• Published 23rd Oct 2019
  • 2,416 Views, 58 Comments

Wings Above my Winds - overlord-flinx

After taking up an otherwise routine charity job for the orphanage, Spitfire has to wrestle with unexpected emotions.

  • ...

Day 0: Spitfire, My Spitfire

Think for a moment some of the most spellbinding performances you have ever seen. Perhaps some glitzy display one would find down the Poney Fantastique strip comes to mind; sequins and rhinestones do often hold the eye. Or the humbling styles of the famed Lulamoon and her menagerie of mystifying magics amuse you more. For some, when the idea of truly magnificent performers come to mind, they recall operatic renditions of one Autumn Blaze–the pioneer of musical theatre. All are good answers and could suffice in most cases.

However, above them all is perhaps the unanimously adored, world renowned, and uncontested aerial styles of The Wonderbolts. Performers, the world over, that are praised for their showmanship, spectacle, and defying of death on a near daily basis. Synchronized aerial choreography down to the millionth of a second, specialized orchestral backing that commands the heart to raise and set with each proceeding bar, charming personas that carry childish and olden minds alike through an experience few could liken to before or since. Every performance, a treat; every offstage interaction, a treasure. Each and every actor of the troupe carries themselves with the pride of their mantel wherever it is they find themselves; for truly, the world is their stage and they will always have an image to maintain.

An image they have always been more than happy to pay upkeep in much the same enthusiasm they would their myriad of accolades; gold or otherwise. If they aren't selling-out entire theatres for their shows in themselves, they're filling out malls or local sport-outlets for public appearances; never a moment's rest–a small tithe to turn in exchange for being the best. Yet above the uproarious cheers, the all too welcomed accolades, or even the far too gracious fan submissions, the Wonderbolts as a whole find their greatest worth in another side of their business; saccharine though it may be.

Charity work.

All told, not all those wearing the Wonderbolt jumper and logo get the same sense of accomplishment out of their charity work as some others. But what good press and will they receive is a reward they can all unify behind. Shoes for the Shoeless, Toys for Tots, guest appearances on charity streams here, serving at a soup kitchen there: on a bimonthly basis, they offer their brand and services to whatever cause they can find. However, their event sign-up is routinely booked up a year in advance. This of course cannot be avoided, as there are only so many of them and so numerous of causes. Yet, they have always persisted to the best of their capabilities.

To do their part for the community at large was a reward in itself; and yet, there could always be found an even grander reward just beneath the surface.

The oceanic cry of a crowd cheering, the burning grace of stage lights centering down on her, the ceaseless study of recording equipment waiting on every movement to broadcast worldwide; it could be too much for anyone. But never her. Not when it was as regular an occurrence as stretching. While not the spacious comfort that came with whatever venue the Wonderbolts had booked out she was more accustomed to, a talk-show stage was a close second - perhaps third, behind the familiar comforts of an "autograph table" in some random hotel lobby. Dressed to impress as ever with her black slip of a dress, the chief coordinator of the Wonderbolts lounged back in the armchair she had been offered before the show had started its countdown.


The audience was already out of their seats bursting with applause, which the Wonderbolt characteristically waved to with a toothy smirk. If there was one thing she had told her troupe when it came to public appearances, it was to always appreciate your fans. Give them a wave, sign the occasional loose autograph, maybe even take a selfie if the scene takes you.


Her shoulders rolled off what little nerves she had left. Though she loved them to no end, the rest of the Wonderbolts lacked a certain level of stage awareness on anything smaller than the open air itself. These sorts of announcements and conferences were best left to her. Amber eyes flittered over to the host as he seemed to sweat over the teleprompter not yet live.


As if completely on cue, the teleprompter flicked on and the host straightened himself with a practiced grin; discarding any such ideas that he may not have been ready a moment before. "Welcome back ladies and gentlemen. Before we took off, we brought out the head of the Wonderbolts, Mrs. Spitfire," the poor man was forced to take a beat as the studio audience couldn't help but roar, "To discuss her team's latest plans. Now tell us, what is on the platter now?"

For her own part, Spitfire lounged a leg over the other as she gave the crowd a few moments to calm themselves. "Glad you asked. As I'm sure you're aware, we pride ourselves on giving back to our very generous community," an arrant woot pierced the otherwise silent room. "As such, we have been invited to take part in a sort of 'Big Brothers Big Sisters' program." She was more practiced than the others, but she did on occasion forget to read her own e-mails on the topic.

"Big Brothers and Sisters? How does that work? Do you go and give kids of the street noogies and yell at them to stay outta your room?" A few chuckles sounded from the audience, probably not the gut buster he had hoped it would be.

"Hah, not so much," Spitfire forced a 'good one' smile, "It's a bit more involved than that. We also spend some time stealing the remote and sitting on them while we watch 'Kissy Show'," that generated more of a response the host had probably been looking for, "But in all seriousness, it's a program where we sort of set a young mind down the right path. Give them a positive outlook in a life they might have not had up until now."

"Amazing. What a giving heart you all must have," the 'd'awwws' from the audience might have been genuine, but the glaring red sign telling them to do so cast a shroud on that idea.

"Hardly," Spitfire shrugged, "Taking a kid in and teaching them? I do that every day teaching my knuckleheads back home. I welcome the chance to hopefully inspire some form of confidence into a budding youth. Confidence I didn't have a lot of growing up."

"Spitfire of the Wonderbolts shy of confidence? Now you're just pulling our legs!"

"Believe it or not, I wasn't always the pillar of cool, confidence, and calm you see diving through the air every show." Spitfire smirked playfully. "It took years of encouragement, self-love, and diligence to get where I am now. And if I can pass even a little bit of that down to a kid over the next week? I'd consider all of this 'worth it'."

The host offered out a hand which Spitfire accepted, already being couched before the segment on how this would all proceed. "Spitfire of the Wonderbolts, paying it forward and bringing joy to one lucky someone's life; we'll be right back." As the two shook their practiced send-off, uproarious cheers ushering the scene out, the lights upon the stage cleared and someone off stage called for a 'clear'.

Both guest and host reclined back into their respective seats, momentarily freed from the gaze of millions of eyes. While the host himself began his muted tirade at who was responsible for that limp-wristed quip, Spitfire allowed herself to slip off stage with not a word more to say. The job was done, the announcement was made, and she had far more important people to hash out with. One of which stood waiting in the wings for her, beaming grin plastered on his youthful face.

"Nice!" Soarin through his hand up, waiting for Spitfire to slap him some well earned skin, "You nailed it like, like... like..."

A momentary 'slap' echoed against the now busy stage air as couch met partner. "A coffin? I barely kept it together," Spitfire huffed as she worked out those last few kinks in her neck.

"I was gonna say 'like a nail gun', but coffins are cool too. Spooky~" Soarin tailed behind Spitfire as she made her way backstage, and hopefully out entirely.

"You know what? We'll go with nail gun, I'm being too hard on myself. The point is the actual event, not the announcement, right?", Spitfire prodded.

"No argument here," Soarin assured his partner as they made their way out to the chilled autumn night beyond the studio lot.

Spitfire felt her skin prick under the soft breezes of the late night air, cursing beneath a single chatter that she wore only the slip of black here and not her jacket. Soarin had to pick up his pace as Spitfire started to jog through the lot towards their car, desperately wanting to escape the cold. "Anyway, we have a busy day tomorrow," Spitfire spoke up, small puffs escaping her lips.

"'We'? I thought you said you were doing this one alone?", Soarin tilted his head to one side as he fished his keys from his pocket, clicking a button on the fob to unlock Spitfire's sanctuary. "Not that I wouldn't mind. Love those little bros and bro-ettes."

"Sorry to pop you while you're just getting excited, but I am still doing this alone. I just need another pair of hands to help me move them in for the week. Luggage and all," Spitfire slipped into the beaten van Soarin drove them in with as she explained her stance.

Soarin merely nodded along, knowing full well that if Spitfire said it was necessary, it must be. In truth, it was a half truth. The paperwork was already drawn up, and what agreements had to be made were settled; Spitfire saw to that weeks ago with her contact's aid. The chances for their charge having bags requiring another pair of hands were slim considering the length of the actual event. What Spitfire was really after was a buffer while she could make an excuse for it. Come next morning, she would have to play the role of a 'Big Sister' to a 'wayward youth'–though by her contact's account, the child was far from trouble–, and that idea settled an odd sensation in the pit of her chest.

The headlights of the van flickered on and the warm hearth of the blaring fans melted away any such thoughts lingering in Spitfire's mind. And as Soarin pulled off into the open streets, what ideas remained seemed to be left far behind; waiting for tomorrow to come and be picked up once more.

Far flung from the glamour of any studio set, well beyond the dying hustle of Ponyville–a town who's namesake nobody can agree on–, in a nestled corner just beside the town's edge where the streetlights only just narrowly reached stood a humble estate. While its function had shifted with each passing decade to fit in with the evolving times, it found itself to be the lone children's home for Ponyville's lost lambs. While every nook of the estate had long been dimmed for the night, and many a head lain to rest for the coming day; one soul in particular remained alert well beyond curfew's call.

Tucking herself firm beneath her blankets and cupping her earbud plugged ears so not a single light or sound would escape to alert anyone, the mischievous child watched transfixed to the display of her phone. That morning she had been given the heads-up to keep an eye out on a certain channel; something she wouldn't want to miss for the world. Dash had been working to set this whole event for weeks, and no curfew would stop Scootaloo from witnessing its final kickoff.

The whole of the show was a lot of boring adult chatter about things far beyond Scootaloo's grade; or at least far beyond what she cared to put much thought to. All that mattered was the short segment square in the middle of the stream: where a fiery maned woman humored a balding clown and announced what charity event she'd be participating in.

A pause to the screen came with a tap of the finger. Virtual eyes met eyes brimming with excitement, though neither was fully aware of the other. It wouldn't be until tomorrow. Tomorrow where the real excitement would begin.

Author's Note:

There's a tentative "T" on this because later down the road, there might be some more explicit moments. Spitfire is a grown woman, and the context of the story primarily balances between the act of everything. For that, we might change the rating... Or make a side story where that sort of stuff takes place. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Comments ALWAYS appreciated.