//------------------------------// // Chapter 4 – Very Important Griffon // Story: Operation Wonderbit // by Prane //------------------------------// Through panicked chirps and tweets, Glavia’s symphony of woe approached its desperate crescendo. “You’re afraid, I get it, but we’re in the clear now,” Spitfire said. “Get off me! You’re not going to fall, I’m holding you. Let me—let me just land it, will you? And shut up already!” Her hooves clicked on the ground. No, not the ground, she assessed after she finally detached the griffon from her face. It seemed they wound up on a roof terrace of sorts that aside from a couple of chairs and red clay pots was empty. She sat the crying griffon at the nearest chair. “You! What were you thinking back there, recruit?” she shouted. “You could have been seriously injured not staying with the team. Did it even occur to you what I would have to report to your CO if you’d returned as a griffon pancake? And look what happened to my jacket!” She took it off with ease, now that it had been so brutally unbuttoned, and beat it to get scale and residue off it. “I liked that one! I! Liked! That! One!” More tears joined Glavia’s lament. “Don’t you turn the waterworks on me—darn, I’m doing this again!“ Spitfire landed a hoof on her face. She had to get it together, or she was going to have another saddened kid on her conscience. One Loopy was enough. “Hey, don’t cry. It’s alright now. I don’t blame you for this, I’ll have it patched up in no time,” she said, but the more comforting she wanted to sound, the stronger the wailing became. She suspected it had something to do with her raspy voice that wasn’t among the most pleasant to listen to. Decent enough for barking orders left and right, but tragically unfit for lullaby duty. “See? It’s just a little dirty and the button’s missing too, but it’s still good.” Glavia tried to take a hold of the collar. ”You like it? Yes, you do! Hey, maybe there’s something interesting in the pockets. Let’s see. My sunglasses? No, you’d look ridiculous. Trust me. A handful of bits, no? You’re not a materialistic griffon? Well, you must be the first.” She fished the jacket again. “Alright, what else? Oh, now that’s a treat! A few of my signed photos,” she said with pride and presented the fancy hairdo she had for the session. “No? Why? Not a fan, I understand. I-I can respect that. Argh, please, please stop crying already!” she implored, but Glavia was relentless. Defeated, Spitfire rested her head, hooves and her jacket on the chair. To her surprise, the wailing stopped. She raised her eyes and immediately cracked a smile seeing as her companion was making herself comfortable. “Heh. You were cold. Why didn’t I think of that?” Glavia stuck her beak in the buttonhole and covered herself with the quality quilt worthy of an aspiring Wonderbit. She squeaked a tiny yawn and buried herself in the smooth lining of the jacket. Spitfire had no idea if young griffons needed as much shut-eye as pony foals, but it seemed they were prone to getting exhausted from excessive adventuring or crying all the same. One thing was certain—the captain wasn’t wearing her favorite non-suit threads today. Good thing she’d taken that self-weatherproofing course in the Frozen North a few years back, courtesy of the Crystal Empire. “Here, let me help you with that,” she offered and wrapped the jacket around the griffon. “Better now?” Glavia chirped in appreciation. “I’ll take it as a ‘yes’, ball. C’mon, let’s get you back to your friends.” She flew to the street level where she had left Chestnut and Wind Whisper. Instead of the two orphans, she found only the pipe she had acquainted. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! What does it take to make you kids stay in one place?” Still in mid-air, she spun and scanned the area. Sapphire Street was the only way leading out, but the two had no reason to run from her—at least she was pretty sure she hadn’t given them any. A little to the right stood the bank with its awfully boring grey walls that, if she had the right hunch, wouldn’t be much appealing to the children. A tenement house came next, then a group of workers moving the pipe off the street while sputtering profanities to no end. The dig site was still impassable by hoof, and a similar tenement had its doors shut much like its twin. Besides, it was highly unlikely that either of the orphans had friends there, so unless they’d been kidnapped—Spitfire’s guts twisted at the thought—they wouldn’t go there. Finally, there was a building of red bricks with a wagon and a big wooden crate in front of it. Glavia wriggled in Spitfire’s grip. “Hey, stay frosty. What’s up? Why, you think they went there? Why not the other way?” she asked, showing Glavia a pair of elegant ponies leaving the bank. The griffon reached her talons to the other building. “Hmm. You may be onto something. Chestnut was saying something about the box, too. Besides, there’s no use in going to the bank when you’re short on cash, and, forgive me, I doubt you orphans have a lot to spare. Do you even get any pocket money from Doctor Hugs or the others?” Glavia cooed with somewhat of a questioning note. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Spitfire said and seated the griffon on her back. “I know it all too well.” They landed before the display. There stood the famous Candledrops wax museum, one of the major tourist attractions in Canterlot. It used to be called Candle Drop’s back in the day, but after the founder died, the entirety of the collection was acquired by the Marelin Amusement Group, the guys also known from their recent revitalization of Las Pegasus’ entertainment sector. After the deal with the founder’s heirs, it had been decided that since Candle Drop was no longer the owner of the place, there was no need of keeping the apostrophe, or the space in the name for a reason no other than ‘it looks unappealing as two words’. The MAG certainly were serious about fun. Spitfire felt a hoof on her buttock. “Hey! Watch it!” she shouted. “Yikes! You’re not made of wax!” a shocked stallion replied. “Wax? I’m a hundred and ten percent pain, buddy, which means I have plenty to share!” “Sorry, sorry! I’m so terribly sorry, Mrs. Spitfire—“ “Miss!” Spitfire thundered. The stallion fled behind the crate, his face burning with embarrassment as he hid it behind his blue cap. “Sorry! W-we’re just delivering these Wonderbolt figures and I-I mistook you for one,” he explained. “They look really realistic and I would never think that a real you—I mean, wow, that’s actually you—I mean, sorry, I’m a big fan! B-but not one of the weird ones, I have the greatest respect for you and the Wonderbolts, and I saw you at the last Equestria Games and you were amazing!” He slowly emerged from his hiding spot, wary of the mare’s wrath. “Oh, if only you were here a minute ago! A school trip from Ponyville just went in and they were pretty excited about Mr. Soarin’s figure. Can you imagine what would they do if they saw the real captain of the Wonderbolts?” “Unfortunately, I do,” Spitfire replied with a frown. “By the way, among these children, have you seen a filly thestral with a brown mane, or a blue pegasus? With bandages all over his wing?” The stallion nodded. “Yes, they were in a bit of a rush. First the filly ran inside, then the colt soon after. I think they wanted to join their teacher.” He pointed at a colorful poster plastered on the doors. “It’s the Summer Wrap Up, so Candledrops have a thirty percent discount for all group tickets. Not a bad deal if you can get fifteen ponies together. Oh, that’s for me? Thank you!” “Say again?” The stallion was staring into one of Spitfire’s autographed photos wide-eyed like he found a new purpose in life. “Your little friend just handed me this. Is it okay if I keep it, maybe?” Spitfire threw a quick glance at the griffon. “What are you, my manager now?” she said. “Sure, take it. Just do us both a favor and don’t brag to your friends about how soft my flanks are, will you?” Though the stallion’s blush had waned in the last minute, it now returned with twice as much fire. “O-of course, Miss Spitfire, I won’t tell anyone. Your flanks are safe with me,” he mumbled. “Uhm, that came out wrong, sorry. If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them that I only know how hard the flanks of the wax you are, and that I have no idea if the real you has the same shapely croup, which you obviously have, by the way, but more realistic still and—uhm, I should probably go now. Good day!” he said and walked away with abashment. Spitfire shook her head. Fans. Always digging the wrapping, never the whole package. She walked up to the doors. If the poster was telling the truth, then Candledrops had gathered quite a collection. From historical figures and sport starts to famous singers and alicorns up to scale, the museum had immortalized a good chunk of Equestrian culture for all to admire—now with thirty percent off for organized groups. Spitfire hesitated. Her parents took her to a Candledrops branch back in Baltimare when she was a kid, and she remembered how much she wanted for her favorite heroes to come to life. If there was a school trip on the move, then finding and retrieving the two orphans was going to be a rough ride, and as safe as scouting the Everfree Forest with glowing neon streaks all over your coat. “Realistic, you say?” she murmured. “This I gotta see for myself.” The lobby was tiled in grey. Aside from a small gift shop and a gallery of famous ponies with their respective wax counterparts, only the reception desk brought any warmth into the room. Enclosed by a short wall of bricks like those forming the exterior, it had a single line of shelves attached visitor-front with multiple booklets on the museum’s rich history and upcoming seasonal displays. On the other side, a bored mare with tight curls sticking all around her head was bobbing to the smooth sounds pouring from a red gramophone. She didn’t noticed Spitfire at first. She was too busy filing her hoof. “Excuse me? Excuse me! Hi, have you seen a pair of foals entering?” “I’ve seen, like, a hundred young ponies entering only this morning. I can’t really tell if the two you’re after went through. Obviously.” “Do you mind if I come in and take a quick look?” “Yeah… you still have to pay for the entrance. Then you can look as long as you want. Until, like, seven. We close at seven, so you can’t stay after that. Obviously.” “Alright. I’ll have one ticket, please.” The mare put her beautifying tool aside and blew a cloud of dust off her hoof. “What about your kid?” she asked. “She’s not technically mine. Obviously,” Spitfire scoffed. She instantly regretted her brazen wit as she was presented with the pricing table. “Oh, come on! You’re charging me for her, too? It’s not like I’m taking her to watch the figures. Heck, I’m not going in there to watch them myself! I just want to find my missing ponies. Look at her!” She put the bundled griffon on the brick counter. “Does she look like a wax enthusiast to you? No! She’s more like a piece of luggage at this point, not someone who can appreciate the art. She doesn’t even know what art is!” The mare shrugged. It seemed that she, like, totally didn’t care. “Neither do half of our visitors, but rules are rules. Sixteen bits for full, nine for reduced.” Spitfire’s arising growl concluded as a bored sigh. She counted the right amount of shiny coins and put them on the counter. There went her coffee and cake. “One full and one reduced, that’s twenty-five bits total,” the register mare said, sounding like a blasé salespony. “The entrance is this way, and the two exits are here and at the other side of the exhibition. You can pose and make photos—no flash, though—but please be careful while approaching and-or breathing at the figures. They’re made of, like, wax, and can melt down or whatever. If you want a souvenir for yourself or your friends, please drop by our gift shop which we have stocked with various merchandise related to the current display. We have vintage Power Ponies comic books, a line of t-shirts inspired by the Three Tribes, coffee mugs with the Princesses and more. Do you collect Canterlot Culture Card stickers?” “No!” Spitfire retorted, offended to her core that Canterlot Culture Card stickers were even a thing. “Here you are. Enjoy your time at Candledrops.” Spitfire snorted and slid the tickets into her jacket. If the exhibition was going to be as lively as that mare, then she’d rather take the scouting mission. Glavia tried to peck the tickets out of the pocket. “No eating, ball. We may still need those,” Spitfire said and entered the museum proper. The sounds of the street dwindled to a quiet undertone. The interior called for solemnity with its poorly lit corridors and soft covering of the floor, and the visitors obliged by speaking at hushed tones. Every few steps, the corridors branched and opened to rooms full of lifelike figures captured in a single moment in time. Although it were the figures that mattered the most, the backgrounds and other elements of display were of respectable quality as well. In the first room, thankfully properly illuminated, Spitfire and Glavia took part in a fancy cocktail party where red carpets and evening ensembles were a must. The mysterious Cherry Cushion was giving them a wink from behind a curtain, Lucy Buckstone stood in the spotlight in her trademark bell-like gown, and Drinkwater Meadows stared dramatically into the unknown, dreaming a dream impossible to bear by the streams of consciousness of his audience, but nonetheless encouraging them to think about the rivers in their own lives. Spitfire had little knowledge about any of these ponies, but the informational labels told her that she was facing stage actors who had paved the way for the modern theater. She wouldn’t know. She was an average theatergoer and she struggled to work out her statistical one-fifth of a play per year. ‘Unrefined’ and ‘culturally backward’ were the words to use against her type, but at least she could proudly place herself in the top percentage of ponies attending sport events. It was perhaps a good thing that the second display they visited had little to do with culture. The room, hexagonal in shape much like the first one, was reigned by the primal forces of nature and their furry, feathery, and scaly representatives that came in all sizes and levels of toothing and clawing. Spitfire knocked on a fake tree to sate her curiosity—it was not made of wax—but when inspecting the rest of the room revealed neither of the missing orphans, she headed to one of the three passages leading out of the room. Nervous wriggling stopped her. Spitfire glanced at her back. “What is it now? What, you like animals? Well, from what I heard most kids do, and I see you’re no exception.” She held Glavia close to her chest and showed her the figures up-close. “You know, I used to like animals when I was a kid, too,” she said to her ear. “Phoenixes were my favorites. Still are, actually. But they don’t have phoenixes here, so I guess… falcons? Eagles? The one there, see? I’m into big birds of prey, but my mom never let me have one. So, what’s your favorite?” She walked along the terrestrial display, slowing down by the figures. “Which one do you like? A bear?” she asked, but Glavia didn’t seem interested. “No? Maybe a rabbit? Wrong again. How about a fox?” Glavia ruffled her feathers, excited about the curious critter sitting under a fallen tree. She reached towards the fox, trying to free herself from the jacket. “So fox it is. Oh, you want to touch it? Uhm, I don’t think we can do that,” Spitfire said but dealt with her doubts quickly. “Come to think of it, that humdrum of a mare charged us twenty-five bits, and that’s a rip-off if I ever saw one.” She set the griffon free and crouched beside her. “Go ahead, touch it. Just don’t melt his face or something.” Glavia gave the fox a quick hug, then turned back and produced the most appreciative squeak Spitfire had ever heard, one that made her want to return to the register girl and give her a motivational pep talk for life. The desire lasted only a moment, for she remembered she was still on a search and rescue mission and thus had her priorities. Nonetheless, it came all too easy to share in the griffon’s mirth. “Aren’t you sweet,” she chuckled. “Alright, let’s get out of here before somebody sees us.” When she turned to leave the room, she bumped into Wind Whisper. “Miss Spitfire! Glavia!” he exclaimed and hugged the mare, seemingly relieved. “You’re alright!” “We’re safe and sound, kid,” Spitfire replied, dumbstruck with the colt’s outburst of affection. “What happened? Why weren’t you where I left you?” Wind Whisper rubbed his neck in embarrassment. “I’m sorry! I wanted to stay, honestly, but first that pipe hit the ground and started rolling at us, and the worker ponies told us to run, so we did,” he explained. “Then we couldn’t find you or Glavia anywhere and we didn’t know what to do. I wanted to stay, because I thought that’s what you’d want us to do and because you’d come for us eventually, but Chestnut said she saw Mr. Soarin entering this place. She said we should get the help of another Wonderbolt to find you, so she ran away to find him.” “I’m not seeing any Chestnuts here, only one Wind Whisper.” “Uhm… I followed her?” “Well, yes, I figured that much, but I want to know why you did that. Chestnut running away, now her I can understand. She’s more undisciplined than a broken storm cloud, but you? You said it yourself that you knew you should’ve stayed, so why didn’t you?” The colt’s blush deepened. “Because… she’s too okay to hang out with.” Spitfire took a moment to process the simplicity of his answer. Here she was, expecting a response based on the situation assessment—that strength was in numbers, that being loyal to the squad was how the winning was done, or that getting off the streets was a purely tactical decision. At the end of the day, however, children saw the spin of the world from a different angle. They weren’t just small adults with shorter limbs and limited attention span, but they were entirely unique fellows who valued certain things more than grown-ups could. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen,” Wind Whisper said quietly, his ears flattened back. “I was worried about you two, and I didn’t want her to get into trouble as well. I’d be alone again, and I didn’t want to. I guess I’m a no-good recruit.” Spitfire raised his chin up. “Hey, don’t say that, kid. You’re a great Wonderbit already, and you can only soar higher from here.” “But you said that a Wonderbolt has to have a chain to the respect of command!” “But then, I never gave you the order to stay, didn’t I?” She smiled and gave him a playful punch in the shoulder, which cheered him up. “You did the right thing by going after your friend, recruit, and if I were you, I’d have done the same. Striving to be the strongest, fastest, and even most obedient Wonderbolt—that is, a Wonderbolt who follows orders to the letter—those things must never come before your fellow flyers. If you think they may need help, always be there to support them regardless of what some wise guys at the top told you to do.” “Thanks, Miss Spitfire. I’ll try to remember that,” Wind Whisper said. “So, do you want me to carry Glavia now? I think it’s still my turn.” Spitfire shrugged. “Nah. I’m good. We’re good out there, ball?” she asked, glancing back. “The priority one now is to reunite the squad. Do you have any idea where Chestnut might be?” “I haven’t seen her, but she’s probably still here in the museum somewhere. Maybe she found Mr. Soarin already?” “No, I don’t think Soarin’s here,” she muttered. “The sooner we find her, the better. The last thing we need is a lost filly wreaking havoc somewhere on the Promenade. Let’s move out!” She left the animal room and pondered where to head next, having three ways to choose from before her. The left one got scratched immediately, as it would eventually lead her back to the theater world. The signposted wall had its second plate removed and didn’t tell her where the middle corridor was going. The right one, however, seemed to be a path to a Power Ponies display. She knew close to nothing about those supposed superheroes from Maretropolis—she tried a single issue, it turned out too nerdy for her taste—but she felt that every young pony before a voice change would eventually go there. As luck, or lack thereof would have it, she was correct. She didn’t have to make a single step off the crossroads. The corridor resounded with a harsh, tomboyish voice. “I’m telling you, guys, I’ve seen her. She was right there, talking to the animals. Come on, don’t just stand there!” “Sure. ‘Course she was,” somepony with a country flair didn’t sound convinced. “You saw a Spitfire figure that was all movin’ and talkin’.” “Maybe that was just somepony really similar to Spitfire,” the most dignified so far suggested. “What do you think, girls?” The next filly sounded like she could become a great singer had she devoted herself to it. “On one hoof, wax figures can’t move. On the other… maybe that was the real Spitfire?” “Oh my gosh, yes!” the last one of the group added. “It would be so cool to meet her in person. Wonderbolts and Royal Guards are just so amazing!” Spitfire counted five distinctive voices heading her way, but none of them belonged to Chestnut. If there was anything more despicable than the adult admirers who ogled her with their tongues out at the first sign of her suit sticking to her sweaty thighs, it would be the children who wanted to talk. Who had questions and wanted to have a picture together, or to get an autograph. At the risk of sounding hypocritical—two and a half kids she could handle, especially since they had a scarcity of grown-up figures in their lives, but facing a school trip was way beyond reasonable limits, especially since she had neither time nor enough pictures for them. Though Spitfire had accepted she wasn’t going to make it to the Firefly Gate, she still had to round up her squad, deliver them to the café, and make it to her debriefing by four. A minute late and the Command would brand her lazy, tardy, and shabby, and they would blacklist her from their new initiative faster than she could spell ‘bat’. Wind Whisper made a few steps to the right. “Hey, maybe these ponies will know—” “They won’t. Quick, follow me!” Spitfire ordered and threw herself down the middle corridor, but years of depending on wings and flying took its toll. On hooves, her dashes weren’t anything special. “There she is!” one of the fillies exclaimed, spotting the mare in the last second. “That’s your moving Spitfire! Let’s find out if she can fly!” The corridor zigzagged between hexagonal rooms. The entire Candledrops was, in a fitting manner, fashioned after a honeycomb, and Spitfire felt like she was being pursued for stealing its precious gooey goodness. In her flight from the five curious bees, she searched for a cell with a relatively low buzz, but the first two were too crowded to be good hiding spots. She ran past a room in which a trio of ponies bickered under the painting of a fearsome Windigo. Then, with a heavy heart, she ditched the opportunity to meet her favorite singers from the eighties. One fleeting glance sufficed to recognize them all, however—from the blind prodigy Split “Splitty” Sunder, the famous from his flamboyant stage presence Purple Duke, and the ex-military Cougar Rich from a naval-sounding band she could not recall because he started to shine as a solo artist. Spitfire promised herself to return here on her next day off. She scurried into a promisingly idle passage, grabbing Wind Whisper along. “Shh!” she hushed him as she glued to the wall. “You too, ball. Just keep your usual, okay? If we’re lucky, they’ll go right pass us.” “What if we’re not?” Wind Whisper asked, but the mare just waved him shut. “Where did she go?” came the voice from the corridor. “I don’t know! Let’s split up!” “Good idea!” Wind Whisper shook his head. “Hiding here won’t work,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere!” Despite Spitfire’s warning hiss he headed outside before she could stop him. He stood in the way of the small pony mob which, however of unimpressive height, was still taller and older than him. “Everyone! If you’re looking for Spitfire, I just saw her coming this way!” he said, pointing away from the room. “The… leading to the other side of the museum! Way.” “Cool! Wanna help us find her?” “Uhm, sure,” Wind Whisper said. “Follow me!” The ponies went onwards with their crusade. Spitfire sighed with relief, somewhat torn between wanting to promote the kid for his quick-thinking and tactical wit, and wanting to discharge him for once again running away. She dearly hoped she wouldn’t end up being his commanding officer should he one day join the Wonderbolts. By then, she hoped to be long retired after passing the torch to someone with a fresh pool of patience. If her recruits had been like that, she’d lose her sanity after the first week. Mentally back in the museum, she inspected her surroundings and gasped at a most uncanny view. On the far side of the room, standing between Soarin and Fleetfoot, she saw herself. Yet there was somepony else visiting the apparent special Summer Wrap Up Wonderbolts display, and Spitfire was positive she had met them both before. The stallion—elegant, chatty, and excessively well-mannered, he was one of the most recognizable nobles in Canterlot and a notable noble individual himself. He had come to be known as a huge enthusiast of the Wonderbolts Derby who, for once, could stay a gentlecolt during meet-and-greets. The mare—his wife perhaps, complemented him in every aspect, and it was impossible not to notice the chiseled shapes of her form. Admittedly, they were to die for. “Look, that’s Spitfire!” Fleur said to Fancy Pants. “Come-come. I’ll get you a photo.”