That wasn’t exactly how she had planned this afternoon.
A day in the life of a Wonderbolt captain didn’t strike as much exciting, and most of the time had you follow the same, practiced routine. Five thirty, shuteye’s over, roll to the floor and give me twenty. Push-ups, sit-ups, wing-ups—it didn’t matter what you were doing as long as you could get the blood running. Five forty, take a cold shower followed by thorough brushing and flossing, both vital if you were the face representing the peak of aerial prowess. Five fifty-five, button your jacket and show the day outside who’s boss. Precisely at six hundred hours, wake the rest of your team and keep yelling until you’ve shouted all tardiness and shabbiness out of them. After that came training sessions to oversee, assignments to give, Royal Guards to get in touch with, and of course tons of paperwork to do before it piled up.
What a life! Spitfire enjoyed her high rank and the responsibilities that came with it, but she was no workaholic—or tried her best to not become one. She seldom had time exclusively for herself, so she welcomed the idea of sending her pegasi on a charity run to the Canterlot Orphanarium. With how she had arranged everything, she figured she would have some time to spend on window shopping, drinking a nice cup of civilian-quality whatever, or taking a seat by Terrace Avenue, all while relaxing and not having to think about anyone but herself.
The orphan triad took away a lot of her desired freedom, true, but she wasn’t going to make it any harder for either party.
Embrace the suck, they said when she enlisted.
Chestnut climbed on the edge of the fountain and looked over Spitfire’s shoulder.
“Whatcha reading there, Miss Captain Spitfire?”
“A little something I got from Bubble Effervescence. I have to say I’m impressed! She and your Doctor Hugs gave us a pretty solid operation plan.”
“I wanna see it!” The filly scanned the sheet. It had too many lines of text and not enough pictures, but she spotted something familiar before she got bored. “Here! That’s my name, you see? Uhm, I think? What else does it say?”
“Well, you’ve got all the information about the Canterlot Orphanarium, the address, a few words to the Wonderbolts. And here’s a list of things for us to do today, see?”
Chestnut frowned and sat beside her. “Word stuff is hard! All of that to say we’ll be eating ice cream?”
Spitfire couldn’t tell if she was being serious, or was just playing silly. Her act sure was convincing, though.
“It’s more than just that,” she replied. “It tells the order in which to do things, so that us and the other squads won’t bump into each other. Can you imagine how it would look like if all six of us and all of you trotted together to the café? It would be a mess, and I sure don’t like when things get messy when I’m in charge,” she said and skimmed through the plan again. Most of the activities had been planned after the Rad Cuckoo—she still didn’t know how to break to the kids that she wasn’t going to participate in the Wonderbolt Quizzitron or the Flight Fashion Show. Or Cloudchaser’s Manes in the Air Semi-seminar. “For example, we started with Chariot Plaza and the fountain, and our next stop is the Firefly Gate on a bearing of one-eighty. Uh, it’s thataway,” she said, pointing southbound. “We better get going. Wind! So what number did you get in the end?”
Wind Whisper came back from his personal reconnaissance mission.
“I counted three hundred steps and two!"
“Three hundred!” Spitfire chuckled. “And how many laps did you do?”
“Just one! It takes ten steps to get from here to that metal plate-thingy there,” he said and presented the way he took one step at the time. “Eleven, twelve, thirteen, forty, fifty… it goes on!”
Chestnut went to the edge of the fountain’s concrete ring. She immersed her hoof in the water and stirred her mischievous reflection.
“Hey, but did you count this here as well?” she asked innocently.
“This what where now?”
“Come… and I’ll show you.”
The colt approached. “What? What is—”
“WATER ATTACK!” Chestnut shouted, sending a tidal wave into the air.
“Hey! That’s not funny!” Wind Whisper jumped away like burned, but he quickly reached into the fountain as well. Glavia, still seated on his back, clung desperately to his bandaged wing when he took a risky lean to the side. Getting caught in the crossfire was never good, especially when your tiny fringe was already soaked. Chestnut didn’t wait for his retribution and flew behind the mare. That set Wind Whisper off. “Miss Spitfire! Chestnut is throwing water at me!”
“You can’t throw water because it sticks to you, silly!” Chestnut replied, snickering. “And you can’t unstick it without a towel! That’s how you get wet!”
The colt took an angry step. “But I didn’t want to get wet though! You have to say sorry to me now!”
“After you say sorry for saying that I can’t read!”
“But it’s true! I don’t have to say sorry for things that are true!”
Spitfire stood up and separated the two ponies. As much as her guts encouraged her to shout at them until she clamored down all conflict, she chose to appeal to their juvenile reason instead. “Alright, tigers, cut the bickering. We’re all flying in the same team today, and we’ve got a plan to follow, right? There’s still a lot for us to do before the clock strikes four. Speaking of—Chestnut, I think it’s your turn with Glavia now, so you two make a swap and be nice to each other, okay? You’re good buddies, after all.”
Wind Whispered summoned a cold stare and passed the feathery bundle. “Chestnut, buddy. Can you please take Glavia now?”
“Of course I can, Wind, my buddy. I’ll be happy to,” the filly replied in an equally frigid, if sweetened manner. She seated the clueless fledgling between her wings. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“Good to hear.”
Spitfire scratched the top of her head. If those two were friends, they had a pretty odd way of expressing that. Still, she didn’t want to take sides, and she didn’t feel competent to teach anyone how to maintain relationships with their peers. Those few she had been in involved her two high school coltfriends, both terrible mistakes in hindsight she’d rather forget. After she enrolled at the Hurricane Academy there was only the chain of command for her, and it wasn’t exactly helping those in a mood for emotional bonding. It wasn’t for her, anyway, and the only thing which changed since then was the link in the chain Spitfire had been assigned as her own.
Maybe Soarin was right. Maybe she really should be going out more often. Just… not today. Besides, she preferred teaching others how to stay focused on tasks, not ponies—in real life, relationships weren’t half as useful as a well-placed dedication to the cause.
She shook her head. That was one strange train of thought she’d taken.
“Alright, Wonderbits, move out! Destination: Firefly Gate, named after General Firefly herself!”
The squad ventured further into Canterlot. The streets weren’t that packed all things considered, as by a popular choice many ponies would spend their Summer Wrap Up outside the city walls. The last days of summer heralded the beginning of busy schedules for both kids and adults, so they all joined the national weekend migration to the countryside. Small hamlets like Ponyville or Rainbow Falls excelled in celebrating Equestria’s quarterly Wrap Ups, often organizing fairs and games that were a real treat for urban dwellers. Of course many families had their own traditions—from hiking to rafting, the ponies would go to great lengths to preserve the late summer magic for a little longer.
“I have a question, Miss Spitfire,” Wind Whisper said as he bounced next to the mare. “You said the statue in the fountain was there because the ponies of Canterlot wanted to thank the Wonderbolts for their help. Gates are bigger than fountains, so what did the Wonderbolts do to earn one? I mean, I know that General Firefly started the Wonderbolts, but why did she get a gate named after her?” he asked, then hastily added, “Please say she fought dragons!”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Wind, but being a Wonderbolt isn’t always about fighting dragons. We’re part of the Royal Guard, and yes, we do fight for Equestria when needed, but we’re also assisting in other tasks that may sound dull but are still important. For example, we’re solving weather problems that got out of hoof. We’re delivering messages and parcels for the Princesses because, let’s be honest, we’re faster than the mail ponies. We also help testing things at the Cloudsdale Weather Factory because we know the skies like nopony else.”
“But Cloudsdale was built a super long time ago,” Chestnut said, “and General Firefly lived… some time before that, I guess. So testing weather can’t be why she got the gate.”
“She didn’t ‘get’ the gate. The gate was already there, but it had no name,” Spitfire explained. “It was just called ‘a western gate’ if I remember correctly. A long time ago, when Canterlot was still mostly a gem mining community, there were no buildings beyond that gate and the old city walls. You know the Promenade, right? The street that goes from the Royal Castle to Victory Plaza? It was only one-third long back then and it ended with the western gate. So, when General Firefly came up with the name ‘Wonderbolts’ and Princess Celestia moved to Canterlot after—” Spitfire bit her tongue and eyed Chestnut. “Uh, when she moved to Canterlot, there was that parade during which the first Wonderbolts followed General Firefly into the city. They went through the western gate and all the way to the Palace, or at least the big construction site that would become the Palace. It was such a big event that everypony started calling the gate ‘the one that General Firefly went through’ or something like that when they were talking about it.”
“That’s a really dumb name for a gate,” Wind Whisper said.
“That’s why they shortened it to Firefly Gate we know today,” Spitfire ended the story.
“Wait,” Chestnut said. “So they named the gate after her because she first came up with a new word and then she walked through it? Pfft! I could do that!”
“Oh, really? Let’s hear it, then.”
“What, now?” She stared into the sky in an obvious attempt at fake thinking. “Okay, I got it. Easy! But I can’t tell you right now. I’ll tell you once I find a gate I like.”
“Whatever you say, recruit,” she chuckled.
As they took the corner, Spitfire’s smile waned. Her eyes went wide.
Saying that the road ahead was blocked would be an understatement, for there was no road at all. Instead, someone put a gaping, partially flooded hole in the middle of the street, and that hole devoured everything from one line of buildings to another, sidewalks included, for the length of about three or four storefronts. Only an island of concrete with a small crane on it had been spared. As if that wasn’t unwelcoming enough, the area was barricaded with red and white safety barriers and cones that separated the pedestrians from the workers below. If it weren’t for the brutal pounding of the jackhammers and the total lack of respect for the ground underneath the street, one would think the ponies in bright vests and hard hats were valiant archeologist, keen to uncover the capital’s secrets buried beneath the omnipresent mud.
The reality was less romantic, alas.
“I think it says ‘someone stole the road, please find another way’,” Chestnut said as she stopped in front of a DANGER – CONSTRUCTION AREA – KEEP OUT sign. “Huh. At least they’re asking nicely. What are we gonna do? Fly?” She flapped her wings, but did not get high before landing and taking a glance at Glavia. “Oomph! You’re heavier than you look! I can carry, but flying with you is a no-no. Someone else has to. Hmm, I wonder whose five minutes are about to start?”
“Yeah. Nice try, but I can’t fly because of the wing,” Wind Whisper said. “And Miss Spitfire said that today is a strictly ground mission. No flying allowed.”
“Not really what I meant,” Spitfire replied, “but I sure can’t carry all three of you, and I’d rather not move you one by one. Stay here. I’ll ask if we can just cut it.”
“Oh, oh! When one pony of the squad goes forth alone it’s called ‘scouting ahead’, isn’t it? You’re going to scout ahead now?”
Spitfire shrugged. “Not really, I’ll just—” She caught the colt’s excited eyes. Now that’s dedication she wanted to see! It would appear Doctor Hugs underestimated his pupil who was not only quickly catching on the military jargon, but presented himself as a disciplined recruit despite the doctor’s claims. If he was only three times as old, Spitfire would happily mold him into a Wonderbolt of the next generation. “Scouting ahead? That’s a positive, recruit! I’ll scout ahead,” she said, much to Wind Whisper’s mirth. “Do you know what the rest of the squad is supposed to do in the meantime? They wait. So you three stay here and make sure nothing dangerous is following me, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am!” Wind Whisper exclaimed.
“Mhm,” Chestnut murmured, her interest fixed elsewhere.
Spitfire crawled under the safety barrier and slid down the great dig site, wondering if Doctor Hugs hadn’t actually mislabeled the troublemaker and the obedient one.
With Spitfire gone, Chestnut’s eyes escaped a rock throw’s away from the hole, to a wall of red bricks that stood against the otherwise sandstone facades of the Sapphire Street. There was a museum of sorts on the other side, and judging by the colorful posters inviting the passers-by to come in, it was having some sort of a unique display for the Summer Wrap Up. The interests was substantial, as there was already a group of school-age ponies lining up before the entrance and dividing their attention between their teacher—a mare of cheerful aesthetics—and a giant wooden crate being delivered to the capable hooves of the museum staff.
“Nice!” Chestnut exclaimed and pulled Wind Whisper’s tail. “Hey, Wind, check out that super box they’ve got there! Wanna go see what’s inside?”
The colt threw a fleeting glance at the commotion. “Nope. We’re supposed to stay here and make sure nothing happens to Miss Spitfire. That’s what she asked us to do, so that’s what I’m gonna do.” He hopped on a toolbox that belonged to one of the workers and made his way up the barrier. “Right… here. Hey, not bad. I can see everything from here!”
A mocking expression crept to Chestnut’s face. “And you’re gonna just sit there? That’s stupid,” she judged. “Since when do you even care, like, at all? Whenever Doc Hugs asks you to do something, you never listen. When Miss Fizzy asks, you never listen. When Mister Eyebrow asks—”
“Mister Eyebrow’s not a Wonderbolt though. None of them are! And I want to be one when I’m older—I wanna fly with Equestria’s fastest fliers.”
“Yeah, right. That’s what you said the last time. You want to break the other, too?” she asked, pointing at his bandaged wing.
He glared at her from up high. “This time I’m not flying anywhere. I won’t get hurt from just listening!”
She laughed in response. “Well, you surely won’t get into the Wonderbolts for that, either.”
“I may! You don’t know that! Shut up!” Wind Whisper snapped, his eyes glinting. “You’re dumb! I will get into the Wonderbolts, but YOU won’t get a gate named after you for not listening, that’s for sure!”
“That’s because I’ll get it for doing stuff that’s awesometastic, like discovering what’s in there!”
Wind Whisper crossed his forelegs. “Oh yeah? And how will you know they wrote your name right? You can’t even spell it.”
Chestnut stomped her hoof angrily. “I know how to spell my name! It goes like… C… H-E-S-S—uhm, T-S—no, S-T-N? Also something, also an ‘A’ and—I know how to spell my name!” Red on her face, she shouted, “You’re stupid! Stay here if you want. Me and Glavia will go see something cool! Ouch! What was that for?” She ejected Glavia from her back and held her in front. “Oh, I get it. You want to stay with him. Well, fine by me. My five minutes are up anyway.” She removed Glavia’s grip off her hoof and put her at the toolbox. “You’re not fun, just like him. You hear, Wind Whisper? I’m putting Glavia here. And I’m gonna check out what’s in there and I won’t tell you nothing!”
“Yeah, whatever,” the colt replied as Chestnut took her injured pride and stormed off towards the museum. He added at a hushed tone, “It’s not like I need you.”
He turned his attention back to what was happening down the hole.
None of Spitfire’s friends would claim her to be good with kids, and she would be the last one to mind if they hadn’t described her as such a pony. If they tried, she’d immediately point out that she had never worked as a foalsitter and that she steered clear from the younger part of her fan base—she was, in fact, using Soarin as her first line of defense whenever a shorter individual approached. Kids were lazy, tardy, shabby, undisciplined, and didn’t respond well to her favorite method of teaching that involved shouting a lot.
She learned it the hard way during the Junior Flyers Summer Camp three years ago. She still owed Rainbow Dash for that one.
“Excuse me,” she said to a worker pony whose front half was swallowed by a pipe. “Excuse me, what is the situation here? Why is the street like this?”
Without turning back, the stallion replied, his voice echoing, “We’re fixing the pipes, ma’am. Pretty much all of them. There’s been a blockage in the network, specifically at the old 17-B, you know, the junction that goes under Ivory. Of course to keep the running water in the block they went and rerouted the flow through the reserve, standard procedure, but the reserve on that section has been put into maintenance last week. These idiots weren’t at the meeting and no one told them to stay clear from 17-B!” he shouted, the pipe resounding with his irritation. “So all the pressure gathered here and blew up the line. We’d be done by now if it weren’t for those white-collar idiots who have never seen a valve before. I told them to use the eighties here, but no, they knew better and told us to try with the sixties first. The sixties! There are like five places in Canterlot that still work well with them, but Sapphire Street ain’t one!”
Spitfire made a mental note to always trust in the eighties, not sixties. Whatever that meant.
“Darn budgetary cuts!” the stallion said, emerging from the pipe. “I can tell the difference in quality when—whoa! Aren’t you too fancy-looking for the plumbing business, ma’am?”
“Well, I fixed my sink once, but anything beyond that I’d rather leave to the experts,” she replied, knocking on the pipe. “No, I’m just a concerned citizen. I was wondering if you could tell me and a couple of foals how to get across these trenches. We’re in a bit of a rush, but we’d also like to keep our hooves and coats clean. Is there a relatively safe path you could recommend?”
“I’m afraid no, ma’am.” He pointed at a pile of pale bluish tiles growing nearby. “As you can see, we had to remove the sidewalks to make sure the water doesn’t threaten the foundations. The pipes are uncovered, but we can’t have anyone step on them. Aside from this lucky rock,” he said, stomping his hoof at the relatively dry square of land, “everything’s all muddy, like a swamp or something. Can’t you and your foals fly over?” he suggested, to which Spitfire shook her head. “No? Well then, I’m afraid you have to go around this mess. Go down the street up to Chariot Plaza, then take right into Marble, and then the first right into a street that will lead you straight to the Promenade.”
“But that’s a twenty minute walk! I don’t suppose you have a few pegasi on your team to help us out?”
The stallion shook his head. “They don’t send pegasi to do the dirty work like this. You’ll find only earth ponies here, and a few unicorn evaporators from the Weather Corps.”
“Understood, and thanks for the tip. I guess we’ll be taking the long way around.”
As she was about to take off, she heard the stallion’s uncertain voice. “Excuse me, ma’am… don’t I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”
Spitfire didn’t consider herself a celebrity. That word served best to describe actors, singers, models, and sportsponies that weren’t also the soldiers of the sky, but she had learned time and again that there was no escape from being slightly more recognizable. Of course when she had taken the job the general, the former captain, and even her own mother all hammered into her that being a Wonderbolt was a responsibility, not a free grab at the last slice of pizza, so she never used her status for personal gain. The scandal-seeking ponies like Raisin Rose from The Voice of the Promenade—oh, how she hated that mare!—would happily write a few columns on the abuse of power if she had.
“I work at the post office. Perhaps you’ve seen me stamping letters or something,” Spitfire replied dryly and took off.
He cocked his head, squinted, and after a moment of careful consideration, he nodded. “Oh, yeah, yeah. That’s probably it,” he said to himself and dived back into his pipe. “A Wonderbolt, bah! What was I thinking?”
Back on the street level, Chestnut returned to where Wind Whisper was perched. She was keen on getting her friend’s attention, but he didn’t seem to care, his indifferent expression revealing his lack of interest.
“Wind, listen to me! I’ve got something super important to tell you!”
“I told you, I don’t care what’s in that box.”
“It’s not about the box, it’s something else, and I need you to come down because I can’t say it out loud! It’s very secretful!”
“Well, it’ll have to wait. Miss Spitfire is coming back from her scouting mission,” he said and waved. “Hey, Miss Spitfire! Over here! I’ve been watching your back but nothing followed you. Did I do well?”
Spitfire touched the ground. “I felt safe the entire time!” she chuckled. “Alright, kids, here’s the situation. We can’t go through here, the road is a complete mess. We’ll have to make a small course correction for this approach. The bad news is, it’ll take us at least fifteen to get to Firefly Gate, which means we may be late for the official part at the Cuckoo.” She glanced over the mission plan. “Right, we’re supposed to be there in half. If we assume two at the gate and another ten to get to the café… argh, there’s no way we can do both. And I can’t be late!” she said, thinking more about her debriefing than anything else. “Alright, new plan. Plans. One of them, actually. Do you want to get to the gate and be a little late at the Cuckoo, or do you want to skip the gate and be there a little early?”
Wind Whisper jumped off the barrier. “Let’s go see the gate! It’s okay to be late!”
“It’s not okay to be late!” Chestnut countered. “Let’s go straight to the café so that Miss Spitfire could stay there longer!”
“No, let’s see the gate first!”
“Café first!”
“Why?”
“Because… reasons!”
“Cease hostility, both of you!” Spitfire boomed. The commanding tone was enough for Wind Whisper to withdraw, but what silenced Chestnut was, judging by her questioning stare, the strange wording the mare employed. “Stop squabbling, I mean. Be quiet! Just listen to yourself—is that how two big ponies talk to each other, or did we end up in some kind of a blasted kindergarten? Doctor Hugs told me that you’re making a good team together, and that I wouldn’t regret working with you, but so far I’ve only seen you two being mean and fighting over nothing!” she said. “If you can’t find common ground over such a simple matter, then whatever, we’ll toss a coin, or better yet, we will ask Glavia for a third opinion. She’s the youngest of you three, and yet she’s making the least trouble. Take it after her.” She then checked both Chestnut’s and Wind Whisper’s backs. “Where is Glavia, anyway? Chestnut?”
The filly pointed at the toolbox. “Uh, I don’t know. I left her here because she wanted to stay with Wind while I was checking the big box there,” she explained and rummaged through the contents of the toolbox. Nowhere in a pile of various wrenches, cringers, and a hacksaw as well as a plunger was griffon fledgling to be found. “She’s not here. That’s not good. Wind?”
Wind Whisper checked under nearby cones. “She’s not here either. No. Nope. Not here,” he said, visibly shaken. “It’s not my fault, is it? I was watching you. I thought she’d be too!”
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is!” Spitfire said, swooping the area. “What’s important is to find your friend as soon as possible. Quick, she couldn’t have gone far, so look around!”
The jargon had a few lovely words for such situations, but Spitfire clenched her teeth and stopped any from ever surfacing. How long was she gone, a minute? Two, three? It wasn’t like she had gone for a coffee with a friend to discuss her life choices—she was right there the entire time, within earshot. She scanned the area, looked back into the hole, checked everywhere. What it the griffon was kidnapped by the enemy force and was now held hostage in a dark cellar, strapped to a chair? Excessive much? Right, like the regular kidnapping wasn’t frightening enough. Maybe she just wandered off a bit? But what if she tripped and fell and drowned in the mud below? Great job, Spitfire, you legally-responsible-for-all-three featherbrain. You screwed up a rookie assignment. Idiot.
“There she is!” Chestnut shot her hoof beyond the safety barriers. “Over there, in that pipe!”
Spitfire caught a glimpse of grey disappearing inside the tube. She heaved relieved sigh. “Phew. That was a close call,” she said. “Alright. let’s try it again. You stay here, keep one eye on me, and the other on each other, alright? I’ll be back in a minute. I think I’ll be carrying Glavia for the rest of the day if that’s okay with you.”
“It’s getting away!” Wind Whisper shouted.
Hooked in the crane’s grip, the pipe flew over the dig site, leaving but a wet print in the mud.
“Stop! Put it down! I’ve got a kid in there!” Spitfire yelled in the general direction of the crane’s operator. For naught—the jackhammers came back to life and drowned out both her desperate appeal and a short but nasty chain of swear words in which she packaged her frustration, depriving potential listeners of the first part of the rhyme. “Just my luck!” she added and blasted into the air, nearly knocking the foals over with the sheer power of her take-off.
The inside of the pipe wasn’t spacious, so Spitfire had to crawl her way through. It felt like running the Academy’s Gooseberry Fields all over again, only that this time the barbed wire was made of rocky minerals that had built up over the years. Pieces of scale were crumbling upon touch, leaving white smears all over her jacket and coat. She pressed forward. It was either that, or riding your belly along a trail of wet rust that occupied the bottom.
“I’m gonna get you out, you hear?” she called to Glavia who crouched at the other end. She was trembling and whimpering. “Stay! For the love of Celestia, just stay there! Don’t move!” she said and crawled to about three quarters of the pipe’s length. “It’s going to be alright!”
The opposite happened.
Spitfire heard a snap on the outside. The shift in the gravity and the alternating glimpses of rooftops and the sky told her enough. She recovered, but Glavia lost her grip and tumbled towards her. She caught her with her face, now a pin cushion for the griffon’s hopelessly merciless talons. “Argh! Gotcha! It hurts like Tartarus and I can’t see a thing, but you better not let go!” she said, braced all fours against the walls, and renewed her climb up the shaft. Something cut her foreleg. She ignored the pain. Her heart was pounding, and her mind reminded her of an ancient self-empowerment chant she had been singing when she had been stationed in Saddle Arabia. Get it together, Spitfire, and make the climb!
“Oi! You, weather chaps! Give us a hoof, eh?” someone outside shouted.
“Too late! Clear the area!” a less promising voice was heard.
Rise up! Only a few inches left! Glavia and Spitfire’s muzzle were already free from the stale smell of the pipe.
She was stuck. She couldn’t see, but there was something around her chest that kept her from escaping. Having no choice, she risked her grip by reaching down. The jacket? The button! She wiggled back a little, up and down, but a rusty metal ring with a somewhat washed out number sixty was holding her. She stretched her wings forward, first right and then left. She grabbed the outside of the pipe with her wings and hooves alike and tried to force her way out, with no eyes whatsoever on the situation. She strained in her efforts, first with grunts and then through a continuous groan that got louder the fiercer she pressed.
Something snapped. Something broke. Glavia cried.
“Watch out!” came a shout from below.
Blinded by a sudden gleam of sunlight and the griffon on her face, Spitfire shot out with all the wing power she could muster—and not a moment too soon.
The pipe thumped the street.