//------------------------------// // III - Breakfast // Story: Flock Together // by Corejo //------------------------------// Out here, on top of the world, nopony could touch her. It had been so for as long as Scootaloo could remember.  She had flown these skies countless times, knew the world from above like no other pony.  The air was too thin for most to breathe, let alone fly, but she made it her domain.  From here the world lay itself bare, hid no secrets from her—couldn’t—and she relished the view from first flap to last. The Equestrian countryside rolled out beyond the eastern horizon, shrouded in the ghostly pre-dawn.  Lazy cirrus clouds of pinks and oranges swirled in the far off sky like paint splashed on a wall.  To the north, the Clefthoof Mountains squatted in the distant blue, massive teeth reaching up to bite at the stars blinking out one by one.  Soon, the world would find its color, and the mists of the meadows and lowlands would gather before the sun chased them away. She looked over her shoulder, grinning.  Nothing but empty sky and the few stars too stubborn to yield to the sun. Hers and hers alone. But every good thing must come to an end.  Below, barely a swatch of color on the landscape, Ponyville glinted in the sunlight.  Work would start soon.  She sighed.  Time to head home. ≈≈≈×≈≈≈ The front door swung open on silent hinges.  Darkness held sway over the living room.  A pot of coffee gurgled on the counter while a pan of vegetables sizzled on the stove.  The aroma wafted thick beneath her nostrils as she passed the bar table for the hallway.  Her eyes fluttered at the scent of peppers and corn and carrots and broccoli, and she clenched her mouth shut to keep from drooling. The sound of running water overtook the vegetables’ sizzle, and she stopped before the bathroom door, eyes to the line of light peeking out beneath it.  She smiled. “Morning, Dad.” “Morning, Scoot,” he replied, his voice muffled behind the door.  “Breakfast is on the stove.” “I saw.”  She headed for her bedroom.  From the door handle she snagged a towel to wipe away the sweat of her morning flight.  The cool air in her room brushed against her face, and she breathed deeply.  Stuffy, for the shut window, but better than the muggy air she practically had to swim through after the sun melted off the morning fog.  She threw the towel in the corner and headed back out to the kitchen. Once an emergency circumstance, scarfing down breakfast before work had become a habit over the years.  A necessity, really.  Her morning flights grew longer, yet she never woke earlier to compensate.  Not that she cared for the tighter schedule.  Neither did Mayor Mare, if she happened to arrive late.  She got her work done in half the time it took the others anyway. Accounting was easy with a dad like hers to teach her all the shortcuts. The water shut off as she stirred the vegetables, and Dad stepped out of the bathroom by the time she plated them—one for him, one for her.  His coat was damp and stuck up in places where he had dried against its nap. “Featherweight was over here a minute ago,” he said, drying his mane with a towel. Scootaloo raised an eyebrow, a forkful of bell peppers hanging momentarily forgotten from her mouth.  “What for?” “He was askin’ about you.”  Dad said.  He hung the towel over the back of a bar chair and headed for the coffee pot.  “Thanks,” he added, nodding at his plate. Her eyebrow couldn’t have gone any higher if she tried.  “Did he say why?” “No, just asked if you were here or not.  Told him you were out on your morning flight and he left.”  The faintest smirk crossed his lips as he poured his coffee. “Okay…”  Scootaloo returned her attention to her plate.  Weird.  She hadn’t seen Featherweight in a while.  Not since the Summer Sun Celebration last week.  He acted weird then, too.  Apple Bloom thought it was funny.   Smitten, was the word she had used.  Something about that word worked its way under Scootaloo’s skin, made her groan every time she heard it.  The mere thought soured the bell peppers in her mouth.  Whatever.  Featherweight’d stop by toward the end of her shift to courier Ponyville’s monthly fiscal reports to Canterlot.  Maybe then she could get him to just stop being weird about it. She horked down the last of her plate and rose to toss it in the sink.  Dad turned around, coffee in hoof.  His eyes went wide at her empty plate, then at her.  He shook his head, sitting down at the counter. “Headin’ out?” he asked. “Only if you want me going in smelling like Ball Point.”  She headed for the bathroom. “Nah, probably not.”  He crunched a bell pepper in half with his fork.  “The office couldn’t handle two Ball Points.” Scootaloo laughed.  She stepped inside the bathroom, but poked her head out around the corner, grinning.  “You think he ever showers?” “Or wears deodorant?” Dad replied. “Or brushes his teeth?” Her smile widened.  Pearly white, as it should be. “Or wipes his ass?”  Dad took a sip of coffee. Scootaloo laughed again, shutting the door.  She turned the handle of the shower faucet, and out came a spray of water, already steaming hot—a bonus of letting dad shower first.  She stepped in and closed her eyes, feeling the water plaster her mane to her face, strands draping over her muzzle, and let out a deep sigh. She loved taking showers, just standing there in the hot water and steam, mind wandering to whatever stupid fantasies it desired.  An easy work day.  Going somewhere fun with Apple Bloom.  Her evening flight and which edge of Equestria she might explore this time.  She had to grab the shampoo before wanderlust made her late for work again. Squeaky clean, she stepped out and dried off.  Coat sticking up where she had toweled off against her nap, she trotted to the living room to grab her saddle bags. “Now you heading out?” Dad asked through a mouthful of vegetables. “Yep.”  She smirked.  “And don’t talk with your mouth full.” He smiled back and playfully gestured a stabbing motion at her with his fork before taking another bite. “But yeah,” she said, grabbing her saddlebags from the hatstand by the door.  “You wanted Quick Quill’s notes on that disbursement dispute, right?” He swallowed, nodding.  “Yeah, just throw ‘em on my desk.  If he’s not there yet I’ll find him when I get in.” “Alright.  See you there.” She opened the door and took a step outside. Tyco took a sip of coffee and ‘mmm’d.  “Before you go...” Scootaloo looked back.  “What’s up?” “Come here.”  He motioned her over with a hoof.  She stepped up to him, and when in hoof reach he grabbed her head and ruffled her mane.  “Can’t let you leave without a noogie first.” “Ah!  Dad!”  She flared her wings, tugging her head from his grip.  She met his stupid smile with a glare.  “I’m not a kid anymore.” “You’ll always be my kid, Scoot.” Scootaloo looked to the loveseat in the living room, trying and failing to hide a smile.  Celestia, that was corny.   “Love you, too, dad.”  She couldn’t help the tiny chuckle as she said it.  She headed for the door.  “Alright.  Bye!” “See, you.” She shut the door and took to the skies.  While the humidity dragged at her like grasping hands and filled her lungs with its suffocating heat, the wind ran its fingers through her wet mane, cool to the touch. Eight hours.  Just eight hours until the weekend.  Four until lunch, and then only four more after that. Three and a half, technically.  Easy. She hated looking at things in such a manner, but it was how her brain worked.  Break things into stepping stones, miniature goals that eventually added up to the whole.  She could thank her interval flight training all those years ago for that. She found herself doing it most often with work.  Not that work was as difficult as interval training.  It was rather easy, actually.  Boring didn’t quite describe it.  Just… unexciting.  However anypony were to put it, it wasn’t her favorite thing. But it was a living.