I signed the bottom of the fifth page "An Insider." My quill fell onto the table with a soft knock, and I let out a long, shuddering breath. After hunching over for so long, my neck felt like a weathervane after a tornado. The tabloids lay around me on the table, like they were already begging to see the pages of my letter. My wings itched. I wanted to fly away. I felt cold. I was having trouble blinking, and my jaw hung open. My breaths were labored.
I'd written it. Five pages of "insider secrets" about Soarin': a few truths, some half-truths, and plenty of outright lies. I'd made up a bunch of stuff about a bankruptcy and secret foal support, and I'd put in some allusions to doping. I'd thrown some true stuff in there, too, but… I don't want to tell it to you.
I think about that letter every time I go into my kitchen now. It's gotten bad enough that I've almost sold my half of the building. They were just words, but they were enough to completely destroy somepony that I'd called my best friend. And I'd written them. I want to believe that, even then, part of me knew it was wrong. I felt so distant from myself when I looked at it.
In some ways, it was a relief, like all the hatred was totally out of my hooves and that none of it was still in my body. But it's not that easy. You don't get rid of something by putting it on a page. I hated it. I hated that I'd created something so vile, but that wasn't the worst part. No, the worst part was that the fire was still there, still inside me, telling me that I was doing the right thing. It was telling me I had to go through with it, or Soarin' would swoop in and take everything away from me all over again, even more so if he found out about the letter.
I imagined him at the Academy. It was like a waking nightmare: Soarin' arriving right after I'd left, waiting for me to try to mail the letter. I would come in for a landing on the training plateau, and there he'd be, next to Spitfire, giving me a wink and saying, "It's good to be back, Number Two."
I snorted and jerked myself out of my chair. My eyes were narrow, and my face was scrunched and hot. I kept alternating between hovering and walking around in circles. I'd look out the window towards the Academy, then back at the letter.
And all the while, the fire told me it would all be better. I just had to stick the letter in the envelope. It's amazing how much evil you can convince yourself to do when it's just one step at a time.
Growling, I shook my head and ran outside, slamming the door behind me. I wanted to fly. I needed to fly away as far as I could. I leapt off my stoop. I built up speed as I ran. I flared out my wings…
…and I slowed to a stop as I got to my fence. I was already breathing heavily, like I'd been flying for hours. My head pulsed. I thought about how easy it would be to escape, but then I turned back to my house, straightened my shoulders, and grumbled to myself, "Captains don't run."
I walked back into a different house. Everything looked the same, but somehow it radiated a completely different feeling, a type of hot energy that was hard to look at. My kitchen didn't feel cozy, and it wasn't hard to figure out why. My blood pumped rapidly through my veins, and I felt like I couldn't breathe. That letter was choking me.
My hoof started shaking again, and I ran. I ran through the kitchen into my small living room and around the corner to the nook where I kept a mostly unused desk. "Where the buck did I put it?" I ripped open drawer after drawer, dug through old notepads, knocked old papers to the side. "C'mon, where? Ugh! How in Tartarus would I lose something like that?" I didn't find the envelope box until my third sweep of everything. It had been in the first drawer, like always, right with the stamps.
I snorted again and felt my hackles raise. I sneered at the envelope and stamps, then picked them up and dashed back to the kitchen table. It felt like they were burning a hole in my hoof. I wanted to be done with them. I wanted to get rid of them and never think about them again.
When I got back to the kitchen, I slammed the envelope on the table, knocking over the inkpot in the process. "Dammit!" I fumbled the envelope onto the floor and set the inkpot back up. My wings raised, trying to get comfortable as I picked up the envelope. I quickly yanked the quill from the table, jammed it into the inkpot, and wrote down the address for the National Equinerer, which was staring me in the face from their "Send in juicy tips!" ad. I didn't need to disguise my writing. The blots and my rushed hoof did it for me. I put the Wonderbolts' Press Office as the return address, then stuck the stamp on it with a loud slam.
And then, everything in my condo was quiet.
My body was hot. The fire in me died down, and it was quickly replaced by the cold grip of fear. I shivered and looked away from the table. My thoughts raced. 'Somepony's going to find out. What if it gets returned? I'll lose it all. Soarin's going to find out.'
I shook my head and left the room.
I couldn't go back into my kitchen for the rest of the day. That same feeling stuck with me the entire time, like I'd trapped a wild beast in my house that would get out if I so much as looked at it. It didn't even help to leave. I went out for dinner that night – I just swung by a hole-in-the-wall taco joint I liked – but the whole time, I could feel it, like it was calling to me.
I came home through the back door, which got me to my bedroom without having to go near the kitchen. I shut my door.
I spent the rest of the evening reading a couple of the standard-issue Wonderbolts manuals again. Did I need to? Probably not, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to be on top of my game. I went all the way through the protocols for being a captain or a lead flier, and I got through most of the basic and advanced formations and every little detail of timing and in-air communication. It kept my mind off of the beast on my kitchen table.
After a cold, cold shower, I got ready for bed. I set my alarm an hour earlier than usual, so I could mail the letter before anypony on my squad saw me. Even with that thing just a few rooms away, I slept pretty well that night. No, there weren't any tortured dreams. It was much worse to simply open my eyes when my alarm went off and realize that it was the morning twilight, time to do the deed.
I lie in bed for several minutes, until I was worried I would be late and the ringing of my alarm clock gave me a headache. I stood up. I didn't yawn, and I didn't stretch. I didn't eat breakfast, and I didn't go for a morning wake-up flight. Instead, I put on my uniform and tried to forget that Soarin' had shown me how to keep it so crisp.
The only thing I wanted was for the day to be over.
In the bathroom, I ran a wet comb through my mane, and I couldn't keep my eyes off the uniform. I imagined more patches and medals appearing on it, popping into existence over a long career, awards and honors that nopony could take away from me. I smiled and posed in front of the mirror.
But soon, my wings drooped, and my uniform felt heavy. I shook my head at the pale-faced pegasus in front of me. He looked so small and scared, with dark circles under his eyes and his ears down. He said, "I'm sorry, Soarin'." It sounded weak.
And that weakness ticked me off. I hated it. I started seeing red again. As soon as I'd said his name, I was back at the stadium. I remembered that amazing high, all being ripped away from me the moment the media had latched onto the real story. I was back in the media room, then the hotel room reading the paper, then the train station. That burning rage built in my chest again, until I stomped on my floor and growled the mirror, "No. No apologies. I deserve this."
My steps fell heavily on my floor. I moved efficiently to the kitchen, grabbed the envelope, stuck it in my saddlebag, and left my home. Wave Chill didn't meet me outside, of course. Instead, my only companion was my suspiciously weighty saddlebag, the one that seemed to whisper to me about what horrible things Soarin' was trying to do to me. The air was still, and I could hear its faint voice telling me to keep going.
I arrived at dawn. The sunrise seemed so perfect, like Celestia herself was blessing my actions. She knew that it was a new day for Fire Streak. I was taking my destiny into my own hooves.
Each step through the arches of the Academy grounds felt important. I walked in and nodded at a sleepy-looking guard, then continued down the walkway past alabaster statues of the great Wonderbolts of history. There was Commander Easyglider, General Firefly, Admiral Fairweather, and dozens more, all fliers that had proven themselves the greatest of their time. They had all become Number One.
There were no detours that day. No, I headed straight for the front office, Hurricane Hall, a small cloud building with a wrought iron sign above the door written in ancient Equestrian: "Praemia Virtutis Honores". Honor is the reward of virtue. I looked away from it. My cheeks flushed, and I mumbled, "If only."
It was time for me to earn my place among the elite Wonderbolts of the past, and all I had to do was take down the greatest threat my career had ever known. I did everything I could to not think. My hooves moved automatically, driven on by the raging fire that threatened to consume my body.
The building was still locked, but Paper Pusher, the secretary, let me in. "Um, good morning, Fire Streak," she said in a small voice that fit her aged stature. "Can I help you?"
"Good morning. Sorry to bother you, but I want to check the mail before I forget again." I hadn't checked the mail since the previous week, so it wasn't a complete lie. I gave her a grimace and nodded. "In case HQ sent any paperwork I need to fill out or anything."
She gave me a soft, warm smile that felt like a dagger in my stomach. "Of course, Streaky. I think you'll enjoy it." I wasn't sure what she meant, but I was happy to get her out of the way.
The halls of the reception building were empty and cold, and I had to turn on the gem lamps one by one as I walked down them. Smooth tile and bare walls lined the hallway, broken up only by the metal doors and a single public bulletin board that never had anything useful. I walked down the hall, counting my steps. The heat coursed through my blood, threatening to take me in a tidal wave of fire. 'Almost there,' I thought. 'Just a few more–'
I'd reached the mailroom.
My heart stopped. The large, imposing door was still shut. Carefully, I lifted a hoof, and the door rattled as I tried to open it. It was still locked.
I let out a breath and sucked in another one. I was dizzy. Sitting down, my saddlebag hit the floor, and a small clinking noise echoed through the empty hallway. Without looking, I reached into my bag and pulled out the envelope.
It seemed so innocuous. Twisting it in my hooves, I thought about how that envelope didn't know what it was really doing, how it might have been used to said a letter to a grandmother or a friend. Now, though, it was being used as a weapon. A cloaked dagger that Soarin' would never see coming. I shook my head and said to myself, "Am I really doing this?"
It didn't feel real. I hoped I was still dreaming. The more I blinked and bit my tongue, though, the more convinced I was that it was real. In my hooves, I was holding a way to get everything I wanted, and all it would cost me was a lifetime of guilt.
I told myself I wasn't making the decision yet. I told myself that I was just checking the mail, and that anything involving a certain outgoing mail slot was eons into the future. Evil, one step at a time. I wish I could say it wasn't the real me, that it was the fire inside and that I'm completely blameless, but, well… Who are we but the pony we become in our darkest moment?
I looked back up at the door and spoke quickly. "Get in, get out, and get on with your life." I sucked in another big breath and fished my keys out of my bag. My hoof tremored, and it took me four tries to get the key into the lock. To my horror, it turned. My head shook. "No… No no no…" All the breath left my body, and slowly, the door creaked open.
Despite what my heart was telling me, everything felt like it was out of my hooves, like I had already built up momentum and was about to either soar to great heights or crash and burn completely. I walked into the dark mailroom, the envelope weighing heavy in hoof. It was time. I was about to make my decision, about to throw away my integrity and my honor and everything else to get what I wanted. I took one more step forward, and in a small, resigned voice, I said,
"I'm sorry, Soarin'."
I flicked the lights. "I'm so, so sorr–" I stopped. My eyes went wide, quickly adjusting to the light, and my knees almost buckled. There, off to one side near my personal mail slot, was a duffel bag labeled with a hoof-written sign that read:
Fan Mail: Fire Steak
I stepped forward, cautiously at first. All on their own, my eyes blinked, and my head shook. It was real. There was a big bag of envelopes, stuffed full, with mail that was all for me. I slid my saddlebag off my back, afraid to breathe and never tearing my eyes away. My bag thumped onto the floor, right next to the outgoing mail box.
For a few minutes, I just stared at it. See, all the mail we get is screened by security first, to make sure it's not coming from some psychopath. They don't open everything, but they check all the names against a register, and anything that wasn't 100% safe was thrown out. That meant one thing: these were all real. Every single one was a letter meant just for me. Soarin' had told me before about the bags of letters he'd get whenever the show went on tour, and yeah, his bags were always bigger, but this… I couldn't believe it. I dropped the envelope onto the floor. With a nervous hoof, I opened the bag and took out a piece of mail.
I twisted it all around, felt the weight of it. It seemed like just a couple pages inside, so much like the letter I'd written, but completely different. I couldn't wait to open it, but it all seemed too perfect, like I wanted to keep it sealed forever. That feeling didn't last long, though, and, swallowing hard, I opened it up. There were two pieces of paper inside. The first one was pink. In sloppy, crayon hoofwriting, it read:
Dear Mister Fire Streek,
Your show was really really super! I liked the fire parts and the part where you and Spitfire did the big loop and the fire and the Wonderbolts picture. That part. Do you get hot when you do that? I'm Northwind, and I'm 6 and a Half, but I'm almost 7. Thanks you for being great. I wanna fly in the Wonderbolts when I grow up!
You're biggest fan,
Northwind
My body felt like it was made of clouds. I was light-headed, and I blinked a few times to make sure the letter was real. It stayed the same.
I quickly cycled to the other page. This one was white, and the words were a lot more legible.
Dear Mr. Fire Streak,
FANTASTIC show this weekend! I brought my daughter Northwind to see the Wonderbolts, and she hasn't stopped talking about it since. She was truly inspired by the work you do, and I think I'm going to sign her up for your Junior Fliers camp later this summer if there's still room.
You sure that was your first show as lead flier? Could have fooled me! Everything looked tight and perfect. Now, I'm not a stunt flier by any means, but hey, if you can make the audience happy, that's what matters, right? You certainly gave us the most fun we've had in months.
I know you probably get inundated with stuff like his, but could you please send a headshot made out to Northwind? It would make her smile, and I know it would mean the world to her. I told her that you get a lot of letters and to not get her hopes up, but it doesn't hurt to ask!
Thanks again for everything,
Stormy Glider
I had thought there was nothing better than a crowd of screaming fans. I'd thought that media attention and fame and feeling like you were the best were the most important parts of being a Wonderbolt, that being in the papers meant that you'd made it. If I'd had any more room in my heart to feel stupid, I would have, but instead, I was overflowing with something else, a feeling of lightness and fullness that stretched from my hooves to the tip of my nose. The world was spectacular, I was weightless, and I had made a filly smile. I still have those letters. I framed them and put them up by my desk, so I can always look at them when I'm feeling blue.
I deftly put that letter back in my saddlebag, and I caught a glimpse of…
…
I put that letter away in my saddlebag and tore into the next one. Then the next one, then the next one. They were all glowing reviews from ponies I'd never met. There were flirty letters and heartfelt letters and letters with requests and letters that asked random questions, but the one message that kept coming up over and over again was this: I'd made them smile.
After a dozen or so letters, I looked back at the envelope on the floor. The fire whispered to me about how I could have all this every day, and Soarin' would tear the team apart, and didn't I want to keep making ponies smile? The visions came back: earning medals, starring in big shows, and becoming co-captain. Getting a statue on the academy grounds, being written about in history books, and being renowned among all future stunt fliers. My mind flooded with feelings of glory and success, and the temptation raged inside my head, harder than ever.
But it wasn't alone. Something else had sparked back to life, a flare of something warm and comfortable instead of wrathful and fierce, something that had been with me my whole life. I remembered all the good I had already done as a leader, all the good that Soarin' had done, and how much that little filly Northwind looked up to us. And as I did, the voice began to fade. It receded more and more, replaced by this new, old feeling.
I picked up my discarded envelope, the one with the last of my integrity inside. I looked at the mail slot, which was easily within reach. Right there. Right in front of me, but now, it didn't seem so menacing. That voice, weak and pleading, kept whispering to me a few moments longer, until I shook my head, calmly said, "No," and snuffed it out.
With that voice silenced, I put the envelope back into my saddlebag, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one more letter. It wasn't in the duffel bag, though. This one was in my mailbox.
I stood up and stretched my back. I'd completely lost track of time, but I'd been there long enough to get sore. The envelope was face-down, and as I pulled it out, I examined the lower left corner on the back for my picture.
Sorry, I should probably explain. A lot of fan mail and a lot of junk comes through our mail system. There's a special way you can get mail directly to one of the Wonderbolts, though: draw their code picture on it. Every one of us has one, and we only give out to friends and potential business partners for sponsorships and things. It's a great way for somepony to communicate with you without giving out your personal information. It's also a great way for a particularly thick Wonderbolt captain to mail his best friend when he can't remember my actual address.
And yeah, the symbol was there.
…
Keep it a secret? It's a picture of a barn. Weird, right? But I promise it makes sense. When I was a colt, I was one of the last ponies in my class to get his cutie mark. I was flying home from school one day, when I saw a barn off in the distance that was billowing smoke. I dashed towards it. As I got close, I saw a little filly screaming and crying near the entrance. She said her kitten was trapped inside on the second story, where she couldn't reach them. Without thinking, I dropped my bags and rushed inside, darting around and narrowly dodging falling rafters and debris. The smell of smoke was overpowering, and the flames scorched several of my feathers. I heard a panicked meowing, and through the smoke, I saw a white kitten. I grabbed her – I still have a scar near my hoof where she scratched me, the poor, scared thing – and burst out a window. The filly said it looked like a fireball blazing through the sky, but when she saw it, she knew her kitten was safe. I gave the kitten back, and the firefighters arrived just in time to see a flash of light as I got my fireball cutie mark. Ever since that day, I've known I was destined for flying in extreme conditions.
That barn means a lot to me, and so I use it as my code picture. It had been drawn perfectly on the back of that envelope, and that meant it was from somepony I knew I could trust.
I squinted at it and turned it over. The return address was in Appleloosa. My heart seized up, and my thoughts raced. 'Did he already find out about my letter?' Stupid question, but yeah, it's what I thought. The address was slightly misspelled, but I didn't think anything of it.
I sat down. Slowly, I opened the envelope, and with a delicate hoof, I took out Soarin's letter. It wasn't long. It wasn't intricate. It wasn't even particularly well-written. But it was Soarin'.
Street,
I don't even need to weight for the peppers. I now you killed it. Great flying, Number One.
~Soarin'
I smiled, chuckled to myself, and shook my head at all the misspelled words. "Dumbass," I whispered. "You were drunk, weren't you?" I wish I'd realized the truth sooner, but at the time, nopony knew how serious that head injury had really been.
But he was there for me. Even when he was dealing with all of his own problems and probably distracted by a million fans and a hot stallion, he was there for me, and he'd wanted me to know it. He was there for me. He cared. He was my friend.
And I was a monster. I looked back to my saddlebag, and all the color drained out of me. There was no raging inferno inside me, and that voice that had seemed so persuasive was gone. It was just me and my stupid saddlebag with a stupid letter inside, one that I'd written with my own hooves. I had wanted to destroy my best friend all over a stupid show.
My world felt clearer, like I had taken off a dirty pair of sunglasses. I sniffed hard and looked down at Soarin's letter again. My mouth curled into a frown, and I took a few shaky breaths as my eyes began to water. I wiped away the tears and hugged the letter to my chest. Shaking my head, I screwed my eyes tight, and whispered, "I'm sorry, Soarin'."
With a few deep breaths, I sat up straight, and I felt something behind me. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw Spitfire, wearing her uniform and hiding behind her sunglasses again. I cleared my throat. "Hey."
There are a few things you can expect with Spitfire. She's the first to point out when somepony's late or not pulling their weight. She always has a snappy comeback and a few words of terrifying encouragement, and you can count on her to whip you into shape and make you power through whatever slump you're in, like it or not. At least, that's her reputation.
But maybe you can't always trust a pony's reputation. Spitfire slowly took off her sunglasses so I could see her eyes. They were soft, and her eyebrows were furrowed, but not in an angry way. In a soft voice, she said, "Hey. You okay?"
I looked down at Soarin's letter again. "Not really."
"Do you, um…" I looked up and saw her glancing back down the hallway. "Do you want to…"
I laughed a little. "Yeah, I do." I patted the ground next to me.
Spitfire walked over and sat down next to me. Our backs were at the door, and she glanced behind herself a few times. It got distracting enough that I rotated so we could face the door in case anypony walked by. Her wing muscles relaxed as she turned around, and she asked, "So, what's up?"
I sighed. There was no point in sugarcoating it. "I'm a traitor."
Spitfire raised an eyebrow. "What did you do?"
With a bit of hard work, I was able to glance her way, but only for about two seconds. "I almost sold out my best friend."
There was a long pause.
"Care to elaborate?"
"Well, not really."
Spitfire rolled her eyes. "Streak, you need to get better at this whole talking thing. Celestia knows I won't."
I looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "It was last Friday. Friday was supposed to be my big break." I shrugged. "I mean, jeez, my parents were there, the stadium was packed, and we introduced a whole new array of pyrotechnics, for Celestia's sake! First night being the lead flier and everything."
Spitfire's voice got a little bouncier. "Streak, you did have a great night, and from the looks of things," she said, glancing at the duffel bag full of mail. "…the fans liked it, too. What's wrong with any of that?"
"I didn't get to be famous." I looked back at Spitfire.
She stared at me with a neutral expression for a few seconds. "Is that honestly what you care about?"
I shook my head. "Not really, but I think I had expectations, right? I see how you and Soarin' get to go to big events, everypony's always swarming around you when we're in public, and you get all this love and adoration. You're the faces of the team, and I finally had my chance to hit it big. You can't tell me you don't understand the drive, right?" I shifted in place and looked at her directly. "Every single one of us wants to be in your position. It's the thing that keeps us going and makes us push ourselves: we want to know that we really are the best of the best, that everypony knows we're the best, so we won't have to doubt. So we won't have to be insecure anymore or worry about being cut. Yeah, I know you have to do a lot of extra work, but you can't say it's not worth it, right?"
Spitfire pursed her lips. "I… yeah, I can't."
I blew air out of my lips, and my voice became flatter. "And then Friday night happens, and it seems like everything was going my way and I was going to hit it big." I winced and shook my head. "Tartarus, I'd even planned on getting the freaking front page of the sports section framed. But nopony wanted anything to do with me." I slumped. "They wanted to know about Soarin'. Soarin's the real Number One."
Spitfire looked out into the hallway. "I'm going to be honest, Streak. I have no idea what that's like anymore."
I raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
She frowned and looked back at me. "Streak, I've been in this position for a few years now. You're right. It's a lot of extra work, and I do it because I care about this team, but the longer it goes on, the more detached I get. I told you that the mares don't hang out with me much because they're too intimidated, and as time passes, it gets harder and harder to relate to their postion." She turned to me. "So I appreciate the reality check once in a while, but I still don't see why feeling like this makes you a traitor."
The pit of my stomach dropped, but I didn't hesitate. I wanted that thing out of my life. I reached over to my saddlebag, took out my letter, and gave it to Spitfire.
She raised an eyebrow and examined both sides. "What, you couldn't ask one of the secretaries to write something for you?"
I looked away. "Just read it."
She opened it up, and when she saw that it was five pages long, she mumbled, "Apparently, you had a lot to say." She flipped open the first pages and started reading to herself. "To whom it may concern: I am an insider with the Wonderbolts, and you don't know the first thing about Soarin'. All I want to do is set the record straight and give you the honest truth about everypony's… so-called hero. There are a few things…" She trailed off, and her eyes widened as she quickly skimmed the rest of the pages. "Yeah, I see what you mean."
"Yeah," I said, my head hanging low.
Spitfire shook her head. "Streak," she said in a flat voice, "Tell me the truth. Were you the one that told the media about Soarin' being cut?"
"No," I said without hesitation. I looked at Spitfire's dark sunglasses. "I mean, after the last few days, I guess I wouldn't put it past me, but no, it wasn't me."
Spitfire stared at me for a few seconds, then let out a shallow breath. "I believe you."
"Thanks." I hung my head again and tried to get everything over with. I'd read the bylaws. I knew what was coming. "Silver Lining could probably use a few more shows. Wave Chill's got a good attitude, and he's pretty precise. I'd go with him for a couple weeks. "
"Huh?"
I looked up at her. "You're going to demote me, right? You'll need to replace me."
Her head rolled to the side. "Why would I?"
My head twitched, and I roughly ran a hoof through my mane. "Spitfire, are you serious? I tried to run a good pony's name into the ground over a stupid freaking show!" I stood up and paced, staring at the floor. "What kind of example is that? To have the guy in charge keeping everypony else down? I almost cost Soarin' his entire career!"
Spitfire was quiet for a moment. "But you didn't."
With a sigh, I stopped pacing. "Yeah, but I could have."
"Streak," she said as she stood up, dropping the letter into the trash. She walked over to me and put a hoof on my shoulder. She was gentle. And warm. "I don't care about what might have been. Nopony does. We care about what is, and right now, we've got a team of Wonderbolts in the middle of a scandal that's only going to get worse. We've got a lot of work to do to keep all these ponies together, but that doesn't mean the team's up a creek. Right now, we've got a strong flying squad with a damn fine leader, a young stallion that's stepped up and proven that he has what it takes."
"Okay, but who's to say I won't try–"
"No." Spitfire wheeled around in front of me and removed her sunglasses. She lifted my chin, and my eyes met hers, deep auburn that shimmered and burned as brightly as the fire inside me had. "Streak, listen to me. Yeah, you nearly bucked up. Big time. But you didn't. And I don't want any excuses about how it was a lucky break that I walked in here or anything. You didn't mail that letter, even though nopony would have found out. You're not that kind of pony. Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said sullenly.
"Good," she said, dropping her hoof to the ground. She brushed some dirt off her uniform. "So tell me, Fire Streak, what kind of pony are you?"
It caught me off guard. It was a simple question, but I didn't have an answer. "I'm…" I didn't know. Ever since I'd been named the lead flier for the stallions, that title had completely consumed me. I'd chased that dream with everything I'd had, and when it hadn't worked out the way I'd wanted, I'd felt… lost. Without that title and all that fame, I didn't think I was anypony anymore.
Spitfire tapped a hoof. "I'm waiting."
But Spitfire was right. I was a pony that was capable of doing great things. I'd already helped bring the 'Bolts through a tough shake-up of the roster. I'd performed new stunts with only a few days' notice. I'd stopped myself from making a horrible mistake, and most of all…
"I'm a Wonderbolt."
Spitfire smiled again. "And what does it mean to be a Wonderbolt?"
My words came out softly at first. "It means striving to always be better." I got a little louder. "It means enduring when times get tough." Even louder. Bolder. "And it means sticking with my team." I stood up straighter and looked her in the eyes. "I'm that pony, and I'm more than that. I care about this team, Spitfire, and I'm not going to let it fall apart!"
My chest filled with pride and warmth. I felt the fire again, but this time, it was different. I wasn't feeling it just for myself. No, I was feeling it for my team. "Because I'm a Celestia-damned Wonderbolt, ma'am!"
Spitfire nodded and put her glasses on. "Good answer, Fire Streak." She turned to leave. "We should probably–"
"I'm not done yet."
Spitfire looked over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow, then turned back to me. "Then what else?"
My head turned to the side, and I saw Soarin's letter again, right next to the big bag of fan mail. With slow steps, I walked over and picked it up. "I'm Soarin's friend, and that's a hell of a lot more important than getting my name in the papers." I folded the letter up and put it in my saddlebag, then turned back to Spitfire. "I'll have a chance to earn my rank. Soarin's already gotten there, and he deserves to be welcomed back by his own team." I stomped my hoof. "No more distractions. No more chasing fame. The 'Bolts deserve better than that. When Soarin' gets back, I'll be damn sure the squad is ready for him."
Spitfire cocked her head back and smiled. "I knew you were the right choice."
At those words, the fire inside me burned brighter than it ever had. "Thank you, ma'am."
She lowered her glasses and narrowed her eyes. "What did I tell you about calling me that?"
I laughed. "Ha! Okay. Sorry, Spitz."
Her face scrunched up, and she slid the glasses back onto her face. "Good enough. Let's go. The team's waiting for us."
I grabbed my saddlebag and joined her outside the mailroom. The sun was shining in through the big glass doors down the hallway, and as we approached it, I felt something well up in my chest. Maybe it was the confidence she'd given to me, or maybe things were a little clearer with my head back on straight, or maybe I was finally able to just focus on somepony else. Whatever it was, I turned to her and said, "Hey, Spitfire?"
"Yeah?" She swiveled her ears toward me and looked my way.
"I don't think you're intimidating."
She stopped in her tracks. For just a second, I could see past that tough outer shell she always put on, until she smirked and rolled her eyes. "Heh. I don't know if I'm supposed to take that as a compliment or if it means I'm losing my touch."
It… kind of hurt to hear her make a joke about it. We stood there in the silence for a few seconds, and she shifted in place. I could see her eyes darting between me and the door, but her eyes were obscured by the glare.
Without thinking, I reached out and removed the sunglasses from her face and tucked them into her breast pocket.
Spitfire blinked at me a few times, wide-eyed.
I like her eyes. They're deep and fiery and strong, just like her, and it's a lot easier to talk to her when I can see them. "I'm serious," I said, my tail flicking behind me. "I've really liked working with you. I know you said the mares can be a little cold, so…" I felt myself blush. "…wanna hang out sometime?"
She paused, but slowly, a smile crept across her face. "Yeah. I'd like that."
I smiled, too. "Great," I said, holding the door for her. "Just… not tonight."
"Heh, alright. We'll do it tomorrow, then." She walked outside, and as she did, she asked, "But why not tonight?"
"Because," I explained, smiling and walking out into the morning sunlight. "I need to answer my fan mail."