//------------------------------//
// What Has Been Seen 
// Story: If the Flight Suit Fits 
// by TheLastBrunnenG 
//------------------------------//

I am in my happy place. Birds are chirping, flowers are blooming, and that little yellow mare I saw at the Gala is flying my way carrying a picnic basket. All is well with the world. I am at peace, and that can only mean one thing. I’m dreaming. Daydreaming, more like it. I have work to do but I can almost smell the pie in that basket, warm as a summer sunbeam and so very, very scrumptious. This is so perfect… Too perfect. I give it exactly three seconds. Two. One.

Right on schedule, that’s my office door opening, and wouldn’t you know? Here’s Misty Fly, winner of the Least Personable Wonderbolt award three years running.

“Hey Soarin,” she snorts through a grin equally mischievous and wicked, “What do you call it when Spitfire smashes the Aerial Angels trophy over Dash’s head?”

I put a hoof to my temple and start rubbing little comforting circles. Eyes closed, I sigh and mutter, “I don’t know, Misty, what do you call it?”

“Foreplay!” she snickers as she slams the door, cackling her way down the hall. That detestable mare is the reason my whiskey stash is empty. She’s only told that joke eighty-seven times this week. Remind me to send her to the Griffin Kingdoms on a photo op and signature tour next time they suffer an empire-wide famine.

On the off chance our illustrious Captain and her favorite new recruit really are destroying more than our legendary team cohesion, carefully-cultivated reputation, and possibly several irreplaceable parts of our headquarters, I drag myself from behind my desk and go for a stroll. On the way I pass by the officer’s lounge, which is usually a mistake. Sadly, today is a usual day.

Rapidfire waves to me from a gaggle of ponies hovering over a table. “Hey boss, wanna get in on this?”

I pause in the doorway. The lounge on off-duty days is like the Gate to Tartarus: the sign above the door reading ‘abandon hope all ye who enter here’ isn’t kidding. “First, Rapid, the answer’s no. Second, what exactly am I not getting in on?”

“Betting pool! I’ve got three to one that either Spitty or Dash will be in the hospital before the Manehattan Flyover.” He stabs a hoof at a sheaf of papers, knocking over a tower of shiny golden bits.

“Rapid,” I moan, “if you’re gambling in the rec room, I really don’t want to know. And if you’re looking to – ” I have to pause for a second. I think my eye’s developing a twitch. “Wait, you mean you actually have a bracket for this?”

“Sure!” He beams a toothy grin and saunters over, holding a chart that’s about ten times more intricate than his last months’ worth of after-action reports put together. “See, Fleetfoot has ten to one that they’ll have a midair crash because they’re staring at each others’ flanks, and here’s a three to two that they’ll publicly strangle each other - that one was Misty’s idea.”

I think the dull repeated thudding sound I hear is my head hitting the doorframe but I can’t be entirely certain. Through the headache I snarl, “What are the odds that you blue-suited turkeys would be watching flight film or cleaning the barracks?”

From the opposite side of the table, Blaze just grins. “About the same odds as RD and Spits getting married, which our resident bookie puts at fifty to one.”

I can hear something crashing from further down the hall, so I shake my head and pretend I was never here. I do that a lot lately. I trot down corridors and around corners until I come to Spitfire’s office, and it sounds rough. Before I reach the door I can hear shouting and growling, and what sounds like rabid badgers fighting over the last scrap of  - never mind, that image isn’t nearly violent enough.

Through the door I catch the phrases “washed-up old geezer” and “stupid ignorant filly” and I wince. I do that a lot lately too. Something expensive-sounding just shattered inside the office, so it’s time to earn my hazard pay. Breathing deeply, I grab the doorknob and wade into the fray.

“Okay, you two, break it up!” I yell as I burst in, jaw set and ready to separate these two boneheads. “Think about the team! If you two can’t get along, then there’s no way we’ll… we’ll, uh…”

Oh. Oh my. I think my eye’s getting that twitch again. I need my whiskey stash refilled, pronto. Time to back away slowly and escape while I still have motor control.

As I stumble back to my office to lose myself in a good daydream, I stop by the lounge. “Hey Rapid,” I sigh, “I want in on the bracket. Twenty bits.”

He claps his hooves like a schoolcolt getting a lollypop. “Sweet! Which line, Soar?”

“All of ‘em.” I start to leave then duck my head back in. “Oh, and Misty – that thing about the Aerial Angels trophy? Turns out it’s true.”