Just a Boring Old Gala

by Skaugset

Chapter 1

It was a warm, midsummer night in Canterlot. At 2 in the morning, all the gas lamps in the city were on, lighting up the streets in an orange, encompassing glow. The palace stood above the streets, shining majestically in gold and white against the mountainous backdrop present throughout the city.

However, not all was well in these normally welcoming streets. A haze of thick black smoke hung over the rooftops like a damp blanket, smothering the city in a translucent haze that kept anypony from seeing more than ten or so meters in front of them. On account of this, all the ponies in town were seeking shelter indoors, and away from the choking smog.

Every Looky-loo in Canterlot gazed out from their windows in an attempt to ascertain the cause of the blaze. None of them had much luck in this endeavor; the good news is in the fact that the fire was no longer raging, the Canterlot Weather Brigade having succeeded in putting it out a few minutes prior.

“The question remains though, why was this fire started? Is anypony else in danger? And what can you do to protect your loved ones? All these answers, and more, are right after this break.” The news pony took off his headset and set it down on the black seat beside him. Gazing out of the zeppelin high above the smoke, which was now clearly dissipating, the stallion turned his gaze toward the castle, the location of the fire, and tried to find out as much as he could before the Fire Department allowed the rest of the news zeppelins access.

If he could see that far he would be able to see the other ponies slowly crawling out from behind cover, or just turning tail and running, now that the fire was out. If his eyesight were really good, he would have been able to make out the single mare that stood in the center of the hall amidst the destruction and settling dust. This story is about that mare, and here are her thoughts.

Well damn, she thought to herself, look on the bright side though, it could be worse. Estival Sky could have shown up, and that would have been worse. Princess Celestia could have been in the country for the Gala this year, which would also have been worse.

Now that there was less noise and she could actually hear herself think, she gazed around the destroyed hall, trying to get her bearings as well as make an escape route. The northern wall was a no go, it had been the entrance passage, but was now completely blocked by some collapsed supports that luckily had not crushed anypony.

West was out too, the wall was still entirely intact, and the stained glass undamaged. The area in front of the wall was another story entirely; what had once been the buffet table, covered in hundreds of delectable delicacies that she had never even had a chance to sample, now stood in ruin. The once beautiful crystal punch bowl, which had been capable of reflecting a rainbow in every direction, now lay on the floor in tens of thousands of pieces.

The south also had an intact wall, and the stage that had held the musicians and their classical instruments was split down the middle. The harp’s strings were all broken, the cello was in pieces on the floor, and the violin was nowhere to be seen. Oh, and the piano was still on fire.

With the dust settling, the pegasus saw her final chance: the eastern wall. Whether by fire or sheer brute force, the space the wall had once occupied now contained nothing but some smoke and the occasional Fire Control Pony. This is it; this is my chance to get out! With that thought she began galloping toward the fresh air and trees that led out into the royal gardens. Just as she extended her wings and felt the warm updraft begin to carry her, hope was struck down.

“Breaking news from the heart of the destruction, this is the Canterlot Eye in the Sky, Channel 7, reporting from what was the Grand Galloping Gala. Now, this heap of rubble, smoke and injured ponies is quite the sight to behold.” The zeppelin full of news-ponies was now directly overhead, and filming the entire scene. “What has happened on the ground? Is everyone okay? Well we’re about to send down our Pegasus reporting squad to find out the inside scoop, stay tuned.”

Well that made it worse; she thought to herself, I’m gonna to have to get out of here before I’m seen on that camera. At that moment, it got even worse for her.

“SPITFIRE!” Called out a deep and resonating voice, filling the hall with an echo. The stallion in question stepped out from behind the remnants of the buffet, eyes filled with a seething anger that threatened to go over.

“Horseapples.” Spitfire stated her last bit of hope completely razed. She glanced up, hoping that some last piece of rubble would fall on her and end it quickly. She was not lucky enough to escape Estival Sky that way.

Instead of the sweet release she was hoping for, Spitfire had the flashbacks associated with it: specifically of that first performance in Manehattan.

It was always Spitfire’s dream to join the wonderbolts. Even as a filly, she had been a fast flier and sure that she was good enough to be a part of the famous team. Her idol, Estival Sky, was the current captain, and was rumored to be the fastest Pegasus to have ever lived.

Once she was old enough to be a squealing fan girl for him, she had her room in Cloudsdale covered in everything Wonderbolt. And now as she finally wore the uniform, and stood right next to Estival, she felt like her life was fulfilled. She could die a happy mare now. Thinking about that only got her more excited, completely drowning out the nerves that were trying to break through her barrier of happiness.

“Alright Spitfire,” her mentor started, “I know how first shows go, yours isn’t going to be any different. You will fail.”

Spitfire was taken aback at his sudden brash attitude; it was out of character from his normally supporting attitude. Seeing the look on her face, he continued. “You won’t do as well as you hope because no matter how easy it all seems in practice, having tens of thousands of ponies watching your every move and silently, or in some cases not so silently, judging you takes a toll on every single flier I’ve ever seen, myself included.”

She knew the story of his first performance. Everyone knew that story.

“You know my story and everyone else here has one too, even if the more proud ones won’t admit it. You have to accept the fact that something will go wrong, and prepare for it. When everyone starts to boo, jeer, and yell, you must promise me to never give up! That’ll be what you want to do, you’ll want to quit and never show your face again, but you must realize that it will never be that bad again. Every show from this point onward will only get easier, you have to remember that.”

As he wrapped up his speech, Spitfire was more worried than before, as those nerves finally broke through, and came crashing down on her confidence like a tsunami on condos. All those doubts that she never had before finally came back to her, and started to fill what had once been pride and accomplishments with self-doubt and worry.

No matter how she felt though, Estival was starting the long trek out of the locker room and towards the field. Sighing internally as she made up her mind, confidence or no confidence, she needed to perform.

So with all the confidence she could possibly muster, she followed her mentor out of the locker room doors and down the hallway where she proceeded to be blinded by the bright white lights that seemed to cast an unnatural glow on the posters of hoofball legends. She eventually made it to the end and stepped out onto the field where her eyes slowly adjusted, and she saw the screaming fans. The great noise of the crowd deafened her, and Estival Sky motioned for her to keep walking, she knew her only choice was to step out further, into that wild unknown.

To this day, Spitfire still cannot remember how it all happened, mostly because she refuses to ask anypony. Apparently, during the haze that was the halftime show, she had ended up crashing into the giant electronic scoreboard, knocking away the supports, and causing dozens of ponies to run for their lives as it crashed down to the stands. Her next memory was of the tears in her eyes as she flew straight back into the locker room at top speed, followed closely by the rest of the team, with Estival bringing up the rear.

For what seemed like an eternity no one said anything. The pause dragged on and on, covering the pegasi in an awkward silence that only made Spitfire feel worse. Slumped over the bench in the center of the room, everyone else left her alone, got changed, and left with no more than a passing glance. At that point Estival and Spitfire were the only ones left in the locker room.

“How are ya feeling sport?” The mentor asked.

“Like I want to die,” Spitfire replied, turning her head to the other side of the bench.

“Very normal reaction, that is, I know I felt it when I ran into Celestia. She knows how awkward it is to suddenly be embracing an 18 year old pegasus, on your back, with workout sweat dripping down…”

“I know the story,” Spitfire repeated to her mentor.

“In any case,” Estival continued, clearing his throat and trying to stop the blush, “do you remember what I told you just before we went out?

“Never give up…”

“What was that?” He said with a smirk Spitfire never saw.

“You told me to never give up!” she screamed, trying to wipe away the tears that were rolling down the sides of her face. She looked up at him and glared, trying to make herself feel better by getting angry.

“Okay!” He yelled back, stomping the ground, “so what are you gonna do!?”

“NOT GIVE UP!”

“RIGHT, now get changed and I’m gonna go buy you a beer.” He extended a hoof towards her in friendship, as she got up off of the bench.

Looking back up at him, she just smiled, and bumped his outstretched hoof.

Years later she learned that he gave that speech about failing to everyone, and every single time it made them more nervous than before, causing them to mess up in some, usually hilarious, way. Learning that he had wanted her to fail was difficult to come to terms with, but she also knew that the lesson about never giving up was really what he wanted to get across from the whole experience. He knew that the new recruits needed to know how it felt to fail, and make them hate that feeling. After all, if they hated that feeling, they would never let it happen again.

While in the short term that lesson had cost the city of Manehattan a good chunk of bits, it also saved her from doing something stupid later on. For that, she would always be grateful.

The next part of Spitfire’s life came from just one short week after the stadium incident, they were in Canterlot at their main headquarters and everyone was doing something. Many of the pegasi were training in the fields in the back, or working endurance in the private gym. The planners were rushing around their cubicles, trying to make sure nothing conflicted and all the gears of the Wonderbolts were working properly.

Spitfire had just come in and received a note from a frantic-looking page, telling her to go and see Estival immediately. She had had a good last few days off, so she was hoping her luck continued as she walked over to his office, humming tunelessly under her breath.

As she reached the door she noticed it was already open, and knocked lightly out of politeness. She could see him inside through the crack, and he looked overworked and overstressed.

“Come in, Spitfire,” he said, not looking up from his papers, “take a seat.” That’s not a good sign; he’s usually much more open, she thought.

Spitfire noticed that he had his reading glasses on, which he usually only put on to look important. That probably meant fine print on whatever he was reading and that probably meant something bad. This all ran through Spitfire’s head as she waited for him to start speaking. She had an overactive imagination, at times.

“Well, this fine print is pretty bad, for you, at least.” Nothing like getting straight to the point, she thought. She said, “What is it?”

“Well there’s a bit of a problem concerning the Gala, it’s coming up in…” he hesitated, counting on his hooves, “three weeks, and as you know, every Wonderbolt is invited as a guest of the Princess.” She did. “There’s a bit of an issue though, because this law,” which he emphasized by shaking the bunch of papers he was holding, “is too damn vague for its own good.

“The only line that applies to you, however, is…” he rifled through the stack, looking for one sheet in particular. Once he found it, he continued, “this one, which states “In times of crisis, the establishment created within said law 176b must remain Ever Vigilant in order to prepare a defense against-“and the rest is legal crap, but what it means to you is that the Gala is a no go.”

“What is this law? I hadn’t heard of it before you said it,” she replied, starting to sound anxious.

“That’s not surprising, it is over 600 years old, and doesn’t really apply in times of peace, but it has been interpreted to mean that somepony active on the wonderbolts must be able to work at any time, and in this case that’s you.

“Some of the senior pegasi are upset with the old way of drawing straws because they might have to miss it even though they have seniority. So it was voted in that the newest Wonderbolt will have to serve his, or in this case her, time as the stand in. That’s where you come in.”

“But Captain—“

“Hey, did you just call me Butt Captain?” he said, still trying to lighten the mood. She was not amused. “I thought it would be better to hear it like this from me, like taking off a bandage, fast and incredibly painful.”

Spitfire was not amused by the jokes, and continued, “sir, I’ve been looking forward to going to the Gala ever since I was accepted!” she exclaimed, “I’ve never gone and it’s every ponies dream to actually go to the Gala, now I thought I would actually have a chance to go and you’re just… taking it away? You can’t do this Estival!”

“The hell I can’t!” His sudden outburst shocked Spitfire into silence. He realized that was a bit harsh, and sat back in his chair. “I’m sorry Spitty,” she hated that nickname and he knew it, “but it’s already done, and you have a more important job than the rest of us. We just go and schmooze with the high-ups, and between you and me, it’s a total bother. If I wasn’t captain, I’d stay here myself.”

Spitfire began to realize that it was hopeless and stayed quiet, her face downcast. Estival let out a sigh, and took off his glasses. “Why do you think I’ve been staring at this damn legislation for the last three hours? I’ve been trying to find a loophole, but it’s just vague enough to warrant liability if we were found not at our post in case of a disaster. I try every year to find something, anything, but it’s fruitless every time. My time as a lawyer is apparently not very helpful.”

She’d never actually heard him sound quite so intelligent in a bookish way before, and it showed just how much he cared. She would forgive him; it was not even his fault after all, but not that easily.

“Well then, maybe I’ll just hold a giant rave here, invite some escorts, and get some drugs… Oh! I’ll hire DJ-P0N3 too; the entire block will be listening to whatever we’re playing. Then we’ll hijack all of the fire trucks, attach her “Bass Cannon” to the top of it, and break all the windows. Then when we’re finished we can fill the river with dragon fire and have it burn through the night! Also, don’t call me Spitty.”

“Shut up kid, and thanks for taking it in strides,” he was clearly relieved to finally have the whole thing over with.

“No problem boss, whatever you say,” she said with a corny salute.

She could hear him chuckle as she walked back out to the main hallway, and it was a good thing her back was turned so that he wouldn’t see her face betraying her cool act.

Spitfire had managed to compose herself by the time she got to the West Field, and that was for the best since Fleetfoot was out here too. The two of them had met early on in Spitfire’s tryouts, and had become fast friends. With a personality much more laid-back than that of Spitfire, they bonded easily. She had been a Wonderbolt for only a year or so longer than Spitfire herself. When she saw Spitfire, she flew down.

“Hey Spitfire, how’s life?” she asked, landing lightly next to Spitfire.

“Oh, it’s glorious,” Spitfire replied, words oozing sarcasm.

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse, I was just informed about the “Ever Vigilant” crap.”

“Trust me Spitty,” Spitfire winced, “I know better than most how you feel, I got stuck with “protecting the realm” last year, luckily that means I didn’t have to draw a stick this year, I was exempt.”

“That’s not why you haven’t drawn a stick, it’s because the rules were changed,” a look of confusion came over Fleetfoot’s face before Spitfire explained: “Now it’s by seniority, newest member gets stuck alone here.”

“Well that blows for you, but it’s really not that bad. Okay around 3 AM it gets pretty bad, but other than the mind-numbing boredom, it’s pretty aight.”

“Did you just try to use ‘aight’ in a non-ironic way?” Spitfire asked with an incredulous tone.

“You know it home-slice, this job is pretty legit, no pages or interns in the building, I had a couple friends in there for a while, we raced on the desk chairs down the main hall.” She moved her hand through the air, ensuring Spitfire got the full effect. “Then I bucked open the main doors, like a boss, and had a couple beers after the others left. Then it was three and my mind began to melt.”

“Mhm, mhm, I knew some of those words.” They both laughed at themselves and each other, which helped calm down Spitfire a bit.

“In all seriousness, it’s not too bad. Besides, you should hear some of Estival’s stories about the stuck-up pricks that comprise the guest list. Most of them think that they’re more important than everyone else there, leading to more than a few interesting fights about one not sinking down to the other’s level.”

“Still,” Spitfire continued, the reality of the situation settling back down like a ton of bricks, “I was looking forward to the Gala for the last two months, to have it ripped out from under me like this feels pretty much like crap.”

Suddenly, Fleetfoot looked like she had an idea strike her.

“Hey Spitfire, I just had an idea strike me, why don’t I stay here with you?”

“What? And miss two Galas in a row? I could never ask you to do that,” Spitfire started, but was interrupted by Fleetfoot:

“Now that I think back to two years ago, that Gala was kind of crap, and hanging with you at three in the morning will probably be a hell of a lot more interesting than being stuck at another Gala. I can miss one more year.”

Spitfire was taken aback at her friend’s sudden burst of generosity. Not that she was selfish, but she did not usually think of ways to help her friends. “If you’re sure you want to stay with me, I guess I can’t stop you. But are you sure you don’t want to go?”

“Spitfire. You know me. Do I seem like the kind of mare who would actually enjoy formal gatherings?”

“Good point. Now let’s go join the Skyball game.”

“Way ahead of you Spitty!” she called as she took off.

Spitfire rushed after her friend, now at least slightly less likely to become clinically depressed. Estival watched her from his window, glad that she seemed to be acting normally. Giving bad news had never been is strong point.

The room wouldn’t stop spinning, Spitfire noticed. Wasn’t the room normally stationary? Spitfire remembered it being stationary. Sure she was new here, but after she stopped spinning, wasn’t the room to follow suit?

Eventually it stopped, but that just made Spitfire (Only 5PM and already bored out of her mind) want to spin in the chair again. She’d gotten here an hour ago, and even with a stationary room there was a disturbing lack of Fleetfoot. “Bleeeeeehhhhhhhh,” She stated.

She decided against more dizziness, and instead went to check the window. No sign of Fleetfoot, but there were a surprising number of formally dressed passers-by, probably all going to that stupid Gala, Spitfire thought.

“Well buck them!” She swore, slightly louder than she intended since they turned towards the window and glared at her. She smiled awkwardly and went back to the comfy chair.

“Well mister chair, ready for another spin?” she asked the inanimate object.

“Wow,” a voice said, “one hour in and already talking to yourself. Good job, I believe you have set a new record for the level of crazy present in this room.”

“It took you long enough,” Spitfire said to Fleetfoot who now stepped out of the main entrance. “You get lost on your way to the bathroom?”

“Ahh, ha ha ha, that’s funny, she’s funny!” Fleetfoot said to the wall on her left. “Screw you,” She said, pointing to Spitfire.

“I aim to please,” she said giving an exaggerated bow, “Now please; tell me you brought the goods? Please? I’m about to jump off the top of this damn building.”

“You do realize you can fly, right? You’re not that far gone?”

“I hope to be soon,” grabbing a bottle of gin, and one of tonic water. Fleetfoot herself grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and settled down in the chair next to Spitfire. They both poured themselves a drink of their respective liquors, and relaxed back into the chairs.

“To a night I hope to forget,” Spitfire said, raising her glass.

“May all your dreams come true,” Fleetfoot responded as they both raised their drinks and took a sip.

“You know what I think,” Fleetfoot slurred, “I think that they jusht hate you, and thatsh why you are shtuck here with me and your twin shishter.”

“I don’t have a sister,” Spitfire replied, not nearly as drunk as her friend, “and I think you’re so drunk that you’re seeing double.”

“Tell that to the three windowsh over there,” she said pointing towards a wall.

“Okay, there’s not even one window there Fleet, I think you’ve had enough of that for now.”

Spitfire tried to reach out and grab the bottle from her friend, only to have it pulled away, and lifted high into the air. Fleetfoot blew a raspberry at her and proceeded to finish off the bottle of Colt Daniels.

“Pleashe shishter, you don’t know me!” Fleetfoot started, “I ain’t no lightweight like you sheem to be.

“I, for one, can hold my liquor. You, on the other hoof, appear to be drunker than an Irish-pony,” Spitfire was now giggling at her own joke.

“See,” Fleetfoot said, sobering up slightly, “I can tell you are getting reeeeaaaaally really drunk because you are getting racist. And I am pretty sure you’re not normally a racist because racism is a crime, and crimes are for zebras! Ha!”

“Damn, we are lucky we’re not in public right now, we both get drunk when we get bigoted,” Spitfire then proceeded to slump over the back of her exceedingly comfy chair, content with her statement.

“That was out of order.”

“Your face is out of order!” At that Fleetfoot raised an eyebrow, inquisitively. “Shut up you... you... whatever,” Spitfire pointed a hoof at Fleetfoot, menacingly.

At that, both of the mares fell into fits of uncontrollable laughter, putting their drunken pasts behind them, and agreeing that was enough alcohol for one night. After a while they both settled down and started doing slightly less ridiculous things. Fleetfoot told Spitfire some of the horror stories that came from some of their past performances, and Spitfire started trying to tell jokes. Neither went very well, but it was at least a way to pass the time.

So the night continued in this fashion, and three more hours passed. It was just past 11:30 PM when Spitfire got an idea… an awful idea. Spitfire got a wonderful, awful idea.