//------------------------------//
// Chapter 1 
// Story: A Cloudsdale Connection 
// by PseudoBob Delightus 
//------------------------------//

It was sunset. The cold cirroturf was lit orange from below, and sparse snowflakes glistened in the breeze. Two dozen ponies stood at attention in flight suits. In front of them was Sergeant Aero Ace, though he stood at attention as well, for they were all in the presence of Spitfire. 

And, pacing along the assembled lines, that she did. "This ain't flight school anymore, fillies. This is the real deal. You'll each face high winds and cyclones; rain, snow, and hail; cold to freeze your feathers off, and lightning to get what's left; and all that at night. Not just a night - the night."

The mare surveyed the team, past Angel Wings, past Snowflake, and caught a glance from Vapor Trail, who quickly set her eyes forward, hoping it wasn't noticed. Spitfire just smirked, and planned a slow, deliberate route between the assembled bodies.

"I know what you're thinking. It's difficult. It's dangerous." She closed her eyes and nodded, for effect. "It is! But, Sergeant," - the Sergeant's ears twitched - "would you mind telling these fine ponies how many injuries the Cloudsdale weather team has received on the big night in the last, say, ten years?"

Sergeant Aero thought for a moment. "What, you mean work stopping injuries, or," - but he was cut short by a withering gaze hanging over a pair of aviators. "Zero, sir!"

Spitfire pushed her sunglasses back up. "Zero. That's right." She marched over, and finally stopped in front of Vapor Trail, who tried not to flinch or cower in the Captain's presence. "Well, I think we're going to make that eleven years. What do you think, ponies?"

Vapor Trail managed to croak out a "Yes, sir!" on time with the rest of the weather team, and for just an instant, she thought she saw Spitfire smiling.

The instant was over as soon as she continued, turning around and heading back down the line. "You're damn right we are. Make 'em-"

Spitfire did a double-take at Snowflake, cocking her head to the side as she examined the saddlebags he wore. "Private. That's not a cargo harness."

Snowflake seemed to barely resist the urge to examine himself. "Yes, sir?" he replied.

Grumbling, Spitfire quickly headed back to the Sergeant and began dragging him away to complaints of safety hazards and such. He managed to let out a quick "at ease!", before the team was condemned to an evening of standing in place.

Vapor Trail let out a sigh along with the rest of the team, and turned to Angel Wings and Snowflake. The former groaned, "Geez, she still treats us like we're in flight school!"

"Some of us are still in flight school," Vapor reminded her. "We can't all screw the Dean."

"Can't we?" Angel snickered.

Meanwhile, Snowflake just looked at himself and went, "What's wrong with my bags?"

"They're not cool enough," Angel suggested. "You should get some flames sewn in. She'd like that."

Vapor Trail laughed, hoping Spitfire's hearing wasn't as good as her shouting.







It was sunset. A cascade of light and shadow split the towering skies. Looking out he thought, if he squinted, that he could see the practice fields - but it was miles away, and he was no griffin. 

The sets for the big night were going up. Sky Stinger would have liked to form some of the pieces, but he was the best flyer on hoof, so it was his job to fetch material. Not that there was any lack, of course, but the best stuff was in the columns of verticals, so he had to fly all the way out of the city to a healthy calvus, and bring hunks of it all the way back. Why couldn't they just use factory fluff? He hadn't heard a good answer.

On nights like these, when he caught a moment, he liked to sneak onto a ledge under the amphitheater and watch the stars appear - until some jerk's tower block drifted in. Tonight, things were clear.

Until a head poked out from under the cloudwall. "Hey, wad."

Sky Stinger nodded. "Hey, dick."

His boss floated down and sat himself on Sky Stinger's ledge, then held his hoof out, expecting something. Sky Stinger sighed and tapped out another dart, lit it off his own, and hoofed it over.

Halflight could only take one draw before he doubled over and coughed through his teeth. "Celestia fuck! How do you still smoke this stuff?"

Sky Stinger shrugged. "Hay, at least it's not peppermint."

"And it's cold enough already." Halflight took another draw. "Feels like I'm breathing ice."

Sky Stinger shrugged again. "So, what's the deal upwards?"

His boss growled. "Don't even ask. Those preppy colts are actin' like," - but he stopped himself. "Hm. It ain't in good spirits to complain right now."

For a while, they both puffed and watched the stars turn.

"So, you get your marefriend a good present?"

"We're friends," Sky Stinger reminded him - firmly.

"Yeah, well, I'm your friend, but you don't get me presents."

Sky Stinger looked back at Halflight, at his stupid, smiling face, and sighed. "... Sorry. It's been tough, with school, and training, and-"

"And livin' full time with your marefriend!" Halflight laughed.

When the laughing died down, he explained, "-It's her family, dick. I've mentioned it. And we hardly even see each other."

"Yeah, well, you need some time off alone with your friend, you ask me - 'kay, wad?"

Sky Stinger shook his head, and took another deep draw of spearmint. When he exhaled, he wondered, with a smile he couldn't quite get rid of, "Why do I tell you anything…?"