Soaring Waltz
The first attempt at a glance of surroundings was unsuccessful, for light of the new setting was too blinding for anything but a brief glimpse, and his eyes were too swollen to open. The second attempt was also a failure, as was the third, despite the hopeful “third time’s the charm” which Soarin’ chanted in his head. He was set at unease due to the unidentified liquid trickling through his wings and the excruciating pains his entire body was experiencing, particularly the dislodged chunks of Celestia-knows-what in his abdomen.
Don’t worry, he tried to convince himself. That’s just sweat. You’re sore from working out. This is only a dream. I’m fine. Everything is okay. But a small portion of him knew none of this was the truth. Were it true, he would wake up and resume living normally. But Soarin’ could only barely open his eyes.
His ears rung, and past that, he could hear only hazed voices all frantically shouting from less than a few hooves away. Feeling the rush of the air, Soarin’ concluded he was moving, though he still had no clue where he could be. Then, with a sniff of the recognizably stale air, he knew where he was.
OH MERCIFUL CELESTIA, I’M IN A HOSPITAL. Soarin’ knew the scent well from his multiple visits, but he’d never been in a situation similar to the chaos he now found himself in.
What did I do now? Will I still be able to fly? Am I going to need surgery? How many bones did I break this time? His thoughts were interrupted by a well-known voice: Spitfire. With some difficulty, he put together her words.
“You’re going to be alright Soarin’. Just don’t ever try to pull a stupid stunt like that again, you moron...” Her voice trailed off, and eventually disappeared altogether. He tried to speak back, but felt his mouth form nothing but gibberish.
Why couldn’t she stay here? Soarin’s epiphany quickly answered this inquiry. We just passed the doors into the surgery ward, didn’t we? He flailed his limbs in pitiful protest, knowing well that a surgery may end his career as a show flier.
“Sir, calm down and count backwards from ten,” a mare ordered, placing a mask on his snout.
Ignoring both of her commands, Soarin’ mumbled,“Wha- I don... wh... st...”
One by one, his senses left him until the world faded to a dull, empty black.
____
The comfortably cool air was the first thing he felt. Then, the linen of a thin blanket. As he returned to the rest of his senses, he heard the faint rhythm of a steady beeping supported by the background buzzing of fluorescent lights. Bits of light and conversation enticed him to open his eyes. A slight flinch later, his suspicions were confirmed. He sat with a mixed sense of grief and awe as he found himself in a hospital room. Numerous flower bouquets and “get well soon” cards lay on the bedside table, the heart monitor chimed out gleefully, and nurses in the area went about their business.
His mane was messier than usual, and Soarin’ was relatively certain he could see flakes of dried blood in it, though he chose to ignore that observation. His body still cried out in pain, particularly his wings, which he noticed were suffocated to the tip by bandages. With an alarming amount of stitches in his side and bandages around his waist, the rest of his body fared no better.
Turning his focus elsewhere, Soarin’ noticed Spitfire’s Wonderbolt uniform draped over a chair’s arm, which implied she wouldn’t be far away. Nopony ever had any difficulty finding her, and neither did Soarin’, who with a quick glance found her signature bright orange mane. She appeared to be speaking with a nurse, and with every pause in between her questions, she turned her gaze to Soarin’. Despite his body’s painful opposition, he instinctively perked up and smiled as he always did in the presence of friends. She rolled her eyes in reaction, mouthed the words “he’ll be fine” to the nurse, and entered Soarin’s room. He anticipated her words, though instead of calling him an idiot as she usually did, she decided to use a different noun for the unique occasion.
“You really are a dimwit, Soarin’. Did you seriously think you could pull off a trick like that without any practice?”
“Well, I can’t really remember any of my thoughts from that point, so I’m just gonna go out on a limb and assume I thought I could.” A witty retort, followed by Soarin’s sarcastic, omnipresent grin.
Spitfire gave Soarin’ a short glare of daggers before continuing the conversation. “It’s just, I wish I didn’t have to worry about you like that, Soarin’. You could’ve ended your career, you know.”
She’s always treated me like a brother. That’s really what sets us apart from the other Wonderbolts: we’re all friends, but Spitfire and I actually care about each other. Spitfire and Soarin’ apparently had the same thought, for their facial features softened ever so slightly.
“Besides, it’s not like you could’ve nailed a trick like that any way. None of us could’ve. You were going way too fast for a u-turn that sharp.”
Soarin’s eyes widened. He attempted to hide any further surprise, but Spitfire seized the opportunity to ask,
“What? Does that insult you? No offense, but I’m not the one who’ll be stuck with a month and a half of bed rest.”
“Not that. I’m just... surprised that I tried to do Thunderclap’s signature move at all.”
“Thunder-who, now? Who the hay is that?”
Soarin’s withheld astonishment now unleashed itself as he ignored his injuries to seize Spitfire’s face in his hooves. “You DON’T know who Thunderclap is? He was the best flier in all of Equestria! He was a Wonderbolt before either of us were born! That stallion is an inspiration!”
“Sheesh, calm down, there, fanfilly.” Spitfire’s face momentarily twisted in contemplation before she asked, “Was he the reason you became a Wonderbolt?”
“Yep.”
“And the move you tried to do...?”
“The improved version of his signature move: the Thunder Spiral. Although, he never actually did it himself.” As he said this, his gaze seemed fixated elsewhere, hazed with bittersweet reminiscence as he slowly continued his words. “I guess I’ve still got a ways to go.” He rested his head back onto the unsatisfyingly firm pillow, his daily supply of charisma exhausted.
Spitfire’s curiosity was piqued. She’d heard nothing of Soarin’s childhood, or how he became a Wonderbolt, for that matter. A check of the clock later, she sat down and asked, “You never told me about your childhood. How did you get where you are today?”
“It’s a long story. You really want to sit through the whole boring thing?” Part of him hoped this would be enough to dissuade her, but he knew Spitfire well enough to know it wouldn’t. Besides, he convinced himself, I don’t mind too much.
“I’ve got time.” She brought her chair closer, implying she knew his next actions.
And she predicted correctly.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He cleared his throat, more for show than practicality, and began to recite his tale in an unpracticed but nevertheless hypnotising manner.
“It was a cloudless summer day, and I was deliberately disobeying my parents by practicing ridiculously dangerous flight maneuvers in the open sky...”
____
It was a cloudless summer day, and Soarin’ was deliberately disobeying his parents by practicing ridiculously dangerous flight maneuvers in the open sky. It had been a few days since his last injury, which wasn’t too severe (the doctor had only forbidden him from flight for a week rather than the usual week and a half.) Soarin’, wearing his Wonderbolts cap and goggles as he normally did while practicing flight, decided his wings were ready for flying again, and had already begun running to achieve a quality takeoff. He kept everything he had learned in mind, although it wasn’t much. His only help came from his uncle, who could only scarcely visit. Other than that, he was forced to teach himself from flight books which he kept hidden from his parents. Already, his numerous sessions of begging for admission to the Young Fliers Academy had been turned down by his closed-minded mother. His father had no say in the matter, as he was hardly home to have a say in any matter. Despite these hindrances, Soarin’ managed to learn what he could about flying, and he had done so quicker than many pegasi his age.
That won’t make much of a difference to mom...
Trip, fall, crash. Even a momentary lack of focus was enough to ruin his takeoff. He had no trouble with any ordinary liftoff, but he knew that wouldn’t stun anyone. It had to astound his audience, so he was experimenting with an added back flip for flair. His mother would certainly not approve, which made it even more satisfying.
He prepared himself once more, galloping as quickly as his young legs could carry him. Another interruption prevented him from concentrating. A familiar voice resounded from the distance, causing Soarin’ to tumble to the ground again.
“Did I scare ya’, there, Soarin’?” the same voice called, now in close proximity. Soarin’ looked up with glee to see a lanky, light-brown earth pony wearing a pinstriped coat.
“Uncle Charlie!” Despite his scrapes and bruises, Soarin’ had no trouble springing to his hooves for a hug. “What brings you down to Manehattan for a visit?”
“The usual: ta’ see my favorite nephew, of course! And this time, I’ve got a nice surprise for your birthday.” Slightly opening his saddlebags, he revealed two tickets with the printed title “Wonderbolts”. “Your mother told me ta’ not get these, but how could I resist? I know how much ya’ love the Wonderbolts. Front row seats.” These last words hit Soarin’ like a hammer strikes a bell. Charlie barely managed to squeeze in his proposition between Soarin’s suffocating hugs. “But I told your mom we were just going out on the town, so ya’ can’t let her know at all. Alright?”
Soarin’ answered with a nod and a quick “yes, sir!” before they departed for Manehattan Stadium for an afternoon’s bonding session.
After a lengthy wait, during which Soarin’ seldom sat still, the uncle and nephew found themselves finding their own seat in the midst of thousands of ponies. The stadium itself was a humongous “O,” packed to the brim with ecstatic fans. Even from afar, the ring extended from the ground, acting as an amplifier of the music and shouts of its contents. Were it not for the fresh air’s balancing scent, the stench of hot dogs and nachos would extend for a mile or so outward. The Wonderbolt’s had similar taste in weather as Soarin’, as they had chosen the perfect day for flight: few clouds, mild temperature, and most importantly, fair winds.
Charlie led Soarin’ through row after row of excited foals and flight enthusiasts until reaching the bottom row, mere hooves away from the Wonderbolts stretching their wings in preparation for the show. Soarin’, still a foal at this point, was frozen in place by his excited hopping. It wasn’t until his uncle spoke up that he gathered the courage to confront them.
“Go ahead, Soarin’. They won’t bite ya’.” He gave a gentle shove as he finished his encouragement. Soarin’ made his way to the handrails, one step at a time. His goal seemed to become more infinitely distant from him with each step. That is, until his snout tapped against the hoofrail.
Now what? I can’t just distract my idols from their work. His stream of thought stopped when Charlie spoke from behind him.
“Get their attention. They won’t mind a bit.” Soarin’ didn’t even need to turn around to know his uncle now bore his usual grin.
He gulped to expunge any pressure he felt, which didn’t help much. Regardless, he still worked up the lung power to say something.
“Excuse me...” Though feeble, he got somepony’s attention. A gray mare in her Wonderbolt’s suit turned around and greeted Soarin’ with a smile. She had a dark blue mane, with a hint of light blue around the tip, that spiked outwards from the back of her head while the remainder rested upon her neck. Her bright, electrifying yellow eyes focused on Soarin’ as she approached closer until she stopped in front of the little colt.
OhmyCelestiasheisactuallyhere, Soarin’s heart was erratically beating as he thought of the impossibility of this particular situation, I finally get to to meet Torrent!
“Hey there little fella.” Torrent spoke with a powerfully calm tone that seemed to wash away the nervousness Soarin’ had felt earlier. “I see you’re a big Wonderbolts fan, huh?” She pointed out the cap and goggles resting upon his head.
“Y-yes.” Soarin’ replied with a feeling of embarrassment, but also a small sense of pride. During the short silence that followed, the clouds drifted indiscriminately through the sky.
“What’s your name?” She said, smiling. Soarin’ knew she must talk to thousands of her fans. Even with that thought in mind, the moment still held a certain impact on Soarin’.
“Soaring Wa- I mean Soarin’!” He internally scolded himself for even partially using his original, ignominious title. “I was wondering... if you could possibly sign my hat?” With a humbled gesture, he removed his hat and presented it to Torrent.
“Actually,” she began, putting her hoof to her chin, “I think I can do better than that for a special fan like you. Thunderclap! Ace! Come over and meet Soarin’!”
Soarin’s heart skipped a beat. Then another. Soarin' basked in the glory of his idols, clutching his chest with his empty hoof, for the other was frozen in place.
Surely enough, Two more Wonderbolts arrived to join Torrent. The first, Thunderclap, had a jagged, edgy, angular mane. Even his tail formed a thunderbolt. Over his left eye was a scar of the same shape. Nopony knew where it was from, though urban legend stated he got it when running away from a dragon. Rumors even go so far as to say Thunderclap chained runoff lighting from a storm in order to tackle the dragon with electrical force. His eyes had a piercing light blue color, as if they could power a small suburban community with the voltage they emitted. He smiled with a wide grin, ear to ear, as he reached out to rub Soarin’s mane with his hoof.
The second, Ace, kept his mane in a military-style buzz cut, a habit he picked up in his younger years during the war against the griffins. Its striped, red, white and blue pattern screamed “patriot,” which fit him well. Directly contrasting Thunderclap’s, his eyes were a deeper blue, effectively shining with the reflected light of the sun. He gave Soarin’ a playful salute, which forced Soarin’ back to his senses as he returned with a salute of his own.
The three Wonderbolts flew over the handrail to greet Soarin’ more personally while Thunderclap, quill in tow, grabbed Soarin’s hat to begin signing it. He spoke as he wrote, “For Soarin’,” he didn’t even stop to ask for Soarin’s name again, “and there you go.” He passed the hat over to Ace and Torrent, who added their respective signatures on the cap’s bill before placing the hat back home on Soarin’s head.
“And you must be this awesome foal’s father?” Torrent addressed Charlie while saying this. During the excitement, Soarin’ had almost forgotten about his uncle’s presence.
“No, ma’am. I’m just his uncle. I wish I were his father; the foal’s got a heart o’ gold and the mind of a champion.” His smile bore more feeling with his last comment, which served to show the statement’s heartfelt truth.
“Ah. Sorry, it’s just that you two have such similar smiles.” Both Charlie and Soarin’ mustered a grin in response. “See? My point is proven.” Torrent could hardly finish speaking between bouts of giggles.
“If you want, we can get a picture in before the show. How’s that sound, Soarin’?” Thunderclap lowered his head to ask, and was greeted by the widest smile he’d ever seen on a fan’s face. It was enough to fuel the three Wonderbolts’ smiles for the picture Charlie took with a button's compression and a bulb's flash.
Torrent, noticing the time, remarked, “I hate to cut this short, but we need to leave before the show starts. And before we get swarmed by other fans.”
Thunderclap playfully rubbed Soarin’s mane once more before leaving for the show. Ace saluted him once again, ending his silence with a stalwart “At ease, soldier.” The three waved goodbye before flying away to prepare for their show. Before he was gone from sight, Thunderclap turned around and shouted,
“A young pegasus like you must want to be a Wonderbolt one day! I’ll put in a good word with the higher-ups for you!”
Awestruck, Soarin’s hoof stopped mid-wave. He’d met his idols, and they had treated him kindly. This was the stuff of dreams, and it was all thanks to his uncle. With one swift movement, Soarin’ was tangled in a loving embrace with Charlie.
“Eyes on the sky, Soarin’. Show’s about ta’ start.” Charlie pointed a hoof towards the vast blue stage on which the Wonderbolts would momentarily perform. Soarin’ took his seat and attempted to stay there, but pent-up excitement left him happily trembling with a smile.
In an instant, three distinct vapor trails were seen over the stadium. One, a red, white and blue trail. The second, a light gray. The third, a deep black emitting small bits of lightning. A voice announced the beginning of the show with a booming “Fillies and Gentlecolts, hold on to your hooves, because here comes the Wonderbolts!”
From the few other shows he had attended, Soarin’ had the show’s pattern memorized. The Wonderbolts would start with a few simple fly-overs, usually in delta or alpha formation. Then, to get the crowd roaring for the rest of the show, they would each do a signature trick of their own design. After that, group maneuvers.
A second pass later, Soarin’ could spot Ace preparing for his move: The True Patriot. He darted through the air, circling around a singular point of focus, forming a leviathan sphere of almost ethereal hues of red, white, and blue. In the blink of an eye, he darted back to the blue yonder, already careening towards his glowing creation at a fleeting speed. Upon contact with the sphere, it burst into glimmering sparkles and kaleidoscopic explosions. The crowd went wild, and Soarin’ could see many ponies, presumably veterans, saluting with teary eyes.
Everypony’s attention was redirected upward as a blue blur tore holes through cloud after cloud, leaving a wake of pursuing raindrops. Soarin’ knew that Torrent had begun her trademark technique: The Downpour. She throttled toward the ground at a breakneck speed, carving a trail through the clouds. She landed and, in the blink of an eye, turned around to be showered by the raindrops she had picked up in the clouds. Wet-maned, she struck a quick pose for the audience before once again resuming her flight. Whistles and yells rang out from the audience, though Soarin’ didn’t understand why.
This left only Thunderclap’s move. Another skyward glance, and Soarin’ could see Thunderclap descending at a strange angle. An announcer’s voice spoke over the speakers, “If you haven’t noticed yet, Thunderclap is coming in at a different angle than usual for his trick today. He decided to improve it, making it easily TEN times tougher...” the voice continued, but Soarin’ payed it no mind, instead focusing on Thunderclap’s new trick: the improved Thunder Spiral. With anticipation, Soarin’ scooted up to the handrail, giddily awaiting his favorite Wonderbolt’s improved maneuver. Thunderclap zoomed closer and closer to the ground, his angle determined he was about to make a turn. A sharp turn.
Too sharp.
As Thunderclap neared the ground to make his turn, he lost control and subsequently collided wing-first into the wall. It happened so quickly that most ponies couldn't tell what had happened. Before the smoke or vapor trail could clear, paramedics were already rushing down to the area of impact. Soarin’ could only see the dent left in the wall before Charlie blocked his view. Time slowed, the distressed hollers of the stands became muffled, and Soarin’s hair stood on end with fear.
“Come on, Soarin’ it’s time ta’ go. We don’t need ta’ stay around and see the results.” For the first time that Soarin’ had seen, Charlie wasn’t smiling. He forcefully guided Soarin’ through packs of panicked observers, attempting to form a path towards the exit.
“But I wanna know if Thunderclap’ll be okay!” Soarin’ pushed with whatever tiny might he could, but to no avail. This was his idol, the pony he wanted to be like when he grew up. And now, for all Soarin’ knew, he could be dead.
“I-I’m sure he’ll be fine. The show won’t be able ta’ go on, so we... we really should head home.” Charlie gave his best effort to sooth Soarin’, but with passing moment, the foal’s heart only sank further with worry for his idol’s fate.
“Please, Charlie! I just wanna see!” He continued his stalwart push, but resorted instead to slipping by to observe the aftermath. In an eternal glimpse, he noticed each detail in the scene of chaos. The group of paramedics had dispersed slightly, attempting to obstruct the media’s immediate reaction to document the incident through photography. The clearing from this left Thunderclap, unconscious from the impact, exposed to Soarin’s line of vision. Thunderclap lay on his side on a stretcher hoisted by two medics, his back facing Soarin’. His wings were a mangled mess of feathers, contorted to two downy masses protruding from his back. Ace stood by his fallen companion, eyes focused on his destination as he calculated each step, forcing cameras upward to prevent further shame. Torrent, on the other hoof, ignored this, anchoring her tearful eyes to her dear friend’s face, as if her fixed gaze would craft a magic of its own to heal his injuries.
Soarin’s legs froze. His breathing became shallow and cold. He didn’t feel his uncle begin to pick him up, nor did he hear him say “We’re all worried, Soarin’, but gawkin’ ain’t gonna help any.” Even as he was pulled out of the stadium by Charlie, Soarin’s eyes remained hewed to the tragic scene, staring with disbelief until the occurrence was censored by the close of a door.
The next thing he knew, Soarin’ was in his room, lights off, listening to his mother and his uncle argue. He had still been misty-eyed when arriving back home, and the situation escalated to this. Between his own thoughts, Soarin’ listened to every other sentence or so his mother said. He could only hear his mother speaking, as she was the only one who ever raised her voice in the argument. Muffled, she shouted things along the lines of “I told you not to!” and “That will be him one day if you keep on...” and so forth. After a stomp up the staircase, she opened the door and commanded him,
“You are NOT under ANY circumstances allowed to practice flying for the next three months! In addition, you are NOT to speak to your uncle any further! Do I make myself clear?” Soarin’ stared out of the window in his room, not budging at the ordinances she had laid down.
“Yes, ma’am.” Soarin’ grumbled, deciding it would be best to refrain from saying anything further.
“Oh, and you’re beginning dance lessons tomorrow, so get to bed early. Good night.” Tarantella ended the conversation with a slam of the door.
From behind the door, his uncle was speaking some muffled question, keeping the same soft tone he was known for.
“Fine, but no longer than one minute. Then, you leave.” Tarantella’s voice pounded into Soarin’s ears like nails.
Charlie poked his head through a crack in the door, silently directing his glance at the floor in shame. “I’m sorry, Soarin’. This was my fault. If you come downstairs, I have your hat and things in my saddleba-”
“Time to go, Charlie!” Tarantella interrupted.
“Never mind. I’ll give ‘em ta’ ya’ some other time. Happy birthday, champ...” Charlie manufactured the best smile he could, given the circumstances. Despite the effort to give the smile, it was ignored, as Soarin’ kept his focus on the open sky outside. Both disheartened ponies sighed and closed their eyes, hoping for brighter days in the future. With a soft fold of the door, Soarin’ found himself alone yet again.
For the next few hours, Soarin’ sat in bed listening to his mother quietly ranting to herself. Soarin’ had grown used to her ranting, as she had always done so after arguing. None the less, it irked him to the point of tears. Soarin’s thoughts were the only sound to block out her voiced complaints.
This isn’t fair. We just went to see the Wonderbolts, that’s all. Soarin’ looked out his window with this thought in his mind. I want to fly, not dance. Can’t she see that? Well, Charlie can, and now she won’t let me talk to him anymore. Life would be so much better with her not around! His eyes widened at his thought. A ludicrous idea passed through his mind. Always resting in his subconscious, it appeared to surface from nowhere. That’s crazy, Soarin’ kept chanting to himself. So crazy, it just might work.
Soarin’ lifted himself from bed and hesitantly walked towards the window. He could see his reflection in the cool glass, blurred from fog and tears. All his reflection showed was misery. Green eyes lined with sadness stared back, as though saying, “Be free.” As silently as he could, Soarin’ undid the lock on his window and sat on the sill. A short eternity passed before he gathered his senses. He drifted from the sill, as if by somepony’s push rather than his own will. A flap of the wings and he was in control of his path. He glided out, not bothering to turn around. The winds were perfect for flight; they fell at his back as if to assist him.The sun left its colorful residue on the sky as remnants of its own journey through the sky. His mind concentrated only on flight, his heart racing, his face sodden with tears, the blank-flanked little Soarin’ left his Manehattan home to live his dream. Where to, he knew not. Anywhere was better than there.
His raspy voice broke through the sound of flapping wings and falling tears,
“I’m sorry, Uncle Charlie. I’ll miss you...”
____
“So you ran away from home?” Spitfire, completely engrossed in her companion’s story, leaned forward with her head in her hooves. “I had no idea you had such a past...”
“Yep. And I would do it again, too. There’s no way I could stay with my mother to take dance lessons.” He stuck his tongue out to show his disgust for such a concept. His tongue still had a slight red tint from the blood of his injuries.
“What did you do after you left?”
“I ended up becoming a weather pony’s apprentice for a while. After a few years, I used the small amount of money I’d earned to enroll myself in the Young Flier’s Academy.”
“Do you think your mom misses you?”
“Probably not. She never even saw me get my cutie mark.” He looked down towards his cutie mark: a lightning bolt with wings on it. His mother would be frantic seeing it.
“Were you that young when you left?”
He nodded. “I was just a foal. I turned ten that day.”
“Your birthday... of all days...” She looked down as she said this. It was a depressing thought.
“Yep. February the fifteenth. In a way, I celebrate the day even more now.”
There was a momentary standstill in conversation, filled by the banter of nurses and the heart monitor’s steady beat.
“It sounded like you really liked your uncle, though.” Spitfire moved her head closer as she spoke to get Soarin’s attention.
“I did. He was like a father to me.” A smile. Spitfire considered that a success.
A nurse came into the hospital room saying in a soft voice, “Spitfire? The Wonderbolt manager is in the lobby and has requested for you to depart. He said you have to leave for a practice session to prepare for the show in Fillydelphia.”
“Oh, I guess I have to go, then. Sorry, Soarin’. Get well soon, all right?” She collected her things and stood by the door, pausing for an answer.
“Will do. Have fun at practice.” He smiled again as Spitfire left. She wanted to stay and hear more, Soarin’ was perfectly aware. Despite that desire, she left to practice flight maneuvers she had long since mastered.
It’s not like she could’ve stayed, though. When you’re a Wonderbolt, the job comes first. Soarin’ and Spitfire had learned that more than the others. We learned that when we dated. We couldn’t really go do anything. If we weren’t busy with work, we were being pestered by the media. So we cut the relationship short before somepony released a total bullcrap article saying we bucked, which everypony would believe. That would ruin our reputations beyond repair.
After recounting such a dramatic part of his childhood, Soarin’s thoughts focused on Charlie and the old Wonderbolts.
Whatever happened to uncle Charlie? And Thunderclap? His mouth stretched open for a yawn. Questions and memories of the past flooded Soarin’s thoughts, each more irksome than the previous. What would’ve happened if you stayed? What does Charlie think of you now? Did Thunderclap even live? Soarin’s mind buzzed as he rested on his incommodious hospital bed. Despite these quandaries, his eyes eventually closed, and his other senses began to follow suit.
One final thought crossed his mind before exhaustion tore him from consciousness:
I ought to find some answers.
oOOo
“Are you quite certain it would be a good idea to take him to this.. Wonderbolt show?” The distinctively negative emphasis which Tarantella put on her son’s favorite flight group demonstrated her profound disgust for the subject in general. An eavesdropping colt felt a similar queasiness, but out of excitement rather than repugnance. His uncle Charleston, speaking with his distinct Fillydelphia accent, had finally convinced his harmfully overprotective mother to give the smallest chance to leave the house and enjoy some fresh air. The small foal absolutely beamed with delight, as though the sensation would last forever and the grin would never disappear from his young face.
“Of course I’m sure. Ya’ keep the colt cooped up in this house enough. He needs ta’ enjoy the small things; get out and have fun. Our family may be comprised of the best dancers in Equestria, but that don’t mean he has ta’ stay here all the time. Besides, I haven’t gotten ta’ spend time with him in months. He’s my nephew, after all. Come on, whaddya say?” Tarantella looked as though she would be furious were she speaking to anypony else. However, Charleston had a certain quality which caused an inability to hold contempt for him. And his smile seemed to melt ponies’ hearts. The spying colt noted this as his mother sighed with a roll of her eyes.
“Fine. But I expect him home no later than eight, and you are not to pollute his mind with this Wonderbolt nonsense.” In response to this, the foal snuck a mocking grimace out while he could. “I’ll call him down now.” She started towards the door, and with a silent panic, the foal scampered quickly down the hall to feign innocence. A narrow escape, but only one of many from his many reconnaissance missions.
“Soaring Waltz, your uncle Charleston is here to take you to see the, erm... Wonderbolts. Hurry now, don’t waste his time as you so often do ours.” She added the final statement quietly under her breath to abstain from stirring anger within her son.
“Yes, ma’am.” Young Soaring inwardly shuddered at hearing his full name. He hated it. It implied he was graceful, elegant. He was nothing of the sort; both he and his mother knew that. He collected two of his favorite things in the world - a Wonderbolts cap and goggles - and left with a pace which sat just under a speed that stated “I don’t want to be here with my awful mother, please take me with you.”
It had indeed been months since Soaring had seen his uncle. He was fond of him, more so than his mother. She always opposed his visits, deeming his actions less than polite, and as a result rarely saw her least favorite brother.
“Uncle Charleston!” Soaring hugged his favorite uncle. Charleston returned the hug warmly. This, thought Soaring, must be what it feels like to hug Celestia.
“Let’s get a move on, kid. We don’t want ta’ miss anything, do we?” Charleston smiled his usual smile, and with a playful rub of the mane they were off.
Tarantella gave a disapproving stare as they romped to this ruffian event, more out of worry than distaste, though both were present. She returned to her work, forcing the fear of her son’s future out of her thoughts to the best of her ability.
“So how did you know I wanted to see the Wonderbolts, Uncle Charleston?” Soaring’s eyes shone with the reflected light of an afternoon sun and the hope of a young foal.
“You don’t have ta’ use my full name, you know. Uncle Charlie will do.” His trademark smile followed his sentence like a punctuation mark.
“I thought I was the only one who didn’t like their name! Mom’s always calling me ‘Soaring Waltz’ all the time. It’s really girly...” His light trot matched his pouting, slowing down with the mood.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll have a nickname for you. One that only I use. How’s that?” Charlie asked, his smile not fading or diminishing by even a millimeter.
“Like what?” his eyes grew at the mention of a good nickname.
“How about... Soarin’?” A simple enough suggestion, and it seemed to have worked.
“Soarin’? I like it!” The newly-named foal hopped in celebration. It was like a birthday to the little filly. Like he had just gotten his cutie mark. He checked his flank in the off-chance it had appeared, but there was still nothing.
“Yeah, it fits you like a suit.” He gave a heartfelt, unnoticed glance at the foal, as if he were his son. His smile widened even further with his thought: Yeah, this little foal’s gonna make somethin’ of himself when he grows up.
So Charlie and Soarin’, who proudly wore his Wonderbolt’s attire, continued to see any young pegasus’ idol: the Wonderbolts.