempted to flush said cocaine, and was found with her hoof in the toilet, the bag still floating inside.
In light of this, a drugs test is mandatory. Please contact Cloud Gazer and have her prepare a sample for analysis.
Yours faithfully,
Major Typhoon - Wonderbolt screening
Funny how such a short letter could serve to further ruin a mood. It took Spitfire a few moments to realise she was biting back tears. What was wrong with her? She didn’t even know this recruit by name, it should have barely bothered her, yet the prospect of allowing her to be screened made her feel terrible, like she’d failed her in some way.
Should she have known who she was? Should she have been a good role model, and given the mare some advice on exercising caution before she went and got caught with a baggy? Should she really be the one to send her off to get fired?
No, if she got attached to all of her recruits, she wouldn’t be able to do her job properly. Then what was the issue? If anything, Spitfire should have been glad, if she was a part in taking this cadet’s dreams away from her, at least she’d be in the same boat as her.
Spitfire scrunched her eyes shut at the thought but a few tears still managed to squeeze their way through. She felt them rolling down her face but didn’t bother to wipe any, letting them get caught in her fur. If she couldn’t change lives like she wanted to, she could at least enrich them for the select few, but now she was having to look at taking that privilege away from a pony?
It was bullshit anyway. Why should Cloud Gazer’s use of a party drug be cause to kick her out of the training programme? If she was here, she showed promise, and if there was a drug problem in one of her cadets she would have noticed by now. Surely she would have, even with how things had been recently she wasn’t that inattentive. As far as Spitfire was concerned, this was likely either a one time or a pretty infrequent thing and the poor mare had just been unlucky enough to be caught.
No doubt the police had a fucking field day when they arrested a Wonderbolt, they must all get pretty excited over that. Red tape and regulations kicking honest ponies when they’re down, but it’s fine for Wave Chill to have a crippling gambling addiction because it’s legal, no one bats an eyelid at that. Maybe she was allowing emotion to cloud her judgment, maybe professionalism dictated that she should be angry at the cadet for potentially screwing up her career, as well as for her bad sporting practice and work ethic. But if that was the case, why could she only feel a burning anger towards the high and mighty directors that wanted to kick her to the curb?
Struggling to get a hold of herself, Spitfire walked over to the over side of her desk, taking her coffee off of the dreaded performance appraisals and eyeing them with interest for the first time in weeks. She instantly found Cloud Gazer’s name and picture near the top of the list, accented by some pretty impressive scores, not far off what Vapour Trail had managed during her tryouts.
Looking at the picture, she recognised her as one of the recruits she had been overseeing last week, the one that managed to maneuver in and out of the smallest hoops like lightning. Was she seriously expected to kick her off? Spitfire reread the scores and comments a couple of times before standing straight, resolute. This mare wasn’t going anywhere, not if she could help it.
She was sick of ponies being kicked while they were down, and she wasn’t going to let one of her recruits get their hopes built up just for them all to be stolen away over a misdemeanour. Well, maybe it was more than a misdemeanour, but right then Spitfire felt willing to make a judgment call. Taking a pen in her muzzle, she grabbed a piece of lined paper and began writing out a reply.
Major Typhoon,
Cadet has requested that her sample be taken in the presence of a medical professional. Please dispatch a fully trained medic at first opportunity.
Yours faithfully,
Captain Spitfire - Canterlot division
Smirking, Spitfire set the letter down. Urine tests were standard procedure in Wonderbolt screening, and any traces of cocaine would pass through the cadet’s system well before a professional arrived. Most Wonderbolts didn’t realise they were within their right to ask for a trained professional to be present, and considering the lack of urgency she was certain one wouldn’t arrive before Cloud Gazer’s system was clear.
Thinking about it, she laughed a little. While she had that little slice of power, that little bit of say, she could look out for her recruits, make sure they didn’t get discharged over nothing. She’d make sure this letter got sent at low priority, and would be sure to have a long conversation with the mare in question, explaining what she had done and why, as well as drilling into her that they would not and could not have a repeat of this indiscretion.
It was the best thing Spitfire had done all week, and it almost put new life in her. She didn’t feel brilliant, but she felt accomplished; she was proud of her actions, looking out for someone like her. Of course, she could shrug it off as pragmatism, choosing to work to keep a recruit on because they were a competent flier, but inside she knew it was more.
Laughing to herself, she left her office, intent on finding the recruit in question if she could. It wasn’t long until she bumped into a colleague, Misty Fly.
“Whoa, Captain,” she gasped, taking in Spitfire’s messy, unstyled mane and tired eyes, “You look like shit—er, no offence. Is everything alright?”
“Couldn’t be better,” Spitfire laughed, the feeling surprisingly genuine as she took wing. She chose to leave the building through an open window, leaving Misty Fly gawking behind her. The sun felt glorious against her coat, her energy tumultuous and all over the place, she struggled to decide what to do. On one hoof, she figured she should go and find her miscreant in distress, on the other, this feeling was exciting, and she had half a mind to do fifty laps of the training ground just for fun.
She went for a compromise, flying small loops around the surrounding area – truly stretching her wing muscles for the first time that morning – all the while searching for Cloud Gazer. It didn’t take long to spot her, diligently flying through one of the obstacle courses without supervision.
Instantly, Spitfire felt more confident in her choice. As she flied over to her, the mare quickly dropped before Spitfire, saluting. “Captain.”
Spitfire waved a hoof, dismissing the salute. “None of that,” she started, lifting herself higher and signalling for Cloud Gazer to follow. “Come fly with me, I wanna talk,” sensing the recruit’s instant alarm, she quickly added: “Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble, I promise.”
Silently, Cloud Gazer tagged along as they flew towards the outskirts of HQ, and eventually beyond them. Spitfire figured that the recruit’s silence was likely her trying to ascertain what Spitfire knew, rather than fear. When they reached a large, fluffy cloud, Spitfire dived into it, laying flat and waving the recruit over with a hoof, who hesitantly followed.
When she was sat next to her, Spitfire pushed a hole through the cloud with her hoof, exposing HQ, which they had their backs to. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘out of sight, out of mind’, cadet?”
Cloud Gazer slowly nodded, her face fearful. “I have ma’am, yes.”
“And I’m guessing you’ve also heard the one that goes ‘it’s only illegal if you’re caught doing it’?”
Something caught in the cadet’s throat. “I-I’m afraid I haven’t heard that one, ma’am.”
“Huh. Must have just been where I grew up. That’s fine though, it’s bullshit anyway. If it’s illegal, it’s illegal. The first one, however, might be more applicable for you.” Closing her eyes, Spitfire continued. “I know about your brush with the police a few days ago, and I know what you got caught with.”
Cloud Gazer froze up, her skin turning pale and her forehooves shivering. “Oh, Celestia…”
“You worried?” Spitfire asked, her expression deadly serious, “You should be. Wonderbolt command don’t take very kindly to drug users, especially of the class A variety.”
Swallowing a large gulp, the recruit attempted to put on a brave face, but Spitfire could feel it cracking within an instant. “I realise that, ma’am. I, I’ll go get my things now, and—uh, thanks for not doing this in front of everypony, I—” she cut herself off with a sob, turning away.
“You’ll do no such thing.” Spitfire smiled, reaching out a hoof and turning Cloud Gazer’s head to face her. Seeing the confusion in her eyes, she continued. “I wanna know why you did it, Cloud Gazer. Tell me that, and we’ll see what we can do.”
“I… I mean, we all did a little when I was younger, it was just party culture, you know? No one ever got hurt, and, well, it was fun, but it was expensive, and it’s only the kind of thing you’d do when you were clubbing, of course.” Looking at Spitfire, she managed to straighten her voice. “It was my brother’s twenty-fifth birthday three days ago, we all went out on the town and someone was carrying. It’s not something I do often, honestly, or even that much of, but the other night we were just having such a blast and—”
“And you thought ‘why not liven things up with a little bit of this’?” Spitfire finished for her, Cloud Gazer nodding as her lip quivered. “And when you thought that, did you give any consideration to what might happen if you were caught? I’m gonna assume you didn’t. Did you think about what might happen if there had been a random drugs test at work the next day? Did you think about anything?”
When Cloud Gazer said nothing, looking shamefaced, Spitfire continued. “You might not be thinking about your future all the time, Cloud, but I am. I can see how devoted you are, and I know you’ve got the skill necessary to become an excellent Wonderbolt, but only if you put your mind to it, and that doesn’t just mean training. What else do you think it means?”
“...Not doing stupid things?”
“Trust me, Cloudy, I do stupid things. Tons of them, in fact.” Her expression stern, she let a little of her signature commanding presence into her voice. “If you wanna go and get a little high one time when you’re out clubbing, that’s your prerogative, but I never said that. However, if you do find yourself getting caught again, I won’t be able to bail you out. Repeat offences are cause to be let go. As it stands now, you’re due to have a drug test.”
Jumping in place, Cloud Gazer shimmied back to her side of the cloud. “I won’t pass that, I know I won’t, it’s pointless to even—”
“Which you’re also going to delay, because right after we’ve finished talking here you’re going to write a formal request addressed to me asking for a trained medical professional to oversee your test, and that’ll delay things long enough for your system to clear, understand?”
Cloud Gazer’s eyes slowly lit up. “...I can do that?”
“Damn right you can,” Spitfire grinned, “but again, I never told you that. You worked it out yourself. If anyone asks you why you went off with me, you were the one enquiring about it.”
“Oh, thank you…” Cloud Gazer wrapped Spitfire in a surprisingly tight hug, nuzzling the side of her neck and sobbing. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
“Don’t thank me,” Spitfire replied, though she didn’t push her away, “I’m just giving a good pony the benefit of the doubt, don’t make me regret it.”
“Hold on…” Cloud Gazer said, pulling herself away, the hint of a blush on her cheeks from her sudden outburst, “Why are you doing this for me?”
Spitfire cast her eyes over the spry, relieved mare. “Let’s just say that if command knew about half of the things I did before I got Captain, I’d probably have been court marshalled by now.” Catching the recruit’s mystified look, Spitfire couldn’t help but chortle. “No, nothing that bad, so don’t get too carried away. Besides, I’ve never been a fan of authority figures, it’s fun to take the wind out of their wings every now and again.”
“But aren’t you an authority figure?” Cloud Gazer asked, head tilted.
“Yeah, you’re right.” Spitfire rose, her last words a little bitter in her mouth. “I’ll expect that request written and on my desk by the end of the day, no later, or you’ll really have to start worrying. Now, get a move on.”
Cloud Gazer looked at Spitfire, then out towards the sky, then back at her once more with an expression that betrayed disbelief, maybe a hint of wonder. “Y-yes ma’am,” she said, rising and turning to leave.
“And don’t stutter!” Spitfire yelled, laughing openly, “It gets on my nerves!”
“Yes ma’am!”
“Better! I’ll see you in basic tomorrow!” As the mare disappeared from sight, Spitfire laid back on their shared cloud, a warm, all-encompassing feeling swelling within her. Maybe this would be all she ever did with her life, and maybe she’d never truly feel fulfilled, but the feeling that came from saving that recruit’s hide was pretty hard to top.
Still, it was a rare thing, and it didn’t even put a dent in the real issue of working there, but Spitfire was content to ride her buzz for a little while, she’d earned that much.
After a fair amount of time spent languorously lazing in the sun, idly fanning her face with a hoof, she decided it was time to get back to work. It was funny being the highest commanding officer in the area but still having to busy yourself in front of your colleagues, who was going to chew her out? It’s not like inspections happened very often.
Still, she should set a certain standard for herself, she knew that much. Grumbling like a teenager being forced out of bed, Spitfire rolled to the side of the large cloud and straight off it, freefalling for three seconds before spreading her wings, catching the air.
Something about plunging through the sky always got her heart racing, even if it was just for a moment. Maybe it was the feeling of uncertainty, of not knowing what could happen next. Maybe it was that small movement her body made by default to avert danger, and the thought of what might happen if she wasn’t so used to falling. Then again, maybe it was just the rush of the air whistling past her, her surroundings melding together into a blurred cornucopia of colour.
Spitfire lived for that rush, but she also lived for the calm moments she had just had. Right then, right there, she had influenced something in what she could only assume was a positive way, and for better or worse she had changed a life. It had been a very long time since she could say that, and the fact she only managed to do so by subverting both her company’s rules and code of practice was absurd.
Was that what she needed to do? Forget the rules and just live life by her terms? Or would she have to be mindful, just like she had been earlier, sneakily bypassing her constraints, but without losing what she already had. It was a fine line she walked between freedom to act as she wished and conforming to Wonderbolt regulations, but she’d balance on that tightrope like her life depended on it if it meant she could actually move.
And move she did, back down to her building, down to her office, where she sat for the rest of the day writing out forms and taking inconsequential meetings about insignificant things. All too quickly, it was back to the norm.
There was talk about live performances. Who gave a rat’s ass about performances? Talk about promotion; who wants an extra slice of zombification to go along with their cushy job? It comes with a bigger payslip and a bigger asshole breathing down your neck, but you already knew that when you signed up.
Spitfire felt it again, that stab of loathing. She really hated her job.
Finishing up for the day, she left her office and flew home. This time, she watched all around her, taking in every detail as the familiar landscape rolled by. Repetitive, quotidian, but a semblance of life still clung to it, waiting to be explored. Spitfire figured that she only knew things from the way that she was used to seeing them, that she only understood things the way she knew them, and that beyond that there was still so much to explore, so much to not understand, and that prospect excited her.
Inspired by a small new wonder for the world surrounding, Spitfire chose to sing, closing her eyes and softly swaying her body in the breeze as she glided her way home:
Would you give me the time of day if I stopped the clock for you?
Would you lead my heart astray if I broke its lock for you?
Would you hurt me in nasty ways darling would you mock me too?
Would you step with me dance and sway if I tapped my trot to you?
Her wings grazed the soft clouds as she narrowed in on the upper levels of Canterlot, a homely comfort she had rarely experienced as a filly.
I’d give you every second every hour till there was no time left.
And I’d do everything in my power to make sure I did nothing less.
If roses have thorns then I’m your flower would I mock you? Oh you bet.
I’d walk with you till my fetlocks cowered I’d still dance with broken legs.
Canterlot began to emerge through the dense layer of clouds, its image resplendent. Spitfire barely noticed.
Well it’s nice to see you’re eager but can you keep up with my pace?
Pouring out my love by the litre why don’t you come have a taste?
So you can give but can you receive huh? Could I get up in your face?
If you’re a saint then I’m a believer but are my thoughts naught but chaste?
Spitfire flew around the mountain, circling it as she belted her tune loud enough for the far off ponies of the city to catch a few words. She began to descend, closing her eyes as she became more and more lost in her song.
I can see by the glint in your eye baby you wanna jump my bones.
Energy from your tail to your thighs baby you’re about to blow.
Don’t worry we’ll be starting off light baby we can do it slow.
And I’ll be whispering one little lie baby as I make you gasp and—
“Spits! Fancy seeing you here!” A familiar voice chirped, breaking her reverie.
“Huhwhatwhoa!” Spitfire jerked to the side, barely avoiding a nearby lamppost. “Holy shit… Vinyl?!”
The mare in question was sat on her doorstep, a massive grin on her face.