//------------------------------// // Chapter 1 // Story: All In the Making // by Lapis-Lazuli and Stitch //------------------------------// Chapter 1 We fly against a stiff headwind as we began the second of our scheduled descents, this time toward Ponyville. It was a decent current too, since we weren’t flying fast enough to really feel the effects of drag. I’m internally grateful we’re landing for the next two days. Sure I’m more conditioned physically and mentally than most pegasi, and yeah, I’m a bit more of a dare-devil than most pegasi; but I don’t like trying to fly through an oncoming storm any more than an Earth pony likes trying to plow a garden with her nose. Sure, I can do it. We all can. Do any of us want to… Well Surprise might, but she’d only be jesting. I flick a tucked foreleg as much as I can without destabilizing myself, trying to settle a tuft of loose fur back in place. “Right folks,” Soarin’ turns his head back to eye the rest of us, the sun glinting off his goggles, “Ponyville’s promised a warm welcome while we’re here. The captain and I are headin’ to the press release like usual. Fleetfoot, don’t try to skimp out. You drew the short straw this round, so you’ll be heading down with us.” “I didn’t forget, Sir,” I reply, adding under my breath, “so don’t remind me.” “The rest of you, get settled in our hotel rooms and try not to drink the town dry before we join back up,” Soarin’ barrels on, inciting a collection of cheers and hollers from everypony except me. I just roll my eyes; I’m glad that they’re hidden by goggles and that they’ll be hidden later by my personal shades. I hate press duty. How the Lt. and Cap put up with doing it all the time I’ll never understand, but I’ve drawn the short straw (the Cap actually carries a set of cut up straws around with her for deciding these things) enough times in a row recently that I’m beginning to get an idea. I’ve picked up smoking again after having told myself I’d never do it again after quitting for the third time, and the Cap gave me a reaming to remember when she found out, but I just get so wound up after having to endure all their… insensitivity, I can’t sleep or enjoy anything else until I’ve had a cigarette. Which is better than needing booze, I guess. Whatever. I bank away from the rest of my squadmates, following my superiors and pushing my wingbeats a bit harder until I’m level with them. We’ll get this show over quick (a girl can dream), meet back up with everypony else, I’ll smoke, and we’ll all enjoy a few drinks before getting a good night’s rest. Below Ponyville’s low lying clouds (thick, blankety, pre-storm stuff), our stage waits for us, and the ponies around it are already clamoring and shouting even though we’ve just begun a landing dive. It’s foal’s play, keeping pace with the Lt. and Cap, curling up at the last moment, grinding our hooves against the wood of the stage to a perfect halt. I’ve done it hundreds of times before. Practice really does make perfect if the stamping applause and cheers are anything to judge by. I smile and wave, glad for a second time I have my goggles on. It’s probably how tired I am that’s making me this cratchety toward the fans, but my head is already building an ache. At least Ponyville is a small town, and I don’t have to start switching hooves to wave with how long the cheering lasts. “If you would all have a seat please,” an elderly mare quiets the crowd from its side while stage-hooves rush up with chairs for us. I nearly plop down with about as much grace as a dragon, but decorum training did its thing. We all sit neatly in almost perfect unison and lift our goggles, ready to answer the same questions we always get. Maybe there’ll be a new one. The smaller towns sometimes throw some weird stuff our way. I blink a few times, adjusting to the brightness that my goggles shield me from, and watch as hooves begin to tentatively creep up. “Yeah, yeah, get ‘em up, get ‘em up,” the Cap spouts. “Can’t answer if you don’t ask. Yeah, you.” She points to one of the younger mares about the middle of the crowd and so begins our process. “I...ahem,” she coughs off the nervousness, and I giggle quietly. “Everypony knows this is just a transfer tour, but is there any possibility of maybe seeing some unofficial practices?” “Probably not,” Cap says. “I’m not stopping my ponies from doing their own thing, but we’ll only be here for two days. You won’t see me up there. I’ll be sleeping in.” Everypony chuckles. I’m pretty certain that after three straight days of flying, we’ll all be sleeping in. “Next up, yeah, go ahead,” the Lt. nods in a general direction and receives the boldest of the reporters in response. “There’s talk of you retiring from service completely, Soarin’,” he says. Oh geewillikers, this again. “Any solid word you can give us on the matter?” “Don’t know where you’re diggin’ up your information, mate,” the Lt. lightly shakes his head. “But even if I was heading out, I couldn’t tell ya. Security and stuff.” “Would you like to retire, sir?!” somepony shouts. “Wouldn’t everypony?” he answers with a casual shrug. I have to give it to him. Lieutenant Soarin’ makes this whole process look painless, easy, even damn near enjoyable. I’m pretty sure he’s good as he is only because he enjoys pulling their strings. He has enough talent doing it for it to be funny for him. And yeah, of course he’s bowing out. He has an absolutely killer job set up as a post-crash therapy coordinator in Cloudsdale. And Cap has it in her head she’ll somehow get me promoted to take his place (which is why I think I’ve been getting the short straw more and more). “Oh, damn, sorry,” I say a little more loudly than I think. I let my head get away from me, and now everypony is looking at me… aaaaaand I’ve just sworn. Wonderbolts didn’t do that. We are upstanding examples of Equstrian finesse, ability, and strength. I’m beginning to think I might end up smoking two tonight. “It’s been a long few days… Somepony, anypony. Hit me.” Wow, I sound a lot more dead on my hooves than I feel. “Miss Fleetfoot, you were recently approached, as I understand it, to be a stunt director for an upcoming film,” a unicorn mare at the foot of the stage asks me. “Any thoughts on taking the position?” “Eh… maybe?” I shrug. “There’d be a lot of paperwork I don’t wanna have to deal with. We aren’t normally allowed to do outside jobs, so it’s not really in my hooves right now.” By which of course I mean the princess has already flatly refused after discovering a Changeling among the film crew. It’d been a mess, but at least it’d been fun. Fun in a being-guarded-twenty-four-seven-as-a-potential-Changeling-target way, but fun. The press doesn’t need to know that though. Nah. There’s nodding and scribbling for my answer and so the cycle continues for a good hour. We get all the usual questions, the usual requests for signatures, and the usual offers for free food. Thankfully, the mayor turns away the ponies wanting the signatures, and the Cap politely declines the offers for various services. It isn’t until the crowd begins to disperse that Princess Twilight shows, working her way through the bustlers with an awkwardness I remember having after joining the team. “How are the three of you, and the team too?” she asks. I smile. Princess of Friendship always feels like an understatement to me. She’s so much more genuine, and that always lifts my spirits despite the fact that I barely know her. “Ground crew’s on schedule, nopony sprained a wing… we’re doing pretty good,” the Cap replies. “What’s Dash lookin’ like? Out three days, you miss a few things.” My ears perk up. Rainbow Dash has finally finished the screening process to join up the the Bolts and is currently on the trial circuit. I watched her absolutely destroy the competition right before we left. “Did she give you any of her lap times?” I ask before the princess answers. “She looks like a demon out of Tartarus on the track, but nopony gave us numbers.” I dance in place in a bout of eagerness and hold back an amused giggle at the princess’ surprised look. “Heh heh,” she chuckles after regaining her composure. “Rainbow Dash didn’t spare me any details. She’s like that you know? Here, I figured you might want these.” She unclasps a single saddle bag (my eyes immediately lock onto the dangerous way her straps are situated around her wings and have to stop myself from rushing over to redo them) and levitates a single folded parchment sheet to the Cap. The Lt. and I crane our heads around her as she unfolds the paper to reveal a list of hastily scrawled numbers. The hoofwriting hurts my brain with how bad it is, but I know the arrangement, and I choke and back away to cough. Whiiiich of course turns into a small coughing fit as my lungs tell me I’m complete nutcase. They’ll get over it. “Are you alright?” Princess Twilight asks, reaching out a hoof in concern. “Yeah, yeah,” I lie, running a hoof through my silver mane. “I just… wow.” “I won’t put crazy bits down yet,” the Lt. says, and I stare at him with an incredulously raised eyebrow. “Sure, those are insane derby times, but a show isn’t just speed. We’ll see, we’ll see.” “May I keep this, Princess?” the Cap asks, and I see the excited fire in her eyes. I know that fire. It’s the same fire she had when I first came onboard. Hell, it’s the same fire she always has when somepony new gets put in her hooves. She gets to make somepony into a Wonderbolt, and that process is as enjoyable for Captain Spitfire as it is probably the worst three months of said pony’s life. I know, and I got her approval early. Rainbow Dash will be in for something else if she makes it through the trial circuit. “Sure!” Princess Twilight says. “I think Rainbow would want you to have them too. So… ahm, enjoy your stay and if there’s anything you need, well, the castle’s hardly difficult to miss.” “And if you’re off saving one of your friends from a chocolate monster?” the Lt. jokes with a friendly wink for which I nudge him in the shoulder. “Ugh… please don’t bring that up. I’m never going to hear the end of it,” the princess sighs good naturedly. “Try the mayor if I’m occupied. She’s much busier than me, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind at the very least pointing you in the right direction.” “Thank you, Princess Twilight,” the Cap replies. “Have a good evening.” “Oh! You too!” she says again before shaking the Cap’s hoof and trotting off toward her castle. “Alright you two sorry excuses for pegasi,” the Cap quietly laughs as she pulls her goggles off completely and ruffles her mane, “duty secured.” “True that,” I agree, going a step further than Spitfire and crawling out of my flight suit and slinging it over my back. We really don’t verbally agree where we start walking. We just set off. Soarin’ told the team this is going to be their one night to get wasted before we start the painful process of setting up in a new fort. We’ve all been to Ponyville before, and all of us know the Haymaker is the best bar for an occasion like this. So, it’s not a question of where we’re going but of who’ll already be acting like an idiot by the time we make it there. “Twenty-bits says Surprise blacks out first,” Spitfire says, seeming to read my mind. “Sixty says I don’t even get buzzed but still drink more than the both of you combined,” Soarin’ teases. “Oh, what a great way to rub it in a light-weight’s face,” I jeer with all the sarcasm I can muster. “But you’re on. Whaddya say, Spits?” “I’ll raise the stakes,” Spitfire replies with a clever smile. “I’ll hoof over a hundred if you survive more chariot bombs than Filly.” “It’s by Celestia’s grace-” Soarin’ retaliates when I add in... “And a metric buckload of vomming your brains out,” “-that I’m not dead after what I downed in Filly,” he carries on with a definite note of irritation in his voice. “We’ll kindly avoid discussing my least glamorous moment on the team.” “As if,” I needle him to Spitfire’s laughter. “I don’t need this in my life,” Soarin’ grumbles under his breath. “Hey, guys, I’m gonna hop on over to my room for a bit to put the uniform up, and I’ll meet you at the Haymaker after,” I say when we got closer to where most of us are staying. I mean sure, yeah, I need to put the uniform up and get my shades out of it, but I also need to smoke. Preferably away from Spitfire. She won’t hold the decorum of it over my head like she does when we’re working, but I’d rather not have her giving me looks when I’m trying to enjoy time with the team. “Sounds good to me,” Soarin’ says. “I’ll probably be the last in. I wanna shower.” “Showing up late won’t get you out of a bet,” Spitfire teases, and we all part ways. My booking is actually closer to a small breakfast place (I’m a chronic early riser), and if I’m not mistaken, is actually owned by the same stallion. The hotel’s really just a small three family house he rents to passers-through, not an actual hotel. But hey, he lets me smoke on the balcony, which is more than I can say of most of the inns around Ponyville. And yeah, it’s a shallow reason, but the family places are usually more discreet. “Evening, Miss,” he says to me when I enter the aging wood door and ring the bell hanging in the frame. “Fleetfoot, am I right?” He asks with that special kind of aged warmth I wish was more common. “The only one I know,” I reply. “You booked for two nights looks like. Am I right?” he asks as he flips through a crinkling notebook. “Yep,” I say. “Okay then, here we are,” he says, sliding the notebook across the oak counter separating us. “Just sign here so I know you’ve checked in,” he continues, pointing to the line before offering me the quill. “You’ll sign again and pay when you’re ready to leave. And you can get my wife’s fine cooking across the street for breakfast.” “Sounds like a plan,” I reply, streaking out my signature like a pro… which I guess I am. “Heading to the Haymaker tonight I presume, Miss Fleetfoot?” he asks as he takes back his register and quill. “Yeah… the Bolts are pretty predictable, huh?” I say sheepishly. “Ol’ Tap has a reputation,” the old stallion chuckles. “I’d go if I were visiting. But, and take it for what you will, I’d personally recommend the Lodge. Barkeep by the name o’ Cold Crisp. His cutie mark’s actually in barkeepin’ and he’ll set you up nice.” “Ya know, I may bounce and give it a shot,” I say, curiosity piqued. If there’s one thing I’ve learned after more tours and circuits than I can count, it’s to trust the locals. Especially when it comes to the good bars. “And thanks. You have a good night, Mr…” “Chip. Wood Chip, Miss Fleetfoot,” the stallion says. “Enjoy yourself.” I nod and trot up the narrow staircase to my room, tossing the uniform on the bed and rummaging in its inner pockets for my pack and shades. I take a deep breath, sliding on the glasses as I throw open the sliding door to the balcony. The deep purple lenses turn the already warm and red sunset a beautiful array of colors. The humidity is just right, and I let another deep breath go before striking my match on the balcony rail and catching the Horseshoe Strike already between my teeth. My next big breath is a fiery one, and the wispy smoke I exhale is like blowing away a fat slug of the tension in my muscles. And now I can just enjoy the rest of the smoke. I hear around the big cities we tour around that Ponyville’s starting to grow. Sure. Let ‘em think it. I still see a small town. Even the small burgs have a nightlife, and even through my shades, I can tell Ponyville’s version of ‘nightlife’ involves… I start giggling then and have to be careful not to drop my smoke. Who am I kidding? Ponyville’s still small and quaint no matter what the papers say just because the Princess of Friendship lives here. I think about all the times I’ve thought about where I’ll settle down once I decide to get out. My small laugh dies away, and I go back to the half burnt down cigarette. I try and fail at blowing smoke rings. Maybe you can only do that with traditional pipes? I dunno. I take another puff and jump back to my original train of thought. Maybe I’ll settle in Ponyville or somewhere like it. Somewhere the cloud real estate is at least decent. I’m jumping around a map in my head, trying to remember the smaller places I’ve been, when somepony knocks at the door. One of my eyebrows decides to come up before I even think the situation’s strange. I take one last puff, stamp the butt out on the porch, and walk back into the room. I don’t close the balcony sliding door. It’s a nice evening out. “Hello?” I ask as I crack open the door. I’m not going to be surprised if it’s a fan. They have an uncanny ability to find us even when we give the press a run for their money. But it’s Soarin’ giving me that goofy, friendly-concern grin through the crack in the door. “Bad time?” he asks me, and I know he’ll leave if I say yes. The Lt’s. a chill colt that way. How he managed to make it as far up the ladder as he did without having a screaming mouth and a half like Spitfire, I’ll never know. Hay, I didn’t even make it to the third spot without learning to knock some ponies around a little. It takes a lot to get me angry, but a pony can press my buttons. I’m fairly certain Soarin’ has no buttons. “Nah, come on in,” I tell him, opening the door and walking back to the balcony. “You okay?” “I’m the one who dropped by to ask that question,” he tells me, patting my back and leaning his forelegs on the rail. I pull out a second ‘rette and light up. He doesn’t say anything even though I know he takes the Cap’s side on my… ugh, I hate calling it an ‘addiction’. Like I said, Soarin’s a chill colt. I snicker. I’m barely two years older than him but I still think of him like a kid. Really? Soarin’ is a better stallion than a lot I’ve met. “Sorry,” I apologize for my little titter. “It’s just you.” “That makes me feel loads better,” he says, and I can feel the eyeroll he gives me. “Seriously, I’m fine,” I say, blowing out a particularly good take. “Uh-huh,” he replies, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me a single bit. Come to think of it, I probably wouldn’t believe me either. But then, I am me, so it’s kinda hard to know. “That your second or third?” he asks, and there’s no denying he’ll be able to see my eyebrows slant, shades or no shades. And here I was, just thinking of how nice it is he doesn’t bring it up. “I knew you were going off to smoke, but isn’t more than one unusual for you?” He’s not looking at me, just staring off into the sunset. There’s not a colt in existence that would be so dense to not know when they’re being glared at, but Soarin’ is flat ignoring me. I resist the spite in me that says to blow a puff straight in his face. Instead, I just prop myself on the railing and say tersely, “It doesn’t matter. Or it shouldn’t… I dunno.” “You don’t sound fine,” he says. He really is concerned. I can hear it in his voice. But I can’t deny that I really want him to just lay off. “Look, you don’t have to take the position if you don’t want to,” he says, and he gets off the rail, judging by the way it creaks. I turn to face him and pull my shades off. “Tell that to the Cap,” I grunt. “Come on, Soarin’, be realistic. Who else is gonna take your spot? Misty? Rapid? Surprise sure as Tartarus isn’t ready.” I cough, growl after it’s over, and angrily stamp out the unfinished smoke. “You’re good, Fleet,” he tells me, taking a seat on the porch, and I follow suit. “You’re older than me, and I’ll be honest, you’re a way better flier. But - and let me finish - ” I close my mouth that I’d opened to protest and reluctantly let him go on. I don’t really want to be talking about this right now. I want to be going out and be drinking and having a good time. Why can’t he leave this for a few days and wait until we get to the new fort? “... Fleet…” he goes on after making sure I won’t interrupt him right off. “You’ve got a point that the others aren’t necessarily ready to take on the wingpony’s job, but if you don’t want to do it, the team’s gonna go to shambles anyway.” “Doesn’t mean I don’t have to regardless,” I sigh and shake my head to try to get my mane out of the streaked style it gets in during long flights. I wish I could wear it short like I did when I was in the regular Guard. The Bolts are performers though and our manes are a big marketing thing. That’s what I’m told anyway. “We joined the Guard, Soarin’,” I say, and I sound a lot more down and out about the whole thing than I feel. Guess that whole thing about not bottling up does make it worse when it comes out. At least I wasn’t yelling. “The team has to come first. I know that. You know that. Sure, I’d rather not have to take the wingpony position, but I have to.” “You know Spits won’t make you if your heart really isn’t in it,” Soarin’ says. “She’ll find a work-around.” “The team has to come first,” I repeat. It’s cheesy sounding, and I know it, but that doesn’t make it any less true for me. Surprise calls me old-fashioned, but even though she only does it to tease, I can’t think of anything else better to describe myself. “A disgruntled me as wingpony is going to be far better than a half-arsed patchwork team dynamic any day.” “Hey, it’s your call,” Soarin’ relents and stands. “Since it’s my job you’ll be taking, you know you can always ask if ya need help.” He winks before slipping out. “See ya ‘round, Fleet.” I nod as the door snaps shut quietly behind him. I won’t be seeing any of them tonight I think. I’m not necessarily in a bad mood per se, but it’s not one I want to be in around the team that’s for sure. And it’s also the kind of mood a good book or leisure flight won’t shake. I need private cider. I’ll thank Mr. Chip on the way out for the recommendation. Hopefully the Lodge is as good as he says. I stand up, shut the balcony door, slip on my shades, and start a glide to the smaller, less popular local bar. ______________________________________________________________________________ I scrape my hooves against the dirt of the Ponyville road just enough to feel my hooves tingle, before fluttering my wings to a halt. I had asked Mr. Chip on my out where to find the Lodge, and it was a good thing too. Unlike the Haymaker, which I always took beef with for its pretty tasteless and blatant advertising (despite the good atmosphere inside), the Lodge is the type of place nopony knows about unless they already know about it. Which makes no sense whatsoever, but I can’t find any other way to word how nestled and tucked away it is. I trot lightly to the entrance, and I can only just hear the thrum of music. The clink of glasses and bassier clang of tankards is making more noise. Well, I figure if those are moving, the booze hast to be decent at the very least. I step inside the admittedly small entrance and subconsciously try to force my mane down. It’s a little habit from a good few years trying to keep my head down when I want a little privacy. I mean, if ponies are looking for a Wonderbolt, a pony with a mane so long it doesn’t look like she can see what’s right in front of her isn’t even in the running for a glance. But that leaves me with not being able to see what’s right in front of me. I pull my mane back and keep from shaking my head. No mane band means shaking only makes it worse. And now that I can see, I pretty much immediately like the place. The paint is peeling in all the right places, there’s dust on the hard-to-reach nooks, and the bar stool creaks as I slide onto it. I think the musicians are locals, but I could be wrong. Either way, they’re playing soft, mood music. This is the bar of a normal town with normal nights. Which strikes me as odd at first, but I suppose if Princess Sparkle doesn’t drink, not much changes in a place like this. I eagerly place both hooves on the bar counter and let out a content sigh. I decide I’ll have a few, get a little dizzy, and enjoy the music before going back to bed. “Surprised to see a lady mare like yourself in here, Miss Fleetfoot,” the barkeep, Cold Crisp says to me with a knowing smile. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest that I’m recognized so easily, and it must show. Mr. Crisp just slightly waggles a hoof and closes his eyes. “Keep yer head on, Miss Fleetfoot. You want some time and quiet, you’ve come to right place. Not a soul is gonna bother you in here, Celestia be my witness.” “Oh, thank goodness,” I say. That comes out brilliantly. Way to come off like a complete snob, Fleet. Good one. But Mr. Crisp doesn’t seem to mind. Or get that impression at all. “Everypony needs their time alone to think. Bottle or no bottle,” he says, again with that knowing smile. “And speaking of bottles, what’re you lookin’ for?” “Start me with a greyhound,” I say without even thinking. Mr. Crisp has one of the infectious smiles it seems like. I’m grinning when I order. If I’m forced to choose, I enjoy a good mojito over other drinks, but I always get a greyhound first no matter where I am. It’s what the team used to get me destroyed when I got accepted in. Silly ritual maybe, but it’s still a good drink regardless. “You got it,” Mr. Crisp tells me. He moves off, and it’s obvious he has a bartending cutie mark. He’s handling my bottle without even looking and checking up on another customer with idle chat at the same time. I get a small pang as I watch my drink materialize along with several others. “Aaaaaand, there we are,” he says, sliding glasses and tankards across the bar. They stop in front of us all perfectly, and the pang hits me a bit harder. I’m not really jealous. That’s not the right word. I know what real jealousy feels like. I shake away those thoughts and let the music form a nice, cushioning blanket around my world as I take my first sip. It’s delicious of course. But I can’t ignore the pang. I’ve wondered it before, and never resolved it enough to not think about it again. My mind is boggled all the time by what it must be like to have a cutie mark that just… works. Does its thing all by itself. I tell myself it’s silly to think of cutie marks like living things, but mine does a lot of the time. I’m the fastest pony on the team (until Rainbow Dash crashes in anyway… but that’s neither here nor there), and being insanely fast is my talent. But I feel like I always have to call on my cutie mark when I need that edge. And I’m not alone. There are days I’ve heard other ponies talk about it the same way, but I’ve always wondered what it must be like to not need to… do whatever it is I do. I ponder the whole affair a bit longer, and I’m only distracted from it by my empty glass. Somewhere in the back of my head, the smart part of me is waving and shouting and generally making a fool of herself trying to tell me to slow the buck down. But I don’t really pay much attention. The music and… feel of this bar is too nice for me to care. I slide my empty greyhound to the counter, and Mr. Crisp is there before I can think of waving for him. “Another or something different, Miss Fleetfoot?” he asks me. “A…” I take a minute to forcibly swallow. My throat feels swollen… Probably downed the greyhound faster than I meant to. “A mojito, regular… classic,” I say. He nods and shuffles off. The band ends their song, and everypony applauds. And what I took for a very relaxed band proceeds to wreck my impression just as Mr. Crisp returns with my mojito. Their drummer clacks his sticks and the room explodes. Well, not quite. I don’t think their equipment can quite reach levels like that, but they sure do try. There are amused chuckles and approving nods all around. I wasn’t expecting it, but I nod too. The music isn’t half bad, and I get the feeling this is more than a local band. It’s a budding local band. The whole atmosphere of the bar changes as the young musicians continue to shred like they’re about to die, but I still like it. A lot apparently, because I don’t remember the time passing, drinking that much, or the song changing. It just happens really. I look down, spill something alcoholic all over myself, feel the ice, look up too fast, and my inner smart Fleetfoot sighs before I feel myself going to the floor. I know I hit hard, but how I have no idea. I can’t feel anything. My eyes are opening and closing really slowly and memories of that night after joining the team come back. Except a giggly Spitfire isn’t the last thing I see or feel. A rugged but sculpted stallion comes into view over me, and I try to panic but, I don’t think my brain could care less about what I want. The worst doesn’t happen though. I’m hauled off the floor like a long-loved ragdoll and gently set on a broad, sinewy back. And before I completely black out, I hear the deepest baritone in my life. “I’m taking her back to her room, Crisp. Her drinks on my tab.”