With closed eyes, Scootaloo has come unstuck in time:
Her hooves are on the hard roof, the heat radiating up from it in waves that crashed against her face and sapped her of her will. She stretches each leg in turn, humming with the thrill of beginning as the sun rose to witness.
Her wings flare out, beautiful orange that clashes with the pink dawn and will not fade into it. They flap once, catching two great scoops of air just to prove that yes, they can, tell Celestia thank you very, very kindly.
Her smile blossoms, no—it erupts like a brilliant star on the horizon. The birth of a new sun, almost. Yes, that's exactly what it was.
Scootaloo brings the goggles down and secures them. They catch the glare of morning, casting intense light elsewhere.
She leans forward.
The Ponyville roof is slanted, and her slight momentum is enough to set her down, hooves pounding to keep up, as she sprints right off the edge.
At the last moment, right at the edge, she jumps forward and up.
For a brief, holy moment, she is suspended. Gravity opens up its awful maw to swallow her up, and the sky calls her to rise, and she is caught between heaven and hell. It is so short, and it is very important.
Her wings unfurl and grasp the dewy morning air with strength.
She is rising, speeding up, wings and mind listening to the song of a hundred generations of pegasi before her, the innate lore of wind and gust, lift and drag.
The wind tears at her mane, but she cares not a bit.
Scootaloo spins, turning and turning, corkscrewing through the air. Gravity tries to clutch at her hooves and pinions to pull her back down to the prosaic safety of dirt, but it cannot. As far as this particular pegasus is concerned, it never can again if she doesn't let it, and as she straightens out in mid-air she laughs like she can never remember laughing. It is like a bark, or a cry of challenge, like something she would do after scoring some point in childish games. It's winning and it's silly and it's important to her.
She heads up, up where only clouds go, up where the unicorns used to whisper that gods flew, and she looks down. She surveyed the paradise that was home, the familiar walks and hills and trees, the homely roofs and charming rustic windows that caught the rising sun like little secret fires. All of it is hers, the familiar places and the space beyond, every open field and shaded walk, every road and every house. Just for a moment.
Scootaloo smiles, young again and still on the Ponyville roof of her parents' house. Her wings are small, her frame is a little too thin, and her wild mane is even wilder before a shower and a good brushing. She is thoroughly unprepared for the day. The filly smiles, though, and climbs back down to her window with a sigh, wishing she could hover there. She can't.
And that's okay. As she steps into her room and sets off on her quest for a warm shower, it's perfectly alright because even as a child she knows that she is a child and time is long.
There are other things to worry about first, and other things to do. Many, before she sleeps.