//------------------------------// // "How come whenever there's a popular franchise they always have to put it on ice?" (Chapter I) // Story: Ice // by MJP //------------------------------// words in Red are in Japanese Ember “Alright, who’s next for hockey tryouts?” the large, beefy woman with deep purple skin, many scars and a missing arm and eye looked at the clipboard. “Emi...Hay...ke...kee.” “It’s pronounced Hah-ki-ke, Tempest. And I go by ‘Ember’.” I replied sharply “Wow,” said Tempest’s ‘assistant’: a short, pudgy man with white hair that looked and sounded suspiciously like Michael Peña and Stitch had a baby (of course I saw that movie, shut up.) Grabber was his name, I think. “Um, I think you’re in the wrong class, Martial arts tryouts are...” Tempest promptly smacked her assistant across the face. “Was that really necessary, Grubber?” “Yeah, I realized it was racist as I was saying it,” Grubber said, groaning. “What’s sad is, that wasn’t the first racist joke he’s made today.” Tempest then turned back to me. “Anyway, as I was saying before my assistant made those...highly inappropriate comments. Have you been on the Shadowbolts before?” “No, this is my first time trying out, but I’ve been practicing for about...half a year.” “Alright,” she put her clipboard on her knee and wrote some things down on her paper. “Show us what you can do, Ember.” “Gladly,” I smirked as I strapped on my helmet and slid onto the ice, gripping my stick as I quickly and sharply maneuvered around the cones set up towards the rink, coming to the goalpost on one end and catching the puck, keeping it close to me like I had trained myself as I maneuvered around more cones to the goal post on the other end, focusing on it as I briefly made my shot. Ca-clint. “Splendid,” I said to myself, looking at my made shot. I turned around to Tempest who was writing a few more notes on her clipboard. “I must say you’re impressive for a rookie, although your maneuvers around the ice a little bit rigid, you are a pretty fast skater and pretty good at keeping the puck. With a little training and a few drills you might actually stand a chance,” she said, coldly as usual. “I’ll let you know if you got it in a couple weeks or so, but don’t get your hopes up, Ember.” “Thanks...I guess.” I unsnapped my helmet, not sure how to take that remark. “And they say I’m cold,” I muttered under my breath as I walked off the surface and headed out. “What do you mean I’m not good enough to make the team?” I shouted. “You’re barely half the size of the other girls that showed up for tryouts, half of them could practically knock you down by flicking your forehead with their pinkie, not to mention that they’ve probably been skating way longer than you.” “Why’d I even ask?” I told myself “Dad, you saw me on the ice, and Tempest said I was really good.” “She said you were impressive for a rookie, which I do not necessarily agree with, personally I think you were...flawed on the ice.” “Way to be supportive, dad.” “Look, Ember, the Crystal Prep sports programs are really tough.” he said trying (and failing to sound sincere." “Wow, dad, I did not know that, idiot.” “LISTEN TO ME!” my dad sighed, though still loud as usual “I just don’t think you’re ready for the Shadowbolts, you’re still too young and for lack of a better word...weak for them right now.” “I’m Sixteen, dad.” “My point still stands! You go in thinking you’ll wipe the floor with everyone but then you get yourself badly hurt like that incident with Garble.” “That was three years ago, dad.” “And what’s changed between here and now?” “Well, I...ugh.” I gave up, not wanting to argue with someone who wasn’t going to listen to me anyway “I’ll be in my room,” I groaned as I walked away. My step-father, Torch was a British military man who married my mother when I was around 12 while stationed in Japan. My ‘real’ dad had just died of cancer two years ago, and, aside from insisting I learn English, Torch was a nice enough father figure at first, if a bit over-dramatic and loud, but then Mom died in a car crash when I turned fourteen, and he left the military to take care of me and moved us here to the suburb of Canterlot, Ontario. Three months after moving, I got into a brutal fight with a street tough named Garble trying to protect my one of my friends. Though I wasn’t permanently harmed in any way, I was still injured pretty badly and, as you can tell, he hasn’t been the same around me since. “You’re wrong about me, dad, just you wait.” Rainbow Dash “Ah, nothing like the feeling of hockey season, isn’t there, kiddo.” “Yep,” I cringed slightly as my dad put his arm around my shoulder. “Plus, I heard that the team is getting a new coach this year, so that’s something to look forward to, I guess.” I sighed before looking to dad. “You know, you don’t have to come to my tryouts, it’s not like I’ll actually need the support,” I smirked to myself at my potential awesomeness. “Hey, anything to make up for not being there during the Battle Of The Bands. Sorry about losing in the semi’s by the way.” “Eh, don't worry about it. It was...kinda my fault. It’s for the best you weren’t there.” “If you say so…” he said as we entered the Canterlot Community Center. “Look, I’m gonna head to the locker room to get my gear on, you can head over to the ice rink. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” “Ok, good luck.” “I don’t need it.” Even though Canterlot High is a relatively big school, because of it also being a middle school, there isn't a lot of room for things like a swimming pool, ice rink or tennis courts, and thus the community centre was built a few miles away to provide those things for the school as well as publicly, which explains why there are Canterlot High leaderboards and memorabilia everywhere. The ice rink was no different, with the surface having a baby blue tint, a Canterlot High logo on center ice, and both the plastic dividers between the rink and the seating and the surface itself covered in those fantastical embellishments the school seem to love, complete with a mural on the back wall of pegasi flying against a blizzard, fighting some ghost horses that, according to sunset, were apparently called windigos. (despite the fact that last I checked, windigos were furry werewolf-like creatures that ate human flesh) “What’th your name?” a white-haired girl with sunglasses, tealish skin and a lisp addressed me, before looking up from her clipboard at me and saying to herself, “Never mind.” “Look, do I need to do this?” I said, rolling my eyes. The women sitting next to her, whom I recognized from my St. Cloudsdale days as Spitfire rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that, Dash. You have to try out just like everyone else.” “Ok, ok fine. You know I’ll make the team anyway.” “Right,” she said begrudgingly. “Just do the damned drill.” I grabbed my stick and made my way onto the ice-surface, maneuvering around the rink, curving around the cones up to the goalpost on one side, shooting 7 lined pucks into the goal, and quickly went around the cones on the other side of the rink and came up to the other goalpost, once again shooting 7 pucks into the goal. Once I finished the drill I looked to Spitfire and the other girl. “Awesome, right?” Spitfire rolled her eyes. “You’re good, Dash, as usual. But you missed a few shots.” I looked over to the other goalpost, seeing that only four of the seven shots made it in. “Uhh, that’s not usual for me.” “Right…” Spitfire turned over to the woman with the lisp. “Put her on the list, Fleetfoot. And excuse us as I’d like to talk to her outside for a moment.” “Kapish,” she said. Spitfire then promptly stood up and walked over to the door, gesturing me to follow her, which I did, though I was a little confused as to why she wanted to talk to me. She brought me to the hallway outside the rink and looked down on me, eyes narrowing out of either respect or suspicion, or maybe both. “Rainbow Dash?” “Yes.” “I understand you are a very skilled and determined athlete, and I respect that. I have a feeling you’re going to be a very valuable asset on the ice.” “Why thank you…” “I’m not done!” Spitfire said sharply. “You are also very self-centered, disloyal and selfish.” “That was years ago, I’ve changed since then.” “I doubt it.” “What do you mean?” “Dash, I saw the video of you at the Battle Of The Bands AND that terrible ‘Awesome As I Wanna Be’ song you wrote.” “It’s not terrible.” “Yes, it is, and you know it. Anyway, I’m not gonna let you turn this into another ego trip for you. Iron Will may have let you gloat like this is a one-man show, but I run a tighter ship here, and if you’re not gonna be a team player, I’m not gonna put you on.” “Hey! You don’t think I’m a team player?” I growled defensively, before saying to myself, “You’re wrong about me, Spitfire, just you wait.”