//------------------------------//
// Competition 
// Story: Marching Ahead 
// by Agent_47 
//------------------------------//

CHAPTER 1
 
 
Takatakatakatak-BLAM
 
“HAHA!  Take that, you stupid bastard!”  I shouted with glee as the enemy fighter before me exploded in a shower of metal.  The sound of my Hawker Hurricane’s engines roared loudly into my headset.  Grinning from ear to ear, I wheeled away in search of my next target.  My eyes darted across the mountainous landscape on the screen, and my brain worked out the vulnerabilities of each enemy aircraft that filled the skies.
All of a sudden, a voice in game called over the radio, “Victory is ours!  Let’s go home!”  The screen cut to black for several seconds, before the main menu screen popped up.  A very triumphant theme played as the results of the battle were revealed to me, as well as the rewards of XP, in game currency, and different components for the planes in my air force.  My eye twitched, and a perturbed expression swept over my face.
“SHIT!”  The words echoed throughout my darkened room, causing me to wince.  Hope no one’s up this morning, or else I’m in deep shit, I thought to myself, clicking my way back to the actual main screen, which displayed the different air forces and aircraft that I had unlocked, the amount of currency I had, and my current plane sitting on a runway amidst a number of other fighters and bombers from the same air force.  On the top bar, a large banner read “WAR THUNDER” in bold, red lettering.
I looked around my room -which was only illuminated by the large screen of my computer- and sighed, leaning back into my seat and placing my hands on my face.  What time is it?  A part of my mind asked, and I froze.  Slowly, I brought my watch up to my face, hoping to the Royal Sisters that I hadn’t stayed up all night, playing video games.  Surely enough, the digital display showed the time to be around 9 o’clock.  With a quick curse and flurry of motion, I leapt out of my chair, not taking any time to move around the crap that littered the large playroom.  Several corners of my mind continued to call me an idiot, and several other parts agreed with them, while telling them to shut up.
I quickly slipped on a pair of black shorts, white socks, my black band t-shirt, and my matte-black marching shoes.  Taking a moment, I decided that I would be late to the band room if I stopped to do anything other than grab my instrument or cleaning my teeth.  With that in mind, I yanked on the handle of my instrument case and picked it up, running into the hallway and into the bathroom, where I hurriedly brushed my teeth.  Once I had finished, I darted down the stairs, and up to my door.  The door flung open, and I stepped outside, spreading my wings and leaping off of the porch of my cloud home.  
 
Dear Luna, I’m such a moron.  I thought aloud with a hint of anger that I was directing at myself.  How could I stay up so late the night of a competition?
 
******
 
               I grunted in pain as I landed hurriedly on the cloud sidewalk that led up to a large, brick building.  A quick look around the campus told me that we were the only ones that were at Cloudsdale High School on this Saturday morning.  It was evident, however, that the band was mostly unfazed by the time, as they were already darting in and out the of the auditorium building, carrying various pieces of equipment and placing them in a large trailer that had been parked next to the establishment.
               Groaning in annoyance, I took off towards the breezeway that led into the auditorium building, dodging and weaving in between various people like a Wonderbolt.  Several people shouted at me angrily, and I ignored them.  Someone held the door open for me, and no sooner than I rushed in, I was met with our band’s drum major; Spitfire.  
               The fiery eyed senior turned away from the person she was talking to and glared at me with a spark of malice.  I snapped to attention, struggling to control my nervous breathing.  A sigh escaped the woman’s mouth, and she inquired, “Dasher, do you have an excuse as to why you’re late?”  I shook my head without uttering a word, prompting Spit to groan in exasperation.  “Alright, drop.  Give me thirty.”  She commanded.  Not looking to piss her off even further, I set my case on the floor, dropped down, and began doing pushups.
               The muscles in my arms burned furiously as my muscles were rudely awakened.  I repeated this for a while, until I heard Spitfire tell me to stop.  I got to my knees, and the orange-maned woman stalked off, followed closely by a troop of her close friends.
               I knew perfectly well that I had wasted enough time, so I strode quickly into the band room, stopping a second in the door to stare at the large space.
               The early morning sun shone brightly through the windows at the back of the room, hitting the trophies that sat on shelves up above our heads, so the light was reflected onto the green and red carpet.  The far right of the room was littered with chairs and stands, which was probably the doing of the orchestra class.
               “Move, idiot!”  A voice called from behind me, jolting me back into reality.  I moved out of the doorway with a purpose, making a B-line to the uniform room.  Surprisingly, there weren’t very many members of the band in the room, which made it that much easier for me to find my uniform bag and shako box in the small closet.  Once I had obtained my things, I strode back out into the hallway. 
               
Several of the older people in the band yelled at me for being late, although I paid them no mind.  I was surprised that I had some friends that were upperclassmen, due to the fact that most of the others were complete dicks all the time, especially my section leader, Breeze Dancer.  Almost every single day, she is the bitchiest and absolute worst person to be around, and when her time of the month comes around, she just jumps right on it and runs my ass over.
               
Man, sometimes I hate marching band.  My brain complained, I don’t even know why I joined in the first place.  It had been almost a year since the middle school band had played with the high school, and I could still remember it vividly; The sound of spectators shouting and cheering from their seats in the bleachers, the sweat running down my forehead as I walked out onto the brightly lit field and the rush of adrenaline that I felt when I realized that I wanted to be a musician for the rest of my life.
 
The cool fall breeze blew down through the campus, sending shivers up my spine as I followed the line of the others in band.  A curse word began to slip through my mouth, but it stopped halfway when a tall, slim figure stepped up in front of me.  I looked up slightly, and my hunter green eyes met a mulberry gaze.  There was a hint of passion, youth, and life in those eyes that I had never been able to find anywhere else.  The woman was clad in black dress pants, a white dress shirt, black coat, and a pink bowtie.  
 
“Hello, Mrs. Melody.”  I stated in a whisper, eliciting a small smile from the woman.  Her smile was very warm and friendly, almost like that of a mother.  Most of the time, however, I tended to stay away from her. 
 
“Hi, Dasher.”  The Octavia Melody replied in a soft, feminine tone.  It was surprising how she sounded so shy at the moment, and when she was in marching band mode, she could almost be mistaken for a drill instructor in the Royal Equestrian Marine’s.  “Are you ready for the competition?  It’s going to be a while before we actually get to perform.”
 
There was a short silence between the two of us, which I silently broke.  “Yeah, I am.”
 
“Good” Again, there was a pause that was very awkward, although this time, neither of us intended to break it.  “Oh, we’re going to be late for the tram if we don’t hurry up.”  She said, turning around and striding off in the direction that I had originally intended to go.  Since I didn’t really know where we were going, I followed intently, keeping a hold on the items that I had grabbed.
 
“So…How’s your husband, Octavia?”  I asked nervously, fearing that the director would only slap another reprisal onto my back, just as others did on a constant basis.
 
Instead of the reaction I was expecting, Octavia looked at me and smiled warmly, “He’s been doing very well.  He’s got a couple of gigs this month, and there’s also a recording company that wants him to come in and show them what he’s got.  Thanks for asking, Rain.  By the way...How’s your girlfriend.”
 
That was a definite critical hit.  My heart sunk down into the depths of my chest, and my visage grew into a very solemn one.  The young director looked at me and nodded with a sigh.  The mere mention of my ex was bad enough, since she had caused me such pain when we broke up.  The two of us had been close during middle school, and she had talked me out of killing myself several times in the past year.  That’s when we had started dating, and it had compelled me to be a better person for her, even though I thought I didn’t deserve her.
 
Then, when we were thinking of moving in together, she broke up with me.  Apparently, her parents didn’t trust me, and they couldn’t bear to see her heart broken by me.  I quickly fell back into the clutches of depression, and tried cutting myself on several occasions to ease the pain, although the thought of the few friends that I had stopped me.
 
The next several minutes of walking was filled with a silence as I sulked over the relationship I could have had with my girlfriend.  Now, I couldn’t say or think of her name.  
 
“Hey, Dasher.”  Octavia said, snapping me out of my depressed state and prompting me to make eye contact with the woman.  There was a look of consolation that was present in her expression.  “Try not to dwell on it too much.  Think about the good and awesome stuff in your life.  Think of your mother, and-“

               “No.”  I interrupted, “My mom abandoned me when I was really young, and called me a failed abortion or a mistake of nature.  I hate her with every fiber of my being.”
 
“What about your father?”  The gentle voiced adult questioned.
 
“He’s deployed so much that I never get to see him.  He’s off helping to keep the peace in Saddle Arabia and Germaneigh.”
 
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.  Do you have any fond memories with him?”
 
I thought deeply on that question for a moment, and recalled one moment when I was just starting school that I shared with my dad.
 
There’s not much that I can remember about that one day that we spent time together, except that we had gone fishing outside of Manehattan.  I remember the frustration I felt when I would reel in my line, and my hook would be bare.  “Patience, Dasher.  Patience is the key to everything.”  His deep, loving voice echoed in my head.  Other than that, there’s not much.  I had probably asked if he had a story from one of his deployments, and he had replied with, “How about when you’re older, bud.  The stories I have are none too pretty.”
 
A sudden, sharp blast of a whistle jolted me from my memories.  Sitting about twenty yards away, was a sleek black tram, which was patiently awaiting the rest of the band.  There were several cars, mainly for the band, although I believed there were two that were reserved for drumline and pit equipment, as well as large instruments like the sousaphone or the baritone sax.
 
“Well, I’ll see you in Manehattan.”  Octavia said before she rushed off to one of the front cars, where there were several chaperones standing by for the last few people to board the tram.  
 
I walked up onto the platform and into the first car that I saw, taking a seat next to the door.   After several minutes, the doors closed, the whistle sounded once more, and there was a sudden jerk as the platform descended onto the ground.
 
******
Several Hours Later…
 
               The doors of the tram slid open with a mechanical whirring, and the bright afternoon sunlight streamed into the car.  I squinted as the radiant light stung my eyes.  The sensitivity of my eyes quickly subsided, and I stared out at the campus before us.
 
               “Trashy” can’t even begin to describe how terrible the condition of Manehattan High School was in.  Tall, green shoots of vines snaked their way up the sides of the buildings, entangling anything in their path.  The parts of the walls that were not covered in vines were decorated with graffiti art and other acts of vandalism.  Some of the buildings were definitely beginning to deteriorate, especially the auditorium building.  It was an absolutely pitiful sight.
 
               “Alright, everyone grab your stuff and follow me.  Pit and drum line, go and unload your stuff and get it into the trailer over there.”  Octavia commanded as she strode by us, unleashing her true authoritative tone onto the band.  The sound of other schools unpacking and practicing their show tunes filled the air, while the distant noise of taps could definitely be heard both returning to the parking lot and heading towards the football stadium.
 
               Once we had finally gotten dressed and helped load up the pit equipment as well as the boards for our show, we all noticed that the sun was beginning to set, turning a dark orange on the horizon.  Octavia began rounding up all one hundred and twenty members of the band and ordering them to set up in a warm up ark.  Her commands were carried out post-haste, as groups of friends quickly disbanded to assemble our large formation warming up.  Several members of the pit came down the line, placing black plumes into our shakos.  
 
               “Intervals!”  Spitfire shouted out, bringing her hands up to conduct.  She gave us a silent count off, and we went through the intervals of the F scale, before moving on to our B-flat scale in rounds, and then Chord Study 2.  Tuning came next once we had finished, which was a pain in the ass for everyone.  Octavia, Spitfire, and several others grabbed a couple of tuners from a bag, and went up and down the line, making sure everyone was in tune before moving on.
 
               “Alright, everyone.  You can all go ahead and relax.  We won’t be going on for another forty five minutes.  I just want to say that I’m very pleased with your practice runs lately, and I’m also very excited for today.”  Octavia said to the band, gazing at the large formation of people with a nervous smile.  
 
               The time that we had before we went on was very slow to pass by, which made me even more nervous.  I wanted more than ever to collapse on the spot and not participate, but I knew that everyone would have to depend on each other to get through this and win the grand champ award, which had apparently been eluding the band for several years.
 
               I talked to some of my fellow trumpet players to pass the time, which resulted in a couple of poorly thought out jokes and some frayed nerves.  No Bueno, Dasher.  A corner of my mind said with obvious disgust.  Several other parts of my mind told that rogue sector to clam up, which it eventually did.  Just as long as my multiple personalities didn’t take over during the show, I would be completely fine.
 
               “Hey, Lightning Flicker.”  I called out over my shoulder, chuckling as a nutty, foreign acknowledgement was uttered from behind me.  
               “Qui!”
                “How’s the play going?”  I questioned, watching the form of Lightning Flicker appear from behind Lightning Chaser and Breeze Dancer, who were both looking at him with expressions of mixed confusion.
               “It’s great.  I actually get to kill Drakael.”  He said, smiling evilly at his last statement.  I took a glanced over at Drakael Arquin, who was standing at the end of our line.  I really felt sorry for him, since he thought of himself as a complete badass.  
               The rest of the time passed by just a bit quicker than it was before, although I was feeling slightly nervous.  When we were called to set, the sun had already set over the horizon, and the sky had been engulfed in darkness.  The parking lot of the school was brightly illuminated by street lamps that pierced through the night.
               In the distance, the sound of a snare drum tapping drew ever closer, until a long formation appeared from the woods.  Spitfire turned to us and clapped her hands together, yelling, “Mark, time, Mark!”
               Immediately, one of our percussionists began to tap out every odd beat as we all marched in place.  The order for the band to move was uttered, and the line started forward in the direction of the other band.  As we passed each other, members of the other line whispered “Good luck!” waving and giving us the thumbs up.  Most of them were looking very ragged and tired, although the heat was terrible, especially in a marching band uniform.
               We continued to trudge forth along the trail, but we weren’t really keeping at set.  There were very low chuckles and conversations going up and down the line, with constant calls from some of the upperclassmen telling everyone to shut up and stay at set.  None of those orders were heeded.
               Once we came out into the bright lights of the football stadium, however, all unprofessional occurrences ceased, and the crowd in the stands screamed loudly at our entrance.  
               A few shouts of “Go Phoenixes!” came out from the bleachers, most likely from a parent of one of the band members.  The line was lead up along the side-line across from the home stands, and it began to split into four lines.  
               “Ladies, and gentleman,” The announcer boomed over the loudspeakers from the press-box, silencing the spectators within a second, “Please, put your hands together for the Cloudsdale Marching Phoenixes!”  The crowd burst out loudly with such a roar of screams, I tried very hard not to cover my ears.  The sound was very similar in volume to that of a jet engine.
               Over the shouts of approval, the barely audible clapping of Spitfire’s hands reached my ears, along with the order, “Band, move!”  The line in front of mine stepped off onto the field, while I moved forward at a slow, 16-5 pace for eight counts, which is when we stepped off and marched onto the field at an 8-5 pace.  The bright lights of the stadium stung my eyes fiercely, and the warmth of the night was terrible.  It was not the heat, however, that was causing me to sweat.  A drum was beating into my chest with fury, and cold beads of perspiration ran down my forehead from underneath my shako.
               “Under the direction of band director Octavia Melody, drum major Spitfire, Brass Captain AppleJack, Color Guard Captain Aloe Vera, Woodwind Captain Twilight Sparkle, and Drumline Captain Thunderlane, the Phoenixes have put together their show, which is titled ‘Reelin in the Years’, featuring music from the famous jazz rock group ‘Stallion Dan’”  
               The front of our block stopped right on the hash, while the rest of our lines halted eight steps off the ones in front of them.  The color guard rushed to and fro, unfurling their flags and setting them up on their dots.  
               Taking a deep breath in, I stepped off on the first beat, letting out a high F on the and of one.  The loud, bombastic fanfare echoed across the stadium, while the spectators stayed as silent as possible.  I continued on ward to my left at a slow pace, taking off at a much quicker gait once I had reached my dot.  

*****

"Band, move!"  Spitfire bellowed at the band, as the crowd had begun to cheer wildly at our performance.  Much of what happened, I can't quite remember.  However, judging from the approving roar of the competition goers, I'd say we had done fairly well.