//------------------------------// // The Game // Story: Dynamic Soarin' // by BlazzingInferno //------------------------------// Soarin watched Spitfire pace back at forth along the cliff’s edge. “All right, let’s go over the rules again, rookie.” “Hey, don’t call me a–”
 “Put a sock in it and listen up!” He knew that tone, it was the same one that bullied new recruits into shape and sent prospective cadets home crying. She was cute when she tried to act mean. Just below her hooves the wind howled mercilessly. “The game is called dynamic soaring, and it’s for expert flyers only. We’ll fly in and out of the high speed air to pick up speed, always in a circle, always counterclockwise. You try and flap your wings and they might get broken off. This is all about agility and precision timing; the wind gives you your speed, you have to control it. If you steer poorly or try to leave formation at the wrong time, you’re looking at a closed casket funeral. First pony to do fifty laps wins. Got that?” He smirked. This was just like old times, all except for the make-out session that’d typically follow. “And the wager?” “Let’s change it up; you name my terms, I’ll name yours.” “Fine. If you win, I leave the Wonderbolts tomorrow morning. You never have to see me again.” She walked up to him, put a hoof under his chin, and grinned. “If you win, then we forget about all the stupid stuff in the past and go on a date tonight. I guarantee it’ll be the best night of your life.” “You sure you want to wager that?” She nodded. “Doesn’t matter. I’m sending you back to the Cloudsdale weather team where you belong.” --- They didn’t need to count to three, or even say go. For a moment they simply crouched on the edge of the cliff and, by unspoken command, dove into wind in unison. Soarin squinted as the wind battered him. His instinct and experience were at odds here; one said bank left out of the wind, the other said hold steady and dive. Spitfire was right next to him, undoubtably fighting the same mental battle. They dove, rose, and turned in perfect formation. The sudden transition from speedy low-lying winds to the still air above strained wings and back alike. Regardless, they kept their circular flight path and dove back into the fray. One lap, then five, then ten. Every rapid turn through the wind added to their speed, and every break into the still air hit their bodies harder. Pretty soon they’d eclipse the top glide speed of even the fastest pegasus. Pretty soon they’d be staring death in the face. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. The windy expanses in the shadow of the cliff and the still sunlit world above went by in a blur. Soarin would’ve loved to time his laps, to know how many hundreds of wingpower he was pumping out without a single wingbeat. That didn’t matter though, all that mattered was the race. He was going to win, he knew it. She’d slathered herself with lotion, that’d kill her aerodynamics and make for a miserable defeat. He wasn’t leaving the Wonderbolts, he was going on a date with their captain. The same captain that never saw his side of the story, the same captain that threw their relationship away out of meaningless jealousy. Why were you ever jealous of Rainbow Dash, Spitfire? She’s fast, but she’s she’s not you, nopony else is. Why would I ever check out other mares when I’ve got you? Why couldn’t you ever see that? Why didn’t you ever see that I cared about you? All you ever cared about was which way my head was turned. He blinked. Where was she, anyway? He couldn’t just turn around and look, not at this speed. If she wasn’t ahead of him, that meant she was behind him. A few more laps and he’d own that precious date she’d so foolishly offered up. Why did she offer him a date, anyway? She could’ve wagered him a promotion, or even just a pat on the back. What would tonight mean? Would she really go out with him again? Did he even want her to? Sure they’d had some good times, most of them in a secluded spots like this one, but then there was the drama: promotion this, Rainbow Dash that. Why go through all of it again? Why put her through some stupid date that she didn’t even want? Darn you, Spitfire. I guess I’m leaving after all. I hope you’re happy about it. Light. Dark. Still air. Wind. He couldn’t just stop and call it quits, even though he wanted to. One feather out of place meant a fatal crash. Light. Dark. He needed to break formation at just the right moment. Wind. Still air. The window of time was less than a second wide, and getting smaller with every lap. Then he saw her. Why was she sitting on the cliff’s edge? Maybe he’d miscounted. Had she completely lapped him without him noticing? Had he lapped her? If she pulled out early then he won by default. Was she stuck going on a date with him? He’d never convince her to back out of the wager, even if she was going to hate every second of the whole night. She’d probably hate him too, assuming she didn’t already. Light, dark, light, dark. Too fast! It was a chance game now; tonight he either had a date with the captain of the Wonderbolts or with a mortician. On three, Soarin. Ready? One. Two. Th–