Sensation - Fire Streak

by Vivid Syntax

Flare

Swallowing the stale, cheap coffee the next morning, I set my mug down hard on the faux-oak table and mumbled, "Are they for fucking real?" With a grunt, I slapped the paper down next to my coffee.

The hotel room was a nice one. Even if the 'Bolts didn't spring for the penthouse, the lead fliers got to have their own rooms, almost always a suite. This one didn't disappoint: plush, new carpet that couldn't have been more than a few months old, a marble bar stocked with high-end booze, and a hot tub big enough for six ponies. The bathroom was decked out in gold and had a marble bath with textured sides that were supposed to relax you or something. There was a separate sleeping room painted a deep purple with a desk to the side, which is where I was sitting. The bed was something ridiculous like a double-king, and wrapped up in the silky purple linens was a dark blue pegasus mare that really, really knew how to please a stallion.

Velvet Skies rubbed her eyes as she sat up. "Something wrong, baby?" I almost snapped at her for calling me "baby." After all, I'd only met her last night, but it wasn't her fault I was on edge.

The after-party had gone well. Spitfire had tried to pull me aside after the press conference. I wish I would have stopped and talked to her more, but I'd wanted nothing more than to get out of there and drown my memories in alcohol and mares.

The guys had waited for me and had ribbed me a little about taking so long. I didn't tell them. For that night only, I was still the hero, the guy that had stepped in and saved the day when Soarin' had failed. I was still the guy they wanted to be, who they wanted to hang out with, and who was going to score them some mad pussy.

We'd hit up a couple of the ritzy bars, and I'd spent more time talking to fans and signing autographs than I did talking with the guys. It helped bring me back from the edge, but the whole night, there was this nagging feeling that it was all going to end come sunrise. I just partied harder hoping it would go away.

It didn't. I ended up leaving with Velvet at around three in the morning, and we had a lot of fun back in my hotel room until the sun started coming up. Yeah, she was good. Real good, but it wasn't something I wanted to pursue. She was just another fan with a new story to tell her friends.

I sighed and looked at her, my skull pounding and my mouth dry and rancid. "Don't worry about it. It's been a weird day."

She got up and stretched. "Wanna talk about it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Nah, I'm good." I bit my lip. "And… hey…"

She giggled in that cute, innocent way that I think really was sincere. "Don't worry, Streak. I get it." She flapped her wings and hovered over to her saddlebag, where she started packing her things. "You're a hell of a stallion, but it wouldn't work."

I smiled and was feeling charitable. "Thanks, babe."

Velvet swung a saddlebag over her back. "I left my address on the nightstand. Promise you'll look me up next time you're back in town?"

"I will." I didn't, but, well, I had a pretty good excuse.

Velvet left, and that meant it was just me and the paper. I picked it up again while I finished my coffee, skimming the Sports section's main story again.

Soarin' Missing!

Drama unfolded at the Wonderbolts' "Skies Afire" show in Fillydelphia on Friday night. A spectacular show, as always, there was only one thing that seemed off: a missing captain.

Inside sources have refuted the Wonderbolts' official press release stating that Soarin' Windsong, co-captain of the Wonderbolts and lead flier for the stallion squad, was sick with the feather flu. One source claims that Soarin' has taken an extended leave of absence in the small western settlement of Appleloosa.

They didn't even mention my name until paragraph seven. I slowly shook my head, and my thoughts churned. 'If it's already in the papers, then they've known about Appleloosa for days. How'd they figure it out?' I'd later find out that a reporter had tailed Soarin' from the Manehattan train station and had seen him get on the Appleloosa train. Combined with the leak from the Wonderbolts, there was plenty of material for a major story.

I paused. 'I could warn him.' The room was eerily quiet for a moment, and my thoughts went blank for a while, until they started backpedaling. 'No, a letter wouldn't get there in time, anyway, and there's no way any dragons know how to get a message to the middle of nowhere like that.' My chest suddenly felt very warm, and I sneered to myself. 'Besides, if he can't handle being center stage, then he's only getting what he deserves.'

I tensed up at that last thought and suddenly felt very, very dirty. The paper fell onto the desk, and I looked at my hoof, my eyes wide open. I said out loud, "What in Tartarus was that?" My lip quivered, my skin crawled, and my tail lashed behind me. I looked around the hotel room, which suddenly had this eerie vibe, like it was closing in on me. "I… should go." Standing up, I walked towards the bathroom and mumbled, "I'm driving myself nuts here."

After I'd showered and brushed my teeth twice, I stumbled down to the breakfast buffet. It was still only about 8 in the morning, so the tourists hadn't swarmed the place yet. Wave Chill and Blaze and a bunch of the other guys flagged me over to a private room in the back, and we spent breakfast swapping stories about our conquests and who'd drank the most. It was a good meal, and we talked about the show again a couple times. None of them had read the paper.

The train ride back to Manehattan went smoothly. Most of us slept the whole trip, and Silver Lining and Misty Fly were cuddled up against one another the whole way. We usually try to discourage relationships within the team – shit blows up real fast if there's a breakup – but hey, it had been a successful show for everypony else, too, and they deserved to relax. Plus, who am I to judge, right?

We had to wait out a rainstorm when we got back to Manehattan. You'd have to be an idiot to fly around when a storm's coming. There was a semi-secluded area in one corner of the station near a bunch of potted plants and with a few moderately clean benches, so we waited there. Management wanted to find us a more private place, but we whined about having to move again until they relented.

It didn't take long for a couple fans to recognize us, and that meant that a pretty big group was close behind. Security did a pretty good job of keeping ponies away when we were in public, but there were some kids there, and we couldn't say no, right? Even Spitfire gave the okay, and so a small group of ponies got to come chill with us.

I sat up straight, flared out my wings, and smiled broadly. My heart rate picked up, and I went over all the different things I could say to them. 'Stay in school, kids! Uh… You can do it! You just need to work hard and try your best. Even if you don't end up being a Wonderbolt, you can do great things! Yeah. Yeah, that's good.'

It turns out I hadn't needed to worry about what I was going to say.

The kids all crowded around Spitfire, and she tensed up, put on a stiff expression, and talked woodenly about "how great it is to see so many young fliers. Maybe some of you will be in the Wonderbolts one day." It was the same speech she'd used for every group of foals we'd ever come across. I'm pretty sure she rehearsed that speech every week.

I maintained my toothy smile and cast glances at all the kids. Then my smile turned into a grimace, and my wings drooped little by little until they were hanging loosely at my sides.

One of the parents noticed me. He was an earth pony, and he sauntered over and said, "Hey, Fire Streak, right?" Politely, too politely, he added, "Great job at the show last night. I think it was the best one ever!" He all but slapped his knee and ruffled my mane, like the way your uncle does when you cook something for the big family gathering and he's too embarrassed to tell you it tastes like hot garbage.

I nodded and tried to hide my disgust. "Thank you, sir. I'm glad you enjoyed the show."

"We certainly did," he said slowly. There was a long pause, and then he called his daughter over. "Hey, Spring Breeze, come say hi to Mr. Fire Streak!"

A minty green pegasus filly perked up and bounced over. She stopped in front of me and cocked her head to the side. "Where's Soarin'?" she asked.

I ground my teeth together. "Soarin' couldn't be here for the show. I got to fill in for him last night. Did you see the fire effects? That was me and Spitfire!" I said, pointing back to Spitfire, who was grimacing for some pictures.

Spring Breeze nodded her head. "Yeah, it was pretty, but I like the lightning better."

My expression soured. Her dad noticed and said, in that same forced tone, "But it was very impressive regardless! I'm sure you'll eventually be the best lead flier the Wonderbolts have ever had, Mr. Fire Streak."

I sighed. "Thanks." The back of my skull burned, and I realized how off-putting I was being. "Sorry for being a little off. It's been a long week, and taking over hasn't been as smooth as I'd hoped."

"Yeah, what happened to Soarin', anyway?" The stiffness had completely dropped out of his voice. He was speaking conversationally, like a normal pony. Like a pony that was finally being honest. "I gotta say, we were pretty disappointed he wasn't making an appearance. Breeze here's got a lot of his merch back home, and it would have been great meeting him."

I tensed my jaw. "Yeah. Yeah it would have."

A few more foals came up and talked to us, but security moved us to another area when the crowd started getting too large.

And… Shoot, I need to be honest. There were a few of the fans that really seemed like they wanted to see me. I talked and posed for a couple pictures and signed a few headshots, and I even got another address from an earth pony mare that said she lived in Manehattan. It helped, but not enough. The whole time, I could still feel Soarin's shadow over me. For every fan that wanted a picture with me, two more would try to squeeze out some information about where he was.

That's all they wanted to talk about. Soarin', Soarin', Soarin'. He was the famous one. He was this big, mysterious figure, and he literally had to do nothing to get more attention than anypony else. Nothing! He just had to disappear, and he's all that anypony wanted to talk about! Can you freaking blame anypony for gunning for his position? You get it, right? Ponies swarming you, complimenting you, letting you know that, yes, you actually did do a great job, that you inspired them, and that you've finally made it as a professional. That's the freaking dream.

The weather cleared up, and we flew in a loose formation back home. The air smelled like electricity, the aftermath of the storm, and I didn't feel any calmer. I felt like my insides were constantly being prodded, like there were worms under my skin. Like the wind was whispering to me that I wasn't good enough, that I'd be in the shadows for my whole career. I felt cold, and the flight was long.

A few of the guys wanted to hang out and play some evening airball, but I wasn't in the mood. I knew how it would turn out anyway: if I started screwing up, one of them would make some comment about how I wasn't on top of my game or "looks like the new guy can't keep up" or something stupid like that, and I'd lose it. I didn't need that. Better to stay away.

Not that I was any calmer when I got home. I live in a duplex that I share with Wave Chill: two stories, but only one bathroom and one bedroom upstairs. I keep it pretty well-decorated with art and little gifts that random fans throw onto the stage, and the walls are colored with Magi-Mist to keep them from being cloud-white. Yeah, yeah, I know. It's super expensive to keep the walls colored in Cloudsdale, but you gotta feel good in your own home, right? Wave Chill griped about it, but I think he's started to like it. I got a package deal, and each room is a nice, warm color: oranges and yellows, though he insisted on having his bedroom be purple. Mine? I like mine a deep red. Makes it feel sensual and safe. Downstairs, I've got a small kitchen, a living area, and an office that can double as a guest room if I need it. It's pretty boring, but unless I'm cooking or hosting, I'm not there much. Easier to keep it clean, too.

On the way home, I'd picked up every paper I could find, just to see what the media had written. Since Wave Chill was out playing ball with the guys, I didn't need to worry about being disturbed.

I got myself some more coffee and sat down with the stack of papers. Shutting my eyes tightly, I narrated to myself, "It'll be fine. It's nothing. It's barely even a scandal. The press team will release a statement detailing that Soarin' is on vacation, and that'll be the end of it."

I looked down at the front page. There was some story about trade routes as the headline, and a few different snippets about some major ambassador visiting or something. But there, right in the lower right corner, was a little box with big lettering that advertised a "Missing Wonderbolt" and told the reader to flip to the sports section. I slid the other sections away and saw the headline:

The Search for Soarin'

The Manehattan Post had used a stock photo from months ago: Soarin' with a scowl on his face, looking slyly back over his shoulder as he exited a party. It was from right around the time that he'd started acting out more, when he'd gotten more restless.

I didn't blink for a long time. My eyes darted all through the column, looking for any mention of me. I was mentioned once. Exactly once, as nothing more than a "temporary replacement" that "seemed to know more than he was letting on about the missing captain."

I sat down and breathed deeply while my chest felt two things at once. The depression was like an icy heaviness, and rage was the smoldering fire, just waiting to ignite and consume me. They fought each other while I seethed alone, glad to have the quiet of my home to keep me from getting frustrated at anything else. In the end, I let the fire win out. I know how to keep that one under control, at least. No, I couldn't put it out, but I could at least keep it low, down to the embers, where it wouldn't hurt anypony. Problem is, you never know when those embers are going to flare up again. All it takes is a little kindling.

And sometimes, that kindling comes in the form of a Cosmare article with the phrase "knock-off captain."

My hooves shook. I started sweating. My tail thrashed behind me, and I loomed over the table, scowling at the image of the pony that had sucked all the hype out of the biggest show of my career. "Gr… Dammit!" I shouted, whipping my head towards the kitchen window and knocking a few papers onto the floor. The world suddenly had a grey tint to it, and I growled to myself a few times.

But for the moment, I felt like I had control, and I opened my eyes again. I shook my head at the papers on the floor and said, "Stupid," before picking them all up and neatly stacking them.

I kept reading. Every paper had some variation of the same headline. I'd been wrong – the media was taking every opportunity to blow it up into a huge scandal. They knew that the official story our manager, Bottom Line, had sent them was bunk, and that left a void for the reporters to fill in. Usually, that sort of thing blows over in a week or two, but then I saw this:

According to an inside source that asked to remain anonymous, things haven't been well with the Wonderbolts, and Soarin' has been walking on thin ice for months. What could this mean for the young star? For the team? Our source could not confirm rumors that Soarin' has been discharged for inappropriate conduct, but some speculate that these events could point to a larger fracture within the organization.

I slumped back in my chair, slapped my hooves to my eyes, and ran them through my mane with a loud groan. No, this story was not going to just go away.

The sunlight was dwindling, and I was dead tired. I made myself a sandwich, had a few glasses of water, and collapsed into my bed within an hour.

My first thought the next morning was, 'Work.' It wasn't dread – it was Sunday, after all – but a command. I went downstairs and made myself breakfast: eggs and fried hay. Protein and filler. Heavy and efficient. All the while, the papers were still sitting on my kitchen table. Soarin's face was looking back at me through those narrow slits of his eyes, and I could feel it even when I'd turn around. It only got worse when I sat down to eat, but for whatever reason, I couldn't bring myself to put the papers away. I ate quickly.

As I cleaned up, I could hear Wave Chill moving around on his side of the house. I thought about asking him if he wanted to hang, but something deep in my chest tugged at me. It told me what I needed to do. 'Work. Do better.'

It was… different. After most shows, you get a similar feeling. If the show was bad, it's more like fear, where you need to do better or get cut. If the show went well, it's like excitement: you want to top your own performance next time. This… was different. I needed to do better, not out of fear or personal drive, but out of something else. It was like hunger. Or sleep. It was somewhere deep inside.

Without hesitating, I grabbed my keys and left my condo. The morning air was dry and cool, and the sun shone in my eyes as I headed towards the Academy. I live pretty far away by most standards, far enough that I sometimes sleep in the barracks, but that day, the flight didn't seem so long. I hardly remember any of it. The only thing I can remember is feeling pulled towards it, more and more the closer I got to the Academy grounds.

The Academy is weird on Sundays. Almost nopony is around except for some guards, and the stillness is deafening. It's still the same layout, though: long runways near the wide-open practice fields, an outdoor gym just for us, and a mix of metal office buildings and tall, intricately-crafted cloud buildings that require a lot of maintenance but look spectacular. Statues both of famous ponies and historically-important formations were placed evenly around the grounds. The mess hall and barracks sat towards the middle of the Academy, and on the on the east side were the office buildings, including my target: the Green Room.

It's not really a room. That's just what we call the building with our staging areas and a lot of our office space. The floors are kept spotless, the windows are crystal clear, and as I unlocked the door and walked in, I could see that all the offices were darkened.

My task for the day was simple: review the slideshow that our photographer had taken from our Friday show to see what could be improved. There were a lot of pictures, but I wasn't too worried. Soarin' – I winced a little bit when I remembered – had told me that Spitfire would take care of all the hard parts, and I was content to let her be the One-Mare Firing Squad, just like usual. My plan was to go in, look at the pictures for an hour or so, and call it good.

My office was temporary – either I'd get a permanent one, or Soarin' would come back – and it showed. There was the standard issue of a desk and chair, two chairs for visitors, a metal filing cabinet, and a small table. The whole place smelled like cleaner, and I hadn't bothered to decorate anything. Why would I? The only other things there were a gem-powered projector, a set of slides, and several pages of notes from both Spitfire and the trainers. Spitfire had left them there, just like she'd told me she would earlier in the week. They were already set up, and the curtains were drawn, so all I had to do was turn it on.

I walked over behind the desk and, with a sigh, sat down. "Okay, here we go." I glanced down at Spitfire's notes. She had such pretty, looping hoofwriting, which contrasted sharply with the phrases like "Does Misty Fly even care about uniformity?" and "Silver Lining – Drunk? Or Lazy?" I chuckled to myself, but then I felt a small pang of guilt.

There were a lot of notes. Pages of them. I frowned and thought, 'She must have spent all day on these. Is… Is this how she spends her weekends?' I imagined her sitting home alone, spending hours poring over the images and looking for ways to improve the show. My chest felt heavy. Yeah, I'd spent the evening alone, too, but at last the guys had invited me to play airball. I couldn't remember seeing Spitfire with the rest of the mares when they'd had their nights out, and as I refocused, I wondered what this job had become for her.

I turned the projector on. The light inside sparked to life, and I flipped through a few slides of each pony's entrance. Not much to see, since we're given a little more freedom on those, and nopony was flying in formation, anyway. I did stop on mine, though, which showed me right as the vapor contrail was being engulfed in flames right behind me. Without thinking, I glanced down at Spitfire's notes and saw, "Fire Streak cares." It was about as close to a compliment as I could have expected.

I smiled to myself. "Nice work, Number One." With a small nod, I turned back to the image, and just for a moment, the feeling of bursting out in into the crowd came flooding back. My smile faded a little, though, when I noticed one thing. "Huh. Arc's a little lop-sided." It was true: I could have pulled up a little earlier and gotten a cleaner entrance. I shook my head and flipped to the next slide.

The image showed the first fly-by between the two squads, and I could see what Spitfire was talking about: Misty Fly's wingbeats were way out of sync with everypony else's, and Silver Lining was angled outward on the edge of the formation. My eyebrows knitted. "C'mon, guys," I grumbled. "You're better than that." I clicked the button on the machine and flipped to the next image.

Then I immediately flipped back. Something else was bothering me. A lot of things, actually. Fleetfoot's wings were out of sync, too, even if it wasn't as obvious as Misty Fly. Wave Chill was sneaking a glance at the audience, which broke up the Flying-V's crispness. Actually, it looked like only Spitfire, High Winds, and I were absolutely perfect.

I chewed on my cheek, then glanced down at the page of Spitfire's notes. 'She didn't comment on most of them.' Granted, they were fairly minor errors, but there were still errors. I thought about letting them go, but then that warm feeling came back to my chest. I looked back and forth between the notes and the image. My mane bristled, and I started breathing more quickly. The longer I thought about all these mistakes slipping by, the stronger that feeling became, until I finally said aloud, "No. We need to do better."

I retrieved a piece of paper and a pencil from my desk, and I wrote down every little detail that seemed out of place. Every. Single. One. I filled half a page with notes about what was wrong and how to correct for it, which came down to a lot of extra drills.

I flipped to the next image and repeated the same process. This time, I was looking at a large firework formation that utilized our lightning-enhanced contrails. Two of the arms of the burst were out of place: Cloudchaser and Silver Lining again. More notes. More drills to make them perfect.

But writing these details down didn't make me feel better. No, they made feel so much worse. 'They weren't this bad with Soarin', were they? Did I… not drill them hard enough?' It was like my eyes had been opened to how sloppy we'd been and how much we'd gotten away with. As I kept flipping through images and taking notes, the feeling in my chest went from a warm cinder to a burning fullness that penetrated every fiber of my body. All of my attention was dedicated to finding every tiny problem with the show, and I was going to fix them. All of them.

I was incredibly annoyed with myself when I gave myself a break for lunch. It felt wrong, like perfection didn't need lunch breaks, and as I chewed the snacks I'd kept in my desk, I kept thinking, 'You'd be done by now if the team was good enough. You'd be done if you were good enough.'

I spent eight hours in the office that day. By the time I went home, I was pissed, and I vowed to myself that by the next show, we'd be good enough.

My sour mood lasted all day and carried over to Monday morning. I didn't sleep well that night, and in the morning, just putting on my uniform seemed like an impossible task. Breakfast was a quick bowl of alfalfa, and in my saddlebags were pages of notes on everything that needed to be improved.

Wave Chill left at the same time I did, and unfortunately, that meant I didn't get to have a quiet commute. I took off from my front porch, and Wave Chill quickly caught up. I thought about speeding away, but I didn't need any more bad press. I wasn't going to be the first to say something, though, and I squinted at the horizon as he beat his wings slightly out of sync with mine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wave Chill glance at me a few times. The silence hung in the air like snow clouds, heavy and threatening to cover everything. His voice came out small and weak at first. "So, I–" He cleared his throat. "I saw the papers, bro. That sucks. You got robbed."

I didn't respond or even look at him. All I could think about was the long list of errors with his name on it.

"You, uh… You okay, Fire Streak?"

"I'm fine," I said flatly.

Wave Chill turned back to the horizon, and we picked up the pace by half a click. He kept turning his head to me, and he would open his mouth a few times to say something, but nothing came out.

I finally got sick of his hesitation and asked, with a big gesture of my right hoof, "What? Just spit it out."

He recoiled a little, but then settled back into our flight pattern. "I mean… Fuck the media, right? Look, Streak, they screwed up. You had a fantastic show, and you're going to have a bunch more, and…" He was speaking quickly and looking everywhere but at me. "…and everypony thinks you did a great job leading us. Better than Soarin', even. Maybe. It's been a nice change of pace, at least. Like, you care. A lot. It shows. A lot. Are you… are you getting what I'm saying?"

I didn't respond.

Wave Chill said, "Look, Streak, I'm sorry that it didn't–"

"I'm fine!" I snapped at him.

He shrunk a little, and his ears folded against his head. "Okay," he murmured. "I'll… see you at the Academy, I guess." He dashed forward, and I didn't chase him.

The sun warmed my face, and I took a deep breath, remembering a couple techniques I'd learned to keep myself under control. I said aloud, "Okay. Five things. Five good things. Five: Wave Chill wants you to feel better. He'll forgive you for snapping, and he'll still be your friend. Four: the fans still love you. Well, they like you, at least. Not as much as…" I snorted. "Three: the media are dumbasses, and things always blow over. Two: uh…"

I felt the tightness return to my chest, and I scrambled for something else. "Two: They… Well, Spitfire likes the job I did, and she's the one I need to impress. Yeah. And…"

Wave Chill's words ricocheted back to my mind. "One: you're still in charge of the stallion squad, and you're even better than Soarin'." I nodded to myself, a deep frown turning into a smirk. "Yeah. And they're going to see how much better I can really be."

Bitterness is like mold. It starts out someplace dark, where you can't see it. You don't know that it's there, but it's someplace deep at the back of your brain. It seems small and innocuous at first, but then it spreads. Little specks grow into a thin layer that leaches off all your thoughts until it completely covers your gray matter, until everything you think is tainted by that foul color.

Then again, the exact same happens with ambition.

I worked on my attitude the rest of the way to the Academy. 'No more anger,' I told myself. 'Just focus.' I stoked those embers back up again, let them burn brighter as I thought about how I would put the team through Tartarus and back if that's what it took to get them to be perfect. As I flew into Academy airspace and landed outside the Green Room, my whole body felt hot, and I itched to get back to practice.

Preparation Room A fell dead silent when I threw open the door. My eyebrows were furrowed, and the 'Bolts all looked directly at me. 'Good,' I thought. 'They'll need to pay attention if they want to survive.' I stomped to the front of the room as Spitfire finished setting up the projector.

She cast a glance my way, her face inscrutable, then turned on the projector. With a look at towards the back of the room, she started to say to Misty Fly, "Hit the lights."

I interrupted. "At ease, Misty Fly."

A few of the 'Bolts looked up, their eyes wide. To this day, I think I'm the only pony that's ever contradicted Spitfire's direct order and lived to talk about it. I hadn't planned it. It just happened when I realized something: if I wanted to make the 'Bolts perfect, I had to make sure they were unified, and beyond that, I needed to make sure that what happened to Soarin' never happened to me.

I stood up straight and took a deep breath. "Before we get to the main event, we're going to…" I punctuated every word by glaring at a different pony. "Have. A. Little. Talk."

The room was silent. Nopony dared breathe. Just like I wanted.

Casually, I said, "One of you is a traitor." Everypony tensed. "Take a moment and look around. Do it." They hesitated, but after they complied, I continued, "Somepony in the organization, probably in this room, decided to be an 'anonymous source' for the media. Somepony decided to sell our captain out for some unknown reason. Well, let me be perfectly clear: I don't bucking care."

A few eyebrows raised in the audience.

I turned and paced back and forth in front of the team. "Make no mistake: whoever you are, you screwed up. Big time. And if we find out who you are, then the bylaws are clear: you're out. No questions asked. But that's not what I want to focus on. No. The most important message we can take from this little incident is this." I stopped dead in my tracks for a second and stared at them. "Our team will not be broken. We're stronger than that. All you did was put yourself at risk, because you didn't think you could fly with the big colts. You thought you could give yourself an edge? Well, too bucking bad." I raised my voice. "We demand perfection, and if you can't live up to it, then I don't care how much you blab to the media! You're out!" I pivoted, stared directly at Silver Lining in the third row, and roared, "Do I make myself clear?"

They shouted back a disorganized, "Sir yes sir!"

I stomped a hoof and flared out my wings. I scowled and shouted, "I said perfection! Do I make myself clear?"

At once, they sat straight up and shouted in unison, "SIR YES SIR!"

"Do not make me repeat myself next time!" I yelled in response. I resumed pacing. "Now, I think I speak for both your captain and myself when I say that this weekend's show was pretty good. But is 'pretty good' acceptable?"

"SIR NO SIR!"

"Good. You're learning." I nodded at Spitfire, who had cocked her head back. I couldn't see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but I think she was waiting to see where I was going with this.

I looked back at the Wonderbolts. My Wonderbolts. "So we're going to make sure it doesn't happen again. Now, Misty Fly, you may hit the lights." To myself, I added, '…because you wouldn't want anypony to see your tears.'

It was the first-ever instance of the One-Stallion Firing Squad. I was merciless, but even worse, I was fair. I called out every little move I'd seen in the slides and read about in the trainers' reports. Not a single mistimed flap of a wing got past me unnoticed, and nopony but Spitfire, who was immune because of her co-captain status, made it out completely unscathed. I made a point to stare at each 'Bolt harder and longer than Spitfire ever did. Maybe it was my expression, maybe it was my intensity, or maybe it was the fear that came with seeing Spitfire be quiet for once, but they were shaken. I let them have it for over an hour, and as they left for practice, their quivering expressions told the whole story: they were breaking down, and that made them perfect for me to rebuild.

The practice that day was tough. Spitfire had laid out the usual regimen for the Monday after a show, but like her, I had a whistle, and I wasn't afraid to use it. Pods of fliers would do extra laps if they were too slow, I would demand another set of wing-ups after everypony was exhausted, and breaks were cut short to "practice endurance when the unexpected happens."

I could feel how much they hated me. The angry glares when they thought I wasn't looking, the scowls whenever they had to do extra exercises… It was exactly what I'd wanted. I needed that fire to spread to all of them if I wanted the next show to be perfect. And I demanded perfection.

And they improved, dammit. Say what you will about being hard on them, but it made them better. Tense? Sure, but better for it. By the end of each of our exercises, not a feather was out of place.

Nopony talked to me in the locker room that night, and I stayed late in my office to start making modifications to the Friday and Saturday shows. It was a double-header that week, and I wanted it be new and full of fire.

I thought Wave Chill would swing by the office when he noticed I was late, but he didn't. I did see a shadow pause outside the frosted glass door, but it eventually left.

I stayed until the sun was low, and nopony flew home with me. 'It's fine,' I told myself. 'They'll thank me after the next show. They're going to be even better this weekend.'

Dinner was simple: savory crepes with a high-vitamin vegetable puree. I had a little extra. I felt like I deserved it, and I didn't do much else that night. Can't say that I slept well, but at least I went to bed early. No dreams, either.

It felt like I'd barely closed my eyes when my alarm woke me up. Like a machine, I sat up, stretched my wings, and got ready for the morning. Breakfast was quick. The fire inside me hadn't been satisfied. If anything, I had grown hungrier. I had more work to do.

That's what was on my mind all day: work. I had to work hard to make the 'Bolts even better. They had to work hard to live up to my expectations. Everypony had to work hard to make the show a great one.

Training was going to be hard again on Tuesday. I'd spent the first hour of the morning in my office reviewing the technical details of the new stunts. Even if I'd only been at it for about a week, I had a good grip of my new responsibilities, and I didn't let anything pull my focus. Not even the headache that got worse as the day progressed.

By the time the 'Bolts were lined up in front of Spitfire and me out on the training plateau, they'd already been briefed about the new stunts by one of the head trainers, and they were getting ready for their usual Tuesday warm-up endurance flight of thirty laps around the course.

"Sixty!" I shouted, blowing my whistle.

They knew better than to wait around, and they scrambled as fast as they had in the locker room before the show. They were…

Sun's glory, I really thought they were mine, didn't I? I'm… I'm not an asshole, alright? But you don't get it unless you've lived it. For one night, I'd been the crown jewel of the most prestigious military and athletic team in the world, but it had all been yanked away. By my best friend. I needed a second chance. I would have given anything for it, and on that day, I was willing to pour the blood and sweat of my teammates onto the forge if that's what it took to craft another rise to the top. It was like a hard drug – all it took was one taste, and my friends had turned into nothing more than the needles I needed to get my next fix.

And as focused as I was, I didn't notice Spitfire walk up next to me. "We have a rule here that captains don't call each other out in front of the team."

The whistle still hung from my lips. I blew it as Cloudkicker started lagging. "Good," I mumbled with the metal in my mouth.

"But you're not a captain."

I felt her icy stare hit my cheek, and I turned my head, keeping a stoic face. "Not yet."

Spitfire's eyes widened ever so slightly behind her sunglasses. She didn't flinch, though. Calmly, she waved over the head trainer and told him. "Make sure they finish all sixty laps, but then give them a break. Stretching, take-offs, whatever. Just take it easy."

I snorted. "They need to be per–"

Spitfire jerked her head towards me and grumbled. "My office. Now." When I hesitated and felt my heart skip a beat, she added, "That's an order, Fire Streak. From your captain." She pivoted and walked away from me, her tail thrashing twice.

I stayed completely still for a moment, then let the whistle fall out of my mouth and dangle on the lanyard. "Yes, ma'am," I mumbled. I followed a few paces behind her.

The march back to her office was long. Part of me was desperate to get there, but the rest of me dreaded it, and it only got worse when I saw the big orange door. She opened it without looking back at me, and I followed her inside.

Spitfire's office was similar to mine, but with much more decoration. The same standard-issue desk and filing cabinets occupied the same places, but she'd also hung pictures of her parents on the wall behind her desk. There was a statue of a flying Wonderbolt on her desk, and a mirror-image statue – they probably came as a set – on the filing cabinet. A large poster of a pink pegasus playing airball hung on the wall, and her floor was dominated by an area rug with a forked lightning bolt on it. The room felt darker than mine, but that might have just been the mood.

Spitfire closed the shades halfway, then sat behind her desk. In a quiet voice, she said, "Have a seat."

I did as I was told, but the embers still flared up inside me. I tersely said, "Yes, captain?" I was ready for a fight.

Spitfire slowly leaned on her desk with both forelegs. She sighed, and I felt a shiver go up my spine. Slowly, she looked up from the desk at me with tired, drooping eyes. "I think I've made a mistake."

I snapped to attention, and my eyes opened wide. "No, ma'am! The 'Bolts will perform admirably, ma'am! We will be perfect!"

Spitfire smirked. "Hate to douse your enthusiasm, Fire Streak, but that's not what I meant." She looked over her shoulder and out the window. "Did you have a good time with the stallions on Friday?"

Cautiously, I nodded and said, "Yes, ma'am."

"I'm glad." She turned back to me. "You certainly earned it. The way you brought everypony together last week… You really shined. I'm glad Bottom Line picked you to lead the stallions."

The fire died down a little. "Th… Thank you, ma'am."

Her head lowered. "Please don't call me that in private."

"That's, uh… You still outrank me, though… Spitfire."

Spitfire looked up and frowned. "Streak, take it from me. This isn't how you want to run your squad." She looked down at her desk. "You should appreciate what you have with the other stallions. When the mares go out for a night, I don't end up talking to anypony. They all want to hang out, and I end up leaving early so they don't need to feel so on-edge."

My chest felt tight. She was… putting it all out there, and I didn't know how to react. I leaned forward. "But, Spitfire… You made this team. We're only as good as we are because you're not afraid to call us out on our mistakes."

She nickered, and her ear flicked back. "Yeah, somepony has to be the hard-ass, and I'm good at it, and you've seen how effective it can be…" She gestured out the window. "But this? Everything you're doing to them? Stop it." She shook her head, and when she spoke, it didn't sound angry. It sounded… sad. "Just… get your head out of your ass and realize what's happening to you."

My insides felt cold. "What do you mean? What's happening to me?"

"The same thing that happened to Soarin'."

I froze.

Spitfire continued. "I'm seeing a lot of the same things, Streak, and it has me worried. The drive and the energy are both there, but like him, you don't have any restraint." She clopped her hooves together in front of her face and mumbled, "And I don't want to lose any more friends."

My head tilted to the side. I couldn't feel the heat inside me anymore. Instead, it was a hollowness, something that seemed to come from Spitfire. "You guys aren't friends anymore?"

Spitfire shook her head. "I don't know, Streak. This job comes with a lot of pressure, and it can really mess with a pony. It happened to Soarin' – got in his heart and messed him all up – and I don't want it to happen to you. I failed him, and it looks like I'm failing you, too. See, I want all of you to succeed, but I've sacrificed a lot of friendships to get you there."

My neck felt stiff, and I tried to lie. "Spitfire, everypony likes you a lot. They–"

Spitfire lowered her glasses enough to glare at me. "I know what everypony calls me, Streak. 'The One-Mare Firing Squad.' It's… not exactly what I want my legacy to be." After a small hesitation, she took her sunglasses off and set them on the desk. "And I don't want to set a bad example for you, either. I didn't become a Wonderbolt to make friends, but that doesn't mean I want to lose the ones I have." She paused, then quickly added, "And in case you are as thick as Soarin', I'm talking about you."

I gulped. Despite how tough I'd been those past few days, she thought of me as a friend. In the short week we'd been working together, she'd seen something in me, something that she liked. I felt my heart in my throat, and I asked, "So… what should I do?"

"Be better than Soarin', Streak. I don't want to see what happened to him happen to you. You've got real potential, maybe enough to move up a few ranks, but if you can't get past one bad weekend where you got overshadowed…" She put her sunglasses back on. "…then maybe we need to put Soarin' back in charge after all."

I felt like I'd been caught by a tornado. From the sounds of it, she was considering recommending me for co-captain status, or at least she had been. If I could just prove that I was okay, then I actually had a shot!

But then the rest of her words hit home. "Put Soarin' back in charge." I felt him looming over me again, like a dark, blue shadow that completely blocked out the light. I started seeing red. It was like he was a predator, like he was coming for me. It didn't matter how well I performed or what Spitfire thought of me or how much the Wonderbolts improved. Soarin' would still come back, and as long as he held his rank, I would never get a serious shot at becoming co-captain.

The blood pumped faster in every part of me, and I grit my teeth. "That won't be a problem."

Spitfire looked at me again. "Fire Streak, I think you should take the rest of the day off." She saw me open my mouth, but cut me off. "I'm not punishing you. Like I said, I don't want you to end up like Soarin'. I… I'm trying to give you advice." She mumbled, "As a friend."

I was stunned. My wings drooped, and my eyes were wide open. And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being pushed out of the way. Soarin' had never been sent home.

My eyes narrowed, but I remained as respectful as I could. "Thank you, ma'am." I stood up and left.

The flight home felt rigid. My thoughts tossed and turned with different emotions. 'Buck. Spitfire really believes in me. But she's going to replace me again as soon as Soarin' comes back.' Every time I thought about him, the guy that was supposed to be my best friend, the fire flared up again. 'He took it from me. He took my big day, and he's going to take my position. He's the famous one, and I'm a nopony for as long as he's around.'

My thoughts looped like that until I made it all the way home. I threw open the door and paced around the kitchen, shaking my head and muttering to myself. "It doesn't matter. It's okay, I'll get my chance, but… Ugh!" I threw my head back and squeezed my eyes closed. My head whipped around, and it hit me like a slap across the face that I was the only Wonderbolt not at practice. I sneered, and I snorted, and I looked around for anything that could distract me.

And my eyes settled on a tabloid. On my kitchen table was the stack of papers I'd read over the weekend. Soarin's face was right on the cover. I walked to the table and picked it up, and a terrible, terrible thought came to me.

'What if Soarin' didn't come back?'

It was all right there, all so simple. All it would take would be one letter. Give it enough detail, throw in a couple embellishments, mail it anonymously from the Wonderbolts' own mailbox for authenticity… and no more blue shadow. Only fire. A smile crept across my face…

…and then dropped. "Gah!" My hoof suddenly quivered, and I jumped back, like the tabloid was a snake that had bitten me. I flapped my wings and hovered in the air above it, feeling nauseous as I realized what I'd proposed to myself. My jaw hung open, and I slowly shook my head. "No… No, I can't do that to…"

'To Soarin',' I thought, the words seeming to hiss in my brain. 'To the guy that went nuts and nearly drove the team into the ground. To the guy who couldn't take the pressure, then got all the credit when I saved everyone's ass.' I sighed and said aloud, "To the guy who called me the new Number One."

I landed on the floor and bit my lower lip, still staring at the tabloid. When I finally tore my eyes away, my stomach heaved. I ran into my bathroom and nearly threw up, but even as I gagged, I felt the embers burning inside me.

I tried to avoid the kitchen for the rest of the day, but I couldn't leave the house. I felt locked in, like that tabloid was calling me. I would walked past, catch a glimpse, and picture myself as co-captain of the Wonderbolts. Forever. With nopony to stand in my way. Nopony would know who had sent it in. It would be so, so…

And then I would shake my head and keep walking, desperately trying to find something to keep my mind off of it.

But I couldn't. I lay on my bed to try and sleep the thoughts away, but that just made them stronger. 'I mean, I wouldn't need to write anything too damning. Just something to keep him out until I established myself.' The worst part was… the more I argued with myself, the more it all seemed to make sense. 'And if he still deserves the top spot, he'll earn it back. I'd be helping the whole team. Competition is good. He'd want me to do everything I could for the 'Bolts.'

The fire kept building. Before knew what was happening, I was up and walking downstairs. "He's been so stressed lately. It would be good for him. Take the pressure off." I nodded to myself as I went to my desk and grabbed some paper, ink, and a quill. "And he can spend time with that Braeburn guy. Maybe he'll want to settle down." Somewhere in my subconscious, I knew I was lying to myself, but I still didn't stop. I couldn't stop.

Before long, I sat at my kitchen table with my quill and ink and a few blank pieces of paper. My chest rose and fell, and my rapidly beating heart threatened to jump out of my throat. I was sweating. My eyes were fluttering. I thought I would pass out.

But every time I considered putting my quill down, I saw it again: the newspapers all around me, all talking about the missing pony, none of them announcing my big break. I saw my whole career utterly wasted, and me, an afterthought in the history of the Wonderbolts. I saw Soarin' taking everything: my fame, my glory, my fans, my money, my friends, everything. As long as he was co-captain, I could never, ever be the star I was meant to be.

And with that thought in mind, I began the startlingly easy process of selling my soul.

Comments

[jxj]

6768858 oh, the picture itself is excellent. Personally, I find that having them in the middle of the chapter breaks my immersion, but to reach their own.

[JBL]

Damn, the way he tries to rationalize what he's doing... Reminds me a bit of this guy.

[Vivid Syntax]

6769611

Damn, the way he tries to rationalize what he's doing...

One step at a time...

....

...bro.

[Vivid Syntax]

6769439
I think it gave him chills, too.

[Grekoy]

6769439 same here.

[Wireframe]

This is the one story I've waited a long long time for ever since Soarin's parting words to Streak in Sensation and the possible side story as mentioned in the polls. Let me be the first to say that you did not disappoint.

Firestreak had been an interesting character even in sensation, being competitive and, though often jokingly intend on taking Soarin', never actually expected to get there, at the very least not in this sudden fashion. That competitive duality in him caught my interest initially, in wanting to prove himself, but also being Soarin's friend.

Sensation's progression did hint a bit at where this story would go, but I like how you started with the tension beforehand and brief mentions of the difficulties faced leading up to the show.

The way you built up the tension in the second chapter was fantastic and it feels far too relate-able. The progression for firestreak's excitement over a show well done, as you wonderfully display in actions of the character himself and interactions with the characters around him, to the realization that his accomplishments are being overshadowed, or even ignored, more and more. Come to think of it I think that's where your strength in writing really lies. The characters feel alive. It's never just a decision or just a conversation. There are thoughts, actions and behaviors, backing up the written dialogue both for the main characters and those they interact with, each with their own defined personality. The first person nature of the story adds additional layers of insight on top of that experience and helps to keep the reader immersed.

But it isn't just limited to the dialogue for character interactions, for it's the moments alone where especially Firestreak really shines.
The moment he comes up with the idea to leak information about Soarin, there is a brilliant progression of denying the option, to not being able to let it go, to excuses and justifications and eventually just giving in. This on top of all the earlier build up of expectations and disappointments. It makes Firestreak feel genuine, as much as I don't want him to do it.

And I know what you're going to do too, and it's evil. He'll have sold his soul next chapter and then receive Soarin's letter, the one with the 'thing' drawn on it, when Firestreak will no longer be able to reverse his actions. You're the master of conflict and resolutions though and making actions matter, so I still cannot wait to see where you're going to take this or how all of this will impact Firestreak in the long run.

One thing I really appreciated too was Spitfire's interruption of Firestreak's behavior when he was going too far. Streak's goal for perfection, in hopes of proving his worth was believable, and the results of it, especially what Spitfire would later talk to him about, were well hinted at in his squad and friends. Her comparison with herself and what Firestreak's methods would lead him towards was both a nice show of her own character and past, and a way to prevent Firestreak from taking any mistakes he'd regret. For some reason it reminded me of how I'd want a spike episode to go. Spitfire was awesome as usual ^^

I can't wait to delve into the next chapters.

[Nuka-Cola Guy]

Damnit Firestreak! You son of a...

bitch!