• 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.

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Day 1 (Morning): Dress to (Un)Impress

You're being ridiculous!

This is important.

It's not one of our "galas" or fundraisers. It's a cas thing.
SUPER cas.

I'm casual.

Not cas enough to say cas xP

You know what? I'm not letting you get to me.
I am going to be casual, and professional, and make a great first impression.
You are not going to psych me out. And I'm not letting you get under my skin.
I'll call you tomorrow after she's settled in.


The occasional thump of tires recoiling against partially unpaved city-limit roads were scored by the furious 'clitter-clatter' of a phone-screen being typed away on. The focused assault by text came to an end when Spitfire lobbed her phone onto the dashboard of the van, allowing her to cross her arms and recede into the passenger seat. Soarin for what he could see at his periphery, had a good guess at how the conversation went, broadening his already proud grin. He didn't take his eyes off from the road ahead of them as he breathed a low chuckle and drummed his fingers on the wheel.

"She said something about the suit, right?", chuckled Soarin.

"Alright, you know what you two?", Spitfire snapped back, ready to tear out of her seat at Soarin and a woman far beyond the confines of the van, "Excuse me for having some decorum. You know? Excuse me for... for... for not wanting to show up for this looking like a slob, okay?" Spitfire wildly gestured to her compatriot like the prime example she saw him as: slacks, a hoody that didn't match, mustard stain heat blasted into the hem of his collar after years of poor washing.

"Come on, don't be like that." Soarin tried to ruffle at Spitfire's freshly styled hair despite her every weave to escape him: "We just want you to hang loose. This ain't like a lot of our other charity things. For once, you get to be chill. Be a Big Sis! Not... this." Even as he wouldn't take his eyes off the road–only imagining the sort of earful he'd get from Spitfire at the pearly gates if he offed them both–he was able to gesture out Spitfire's entire attire: lounge suit and dress shoes.

"It's about putting your best foot forward, Soarin. That's something I want to teach them right off the bat. If you put your best self first for everyone to see, nobody'll have room to mess with you." Spitfire reclaimed her phone from the dash before nestling back into her seat.

"Ehh. I think you're starting too fast and too hard if that's what you want." Seeing their exit, Soarin played at the turn down the off-ramp. "I mean, I went out looking like this my whole life. Nobody ever messed with me."

The midday rays warmed Spitfire's face as she watched the cascading world just beyond her window. In these hours nestled between sleeping and waking, when even the autumn sun had only just roused, a calming peace could always be found. To her own credit, Spitfire allowed herself the briefest moment of calm; only one other could judge her as she let her guard momentarily lower, and it was someone she could always allow. A scoffing 'pft' passed between her lips before speaking only just above a whisper: "Yeah. Not if I had anything to say about it..." A mocking tone far removed from the concise, staunch leader she would maintain in public, only spoken at a hush; only spoken for herself.

Is it weird to wanna throw up because you're excited?

More weird to tell someone that.
You're gonna have the time of your life!


That doesn't sound very chill.

How can you tell how it sounds?



If it makes you feel better, I'll check in on you tomorrow.
After you get settled in.

Thank you.
I mean.


You went through a lot of trouble to set this up and I'm being a poop about it.

You don't owe me anything. I knew the Wonderbolts were looking for something new to do, and things just lined up.
You are sweating it so damn much.
No swearing
I'm a good influence.


She was. Even if she did pass on the odd curse or off-color story here-and-there, Dash was a remarkable influence on Scootaloo. Texting out her final bit of appreciation before things carried on too far, Scootaloo drew herself out of bed. On most day she would not even consider getting up so early; there aren't any good cartoons on, nobody's cooking up anything to eat yet, and there is nary a fool to style on with her most epic of stunts. However, what wasn't so unusual for her was starting the day with the clothes she wore the day before. A cursory sniff of her own armpits were about the only checkup she'd grant herself before getting to work.

Pickup would be any minute, and she still had a few essentials to pack.

As one van door clicked shut, the other sounded in-time. The perturbed coach brushed off a few crumbs clinging to her backside curtesy of Soarin's sloven passenger seat. Her eyes briefly glanced at the purposeful sign aimed to outline the particular spot they had opted to park in: NO PARKING. Violators will be towed.

A withering glare shot over the hood of the van as Soarin walked around was all it took to elect a response. "We'll be here, like, ten minutes. Who's gonna call the tow people, have them get here, and hook us up, in under ten minutes?" Soarin tapped a single finger at his forehead; Spitfire half expected there to be a hollow knock as he did so.

With any luck, the visit would be over and done with before anyone got wise. Together they sauntered down the small pathway leading to the estate. To either side of them, they could see forgotten toys buried in mildly unmaintained grass; most likely due to what groundskeeper they had being too cautious to risk blending someone's 'favorite toy'. The nature of the front yard coupled with the more rustic shell of the estate itself: it presented a sort of lost charm in comparison to the few apartment complexes dotting the streets around it.

As Spitfire admired the estate before her, she nearly missed the front door creaking open to meet them. The pair acted as best as they could to muster their own unique standard of decorum; one certainly more than the other. From the darkened doorway, an elderly woman hobbled her way out and offered a simple wave with what hand did not lay unto her walking cane. Her thin lips worked into a warm smile as she watched the two come to meet her at the stoop.

"Mrs. Grace, a pleasure. I've heard so much about you." Spitfire offered out her hand, a sheepish grin spouting at her cheeks: "I am personally very excited to work with you. I can only hope that this will serve to help all of your children in the coming weeks."

The matron's supple yet wrinkled palm clasped with Spitfire's, a mutual respect brokered. "You cannot park there." Even as she spoke her warning, her polite smile and honest warmth never faded.

Soarin mumbled his discontent more to himself than anyone else as he strode back to his van. Perhaps opting for an act of defiance against the letter of the law, Soarin shifted the van to idle and simple waited in there. A nerve twitched at the corner of Spitfire's lip as she was now thoroughly abandoned at the very gateway she intended to hurry along.

So much for a buffer. The thought rang hollow in her head as she watched Soarin pout from behind tinted glass.

Despite how she felt, a task was still meant to be done, and she was nothing if not professional. Spitfire turned back to meet the kindly matron with every intention of continuing their meet-and-greet, though her attention was snatched away as she noted the fresh face that had joined at Mrs. Grace's side.

Matted hair caked with as many flecks of dirt as crusted gel, mud blotched shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt. Given the care the children were known to be given, it seemed most of that was self inflicted–if the scuffed knees were anything to go by. Dull amethyst eyes shimmered an expectant curiosity as she looked up to meet Spitfire. A breathy chuckle passed through the older woman as she knelt low to meet her would-be-charge. For some, the sort of unsupported kneel Spitfire so effortlessly pulled off may have seemed impressive in itself; it seemed to spark some sort of twinkle from Scootaloo's eye.

"Hey there, kid–uhh… Scootaloo. It's nice to meet you." Her hand lofted out, hoping the child would take it. "I'm going to make this the best week of your life. Promise."

The moment lingered in the cool morning air. Scootaloo's curiosity and brimming excitement momentarily shifted deep within her as the genuine moment had finally caught up to her. For some time, it was all talk; but here it was, well and truly happening before her eyes. When she could finally catch up with herself, Scootaloo snapped her own hand up to take Spitfire's.

"C...Cool!" A squeak was all she could muster.

As both were trying their utmost to make this meeting go as smoothly as possible, neither opted to make a comment on how clammy the other's hand was. That would be a secret.

Author's Note:

As we progress, I'm sure you'll pick up the actual story structure. But, since I want to give you a bit of an idea of what you'll be dealing with, let me give a small explanation. Each day will be made up two chapters; morning and evening. Then, between the days, we'll have a sort of interim chapter that will add some context or future prospective done in a sort of different format–if that all makes sense.

Some chapters will be much longer than these first two chapters, so get hyped for that. More-or-less, we're just getting things started here; setting into place the bones of what's yet to come.