Spitfire flew through the routine that had been drawn up for the next season of performances. Her wings pumped at the air and the fur around her muzzle and ears warmed from the friction of the wind as she proceeded precisely through the laid-out manoeuvres. Her mind was in several places at once – carrying out the moves she was doing, noting places to work on and improve in the moves she'd done and preparing for the moves she was about to do.
Spitfire flew to every point in the path with near-mechanical precision. Every spot in the routine had been decided so precisely that the only things stopping someone from making a map would be that it took place in three dimensions and that the paths converged and diverted continually in an intricate dance.
Spitfire flew for the benefit of her teammates. After all, the Wonderbolts weren't a solo, ego-driven element, no matter what some of the rookies assumed. They were a team and they had to be mindful of each other. Every burst of speed that sent a fresh wave of heat over her face; every turn so sharp the G-forces pulled at her insides; every dive-and-pull-out where she skimmed the ground by centimetres; all of them had to be made not only considering how she'd manage them and how she'd interact directly with her squadmates, but also how her slipstream affected, guided or interfered with all the ponies behind her. And, as she was the captain and lead flyer, that was a lot of ponies.
Flying filled Spitfire's every thought and impulse, so much that she would only know if she'd been breathing if she was still conscious by the end. She had no choice – any distraction, no matter how tiny, could be enough to send the whole routine spiralling out of control and, at the speeds they were going, they couldn't afford that kind of disruption. Of course, that same danger meant that whenever something did go wrong, there was no panic, no flailing, just a calm dispersing of formation and flying back to the clouds below.
And when Fleetfoot did just that, Spitfire merely gave an aggravated snort and banked into a u-turn before landing harshly in front of her panting squadmates. She took a moment to exhale slowly and gather her breath before glaring at them and asking, “Alright, what happened out there?”
Fleetfoot groaned. “Sorry, Cap. Got a little spooked when someone” she glared at High Winds, “got so close she could have sniffed my tail.”
High Winds glared right back, looking up at the taller mare. “Hey, cut me some slack – when I see Wave Chill suddenly start turning out of the routine right before the corkscrew, I get a little confused. So sue me.”
“I wasn't turning out of it, you frigging...” Wave Chill gave a growling sigh before turning to look at Soarin. “I had to adjust myself after my wing leader sent a bad slipstream my way.”
Soarin flinched back a little, his hooves raising defensively. “Hey, I just took the headwind a bit wrong – it happens! Besides, no one else had as much of a problem with it.”
“Oh, it just happens?” Wave Chill repeated mockingly, seemingly ignoring the second part. “You sure you didn't just get distracted watching a pretty mare again? Or maybe thinking about stuffing your face with pie?”
Soarin's eyes narrowed and his hooves lowered, an angry sneer coming onto his face. “Oh, that's rich, coming from the guy who ploughed through four of us last June just so you could get to signing autographs faster.”
Wave Chill rolled his eyes. “Well, excuse me for actually caring about our fans. Besides, my niece was gonna be there. Hurt my wing, too, but you don't see me whining about it.”
“You could have taken my eye out with that wing!” Soarin snarled. “If I had taken off my goggles a bit sooner... and you did knock Fleetfoot off the cloud!”
“Hey, don't try and drag me in on your side, Clipper,” Fleetfoot shot back. “Sure, Chill's a grade-A screwup but if you think you're any better, you've got another thing coming. You've been sniping at each other over that for months and I'm just sick of the pair of you. Course, I thought there was at least one mare I could rely on, but...” she glanced pointedly at High Winds again.
The shorter mare flinched at the barb. “Oh, for crying out loud, Flatfoot – I told you...”
“ENOUGH!”
The four arguing ponies cringed at the deafening cry and turned to Spitfire, only to receive such a furious glare every one of them seemed to shrink into themselves. It was as if all their anger had withered into nothing out of sheer inadequacy compared to their captain's fury.
“I asked for a simple report – just what went wrong, why it did and how it can be fixed. And yet you idiots decide it's a perfect time to give an impromptu performance of “Squabbling Foal Theatre”! It's pretty clear you all screwed up a little, it happens, but it's also clear this feud of yours is getting way out of hoof.” She glared particularly at Soarin and Wave Chill before her eyes caught the clock above the field.
A hoof raised to her forehead to try and rub away the incoming headache. Her mind briefly flashed to a small house miles away before she shook the image away. Come on, Spitfire, she thought to herself. This isn't that much worse than usual. You're not going to bother her over this. You've already decided you're going on Saturday. You can go a week without a visit, and you're going to prove it.
Spitfire sighed, hiding her thoughts beneath the irritation on her face – not a hard task, considering how vast it was – and waved a wing. “Look, hit the showers – I gotta go get ready to deal with the next batch of academy recruits. And about this bickering of yours, I'll say this – you've got a week to find some way of solving it yourselves. If not, then I'm gonna have to take matters into my own hooves. And you don't want me taking it into my own hooves, do you?”
“No, Captain Spitfire, Ma'am!” Soarin and Wave Chill said in unison, their voices so high and timid they sounded like they were trying to disguise themselves as foals to hide from their Captain's anger. For a split second, High Winds and Fleetfoot started to share a small laugh, their enmity forgotten, before a glance from Spitfire sent all mirth and stability fleeing.
“But...” Soarin spoke up, marginally less cowed than Wave Chill on account of being a little more used to Spitfire than anyone. “How...?”
“Oh, I'm confident you'll find a way,” Spitfire interrupted with a slow, menacing smile. “You just need the right motivation.”
“Or you could just oil up and get humping already,” Surprise called over from outside the small group. “I can't be the only one thinking it.”
“SHUT UP, SURPRISE!” the five ponies involved barked in unison. Spitfire pressed a hoof to her aching forehead. No, no, no – you can make it through today fine. Just fine!
“...and if any of you sorry load of horseapples are still here by the end of the week, my jaw's gonna fall all the way through the clouds and down to the ground, I promise you. But I'm feeling generous – if you still think you've got the right stuff for the Wonderbolts, I'll give you a chance to prove yourselves wrong.”
Spitfire strode up to the front of the cadets and looked down the line of them, scanning their expressions and postures. Almost all of them had one of the two reactions she expected and preferred from her opening speech – either their legs and back ramrod straight, staring straight ahead as they put their all into staying disciplined and stable in the face of her tirade, or attempting to look like that first group, but failing due to their shaking legs and trembling lips. Still, she kept looking, searching for that one...
There you are.
She marched down the line, both to get close to the pony she'd spotted and so she could continue to scan the line to the end – just because there was one potential problem cadet didn't mean there couldn't be more.
Once she was satisfied there was only one she had to worry about, she turned to look closely at the stallion in question. He was also trying to stay in the appropriate position, but the relaxation in his posture and the small smile that his mouth seemed to naturally fall into broadcast his attitude clearly to Spitfire's trained eye. Either he'd not really been paying attention to what she'd been saying or he'd simply filed it away into ‘things for the less amazing ponies to worry about’, and Spitfire would bet her primaries it was the latter.
She glared at him through her shades. “What about you, Cadet? You think you're hot stuff?”
“No, ma'am,” he replied evenly, but it was clear even to the other cadets that he didn't mean it, if the hints of groans she heard were any indication. He said it partially because he knew you weren't supposed to talk back to the captain and partially as a subtle humble-brag.
Spitfire snorted. “Well, good. Once you're dashing outta here to go cry under your bed, wouldn't want it to be too surprising, would w-?”
A tiny, almost imperceptible snort from the pony in front of her registered in her ears, cutting her off. It was hard to mistake the beginning of a laugh and, judging by the smirk still on his face, it was out of derision.
“Something funny, Cadet?” she asked, raising a challenging eyebrow.
“Er, no, ma'am,” he asked, the smirk finally leaving as he recognized his slip-up.
“Oh? Cause I'm positive I just heard a laugh there. You in the habit of just snorting and laughing for no reason, cadet?” She paused for a moment, gauging his reaction.
Judging by the way he straightened himself up and allowed his face to fall back into cockiness, there was no point letting him answer. As such, she held a hoof up. “Let me guess, you thought that because you're just so good, so fast and skilled, such a prodigy, you could just stroll your way through training, fly your way up the ranks at sonic speeds and be in the main team by the end of the year, all without having to worry about the effort and care the lesser pegasi'd have to take, right?”
The fact that his reaction wasn't nearly as stunned as it should have been was not a good sign.
Spitfire pressed her face close to his. “And just what made you think that was gonna happen, huh?”
“Er, Rai- nothing, ma'am!” he barked out, finally beginning to sweat. However, Spitfire barely noticed, having to put all her effort into keeping her eye from twitching as she recognized what he'd stopped himself from saying.
Rainbow Dash. It was certainly true that her rise within the 'Bolts was extraordinary... but Spitfire had witnessed firsthoof the effort – the blood, sweat and tears, sometimes literally, she'd put in. Spitfire had done everything she could to test the limits of that mare's determination and she'd pushed through every time.
And yet, it seemed like with every new batch of recruits, there was at least one who thought that her story meant that any smug amateur with a decent 100-metres time could saunter up the ranks without breaking stride.
Still, that was only part of what had gotten under her skin about the reference. Though she'd never give any hint about it to anyone she didn't know damn well, let alone a cadet... she screwed up when it came to dealing with Rainbow Dash. Twice. First she'd nearly lost her as a candidate in favour of a reckless lunatic, then she'd seen her only as a way of winning instead of questioning whether she could or should join them. And while she didn't truly want to forget about those incidents, else she knew she'd never learn from them, she really didn't like being reminded about them, least of all by a rookie like this.
Despite that, she steeled herself, filing at least the latter bit of irritation away – he had no way of knowing about that. However, this stallion's attitude did need fixing.
So she took in a deep breath, pulled off her sunglasses and looked him in the eye, her mouth rising into a sadistic grin. “Okay, hot shot. Here's the deal. Normally, I'd start training off with five hundred laps but, just for fun, you and you alone can give me an extra hundred. If you can do that without coming last... well, you won't have broken any records, but it'll mean there might be something to you. Otherwise... well, we'll just have to see, won't we?”
The stallion flinched back. “You ca-” he started before cutting himself off.
Not that it did him any good. “I can't?” Spitfire asked, her grin sharpening. “Oh, I can, I just did, and I will for as long as I like. So, if I were you, I'd drop that ego a few notches so I don't have to, clear?”
She took his wide eyes and quivering throat to mean 'yes'.
That done, she turned to the rest of the cadets, raising an eyebrow at their nervous expressions.
“Well? Did I stutter? Five hundred laps – get to it!”
As one, the group shot off like they'd been fired out of a catapult. Once they were away and out of earshot, Spitfire heaved a growling sigh, her previously suppressed irritation flooding back into her mind. It's okay, it's okay. No need for a visit, this is good.
Okay, just fifty-three more to go, Spitfire thought as she reached over and tapped the clicker counter at the corner of her desk, sending the number display down one before she put the finished form into her outgoing tray. Should be done by nine, at the latest. She occasionally wondered if the time she spent updating the counter, momentary though each individual click was, was time that it would be better for her not to waste. However, it never took her long to remember how hellishly interminable her paperwork had always been before she got it, as opposed to now when it was only miserably interminable. Even if it did use a bit of time, it made things feel like they went a lot quicker and it certainly helped maintain her ever-dwindling sanity.
“Hey, Cap,” she heard Soarin say from her office's doorway, her second-in-command speaking a moment before he thought to actually knock on the open door. “Got the papers you wanted me to deal with.”
Oh, thank Celestia! Spitfire raised her head and blinked heavily, happy for even a brief distraction. “Great, Clipper – bring 'em over here.”
“Sure thing,” Soarin said as he entered the office proper and placed a small sheaf of paper on the desk. Spitfire briefly wondered whether most people would consider the stack small or not, as her own standards of size for paperwork were... a bit skewed. She was soon interrupted by Soarin asking, “You wanna take a quick look through them, make sure I did 'em right?”
“Mm-hm,” Spitfire replied absently, her eyes having started scanning the pages in front of her long before he'd finished asking the question. Her gaze flashed quickly across every word written, checking for any errors or problems with a long-practised speed. She did have to stop herself from purposely taking longer than necessary simply because even reading forms was a welcome break from filling them in, but it wasn't a hard impulse to suppress.
After a minute or so, she nodded. “Huh. Yeah, this is... this is pretty good work.”
“I know, I was as surprised as you,” Soarin said with a slight laugh. “I mean, I'm happy to help with this stuff, but, to be honest, when you brought it up, I thought you were going nuts. More than usual, anyway.”
Spitfire looked up from the paper with a sharply raised eyebrow, but it didn't seem to bother Soarin – right now, even if they were technically on duty, it wasn't the same as it was when they were doing drills or practice. There was no shouting, no glares, just two ponies trying to figure out how to proceed.
“I mean, you know me – I can barely keep track of my uniform half the time,” Soarin said with a wry smile. “Trusting someone like me with forms and reports? Really? But, yeah, turns out it wasn't nearly as hard as I thought. Just have to put a bit of thought into it and gets done real quick.”
“Who'd have guessed?” Spitfire asked, her eyebrow remaining up.
“Yeah, I know,” Soarin replied, seeing the humour in the remark even as Spitfire had trouble doing so. “By the way, Cap, about this morning? The stuff with me and Wave Chi-”
“If it's an apology, save it,” Spitfire said, though the weary calm in her voice made clear it wasn't an angry interruption. “As long as you figure out how to get past it so it doesn't keep being a problem, that'll be more than good enough for me. And I'd rather you put your thought and energy into that than into how to make me less mad.”
“Well, it's not like ponykind's discovered anything that could achieve that,” Soarin joked, not seeming to notice Spitfire's hoof slipping into the top drawer of her desk. “And, yeah, we're... working on it. I'm hoping we can get things sorted before... well, anyway, you want this in your out tray?”
“Uh huh,” Spitfire waved at the tray in question, about to return to the form she'd left before a startled snort drew her attention back to Soarin.
“That's your out tray?!” He asked, staring in astonishment at the tower of paper rising out of the plastic box. “Guess ‘in’ the out tray's not really how it works, huh? You sure you don't want me to take a bit more of this stuff off your hooves?”
Spitfire sighed. “Baby steps, Clipper – we'll get there if and when we get there. For the moment, we'll keep going at the pace we are and see where things get to be a problem. But believe me,” she nodded as he carefully balanced the completed forms atop the pile before turning to leave, “even this many being taken off my hooves is a blessing. Thanks, Soarin.”
Soarin paused his exit mid-step and looked back at Spitfire. “Thanks? You're saying thanks? Where've you stashed Spitfire, changeling?”
Spitfire levelled an unamused glare at him.
Immediately, Soarin raised his hooves defensively, having to spread his wings to keep up the awkward posture for a moment. “Yep, okay, never mind, it's definitely you, Spits. Well, you're welcome, anyway. See you tomorrow.”
Spitfire looked out after him for a moment, unsure how to take his remarks. After a moment, though, she shook her head – however she should take them, it wouldn't get this work done any faster. She glanced over at the counter and blinked in confusion.
Fifty-three? Was... was it that many before? I don't... never mind.
She growled and went to pick up her pen again, only to realise that her hoof was still in her desk drawer. For a moment, she was confused, before she felt the material beneath her hoof and remembered what she kept in that drawer. She sometimes wondered if she shouldn't find a more hidden place for it, but she doubted it was a problem – the others might be a little surprised to find a vest in one of her desk drawers, but it wouldn't seem particularly suspicious. And the garment itself looked perfectly ordinary – there was no way for them to know who gave it to her, what would happen when she put it on or how she'd always do so before visiting...
No! Spitfire yanked her hoof out of the drawer sharply, snorting. No, you've been over this. Saturday! You're seeing her on Saturday! That'll be...She blinked for a moment, shocked at herself before carefully, almost reverently opening the drawer and straightening out the vest, making sure it didn't get creased or scuffed. That'll be fine. I can get through the next few days, no problem. Her eyes caught the counter again. Fifty-three more forms and the next few days. I can do this. I don't need to go back to her so soon. I'm not going to go back to her so soon.