Seattle
Destination Unknown
Seattle
Admiral Biscuit
She was still playing her guitar on the beach as her train rolled out, and her hooves faltered on the strings as her car of wheels jerked and then was yanked away.
There was still time to catch it, and she’d been singing about life on the rails . . . but no, there would be another train. There was always another train.
Sweetsong played until sunset, with occasional breaks for a drink of water or nibbles of beach grass. She’d never liked beach grass, it was tough and bitter, but she was content to eat it and stay where she was rather than move on.
As the sun dipped to the horizon, it was time to fold up her guitar, time to listen to the crash of waves on the beach and the soft conversations of people doing the same, spoiled—for some—as a freight train rolled by.
•••
She should have found a place to spend the night when it was still light out, but hadn’t bothered. Sleeping on the beach was an option; it didn’t feel like the weather would get too bad. Sometimes parks had roving rangers who made sure everybody was out, and while she’d hidden up in trees in those parks before, here along the beach all the trees were stunted and wind-blown and she’d be spotted in an instant.
The bridge over the railroad tracks was built for people, and it didn’t have deep enough girders for her to tuck in to, and neither the bathroom nor the pavilion had flat roofs.
On the other side of the tracks, the trees looked thick enough, and she could stay off the path.
She flew up high enough to get a look at what was immediately inland while she still had enough light to see clearly, settling on the cluster of trees on the upslope at the north end of the park. There weren’t any trails through it, and she was close enough to the tracks she might be able to hop a freight first thing in the morning to take her to Seattle proper.
She had not flown up high enough to see the Space Needle, although off to her south she did see the lights of tall buildings.
It took a few minutes to find a good tree; when she did, she settled onto a branch near the trunk and pulled her army blanket out of her saddlebags. Draping it over herself while also keeping balance was tricky, especially as a few gusts from the ocean tried to take it.
•••
Through the night, her ears perked every time a train rumbled by, and then she settled back down until the next came.
•••
Sweetsong was up with the sun, her belly grumbling. She hadn’t had a proper meal since Skykomish, and she had no idea where the nearest restaurant was. Usually neighborhoods had nearby restaurants. She could fly around until she found one, or she could stay where she was, forage for a quick snack, and hope for a passing southbound train that was going slow enough she could hitch a ride into the heart of Seattle.
The park was on a small point of land, and she could fly south, which would get her closer to Seattle; if she saw a likely-looking restaurant she could get food, and if a slow-moving freight train came along under her, she could catch a ride.
She rolled up her blanket and put it back in her saddlebags, then flew out of the tree and across the tracks, cutting south as soon as she was over the beach.
She kept low enough that she could dive down to a train if one came by, but that meant she didn’t get as good a view inland. Sometimes along highways, restaurants and gas stations had their signs on very tall poles so they were easy to see from a long way off, but there was none of that here, just residential neighborhoods and trees and hills and a big golf course.
Inland, she’d have no trouble finding food, and she finally decided to head more directly to Seattle as she passed over another park where the land started to curve out to the west, along with the tracks.
After several blocks of houses, she came across Larsen’s bakery, and she glided to a landing in front of the store. The smell of fresh-baked treats was too much to pass by, and she left with a full belly, along with food for later: two kinds of kringle, a bread braid, and a small bag of smorkages, which looked like cinnamon rolls and smelled like almonds.
She’d find the bay and by extension the tracks again if she flew west, but decided to fly along on her own wingpower for now. She could see the buildings of downtown Seattle and the Space Needle as well, and changed her course to the southeast to fly directly at them.
•••
It was further than it looked, and her wings were getting tired by the time she finally reached the Space Needle.
She’d seen the CN Tower from a distance, and this wasn’t as tall; it was like the CN Tower’s little sister.
She wasn’t in the mood for singing just yet, so she didn’t buzz the windows of the tower; instead, she glided down into the park below, stripped off her saddlebags, and rolled in the grass.
As quick as it would have been to get the lay of the land from the air, she instead trotted around the park, getting an idea of what was there. They had directional signs and informational signs; they had a fountain and a stained glass museum and to the northeast there was a playground for artists which had a sound garden with all sorts of chimes for children to play with.
It was immensely popular with children or children-at-heart, and she got mobbed as soon as she was noticed. That wouldn’t earn her bits, but she couldn’t resist the allure of children who just wanted to pet her and talk to her, and before too long she’d gathered a small cluster of kids on a grassy mound that made ‘swish swish’ noises when the wind blew across it.
Behind them, a cluster of parents, watching over. She opened her saddlebags and set out her fishing hat, a clear sign that she was fishing for consideration, and then she started to regale them with tales of riding the rails, of her hometown, of what it was like to be a pegasus pony with the wind under her wings.
She knew plenty of children’s songs and foal’s songs, and she alternated when she sang, or just recited a verse here and there when it was appropriate, careful to not keep the children for too long, lest their parents start to worry about appointments that might be missed.
One more round of petting and hugs and nuzzles. Her wings and fur were ruffled, her mane was mussed, and her hat was full of bills from appreciative adults.
She’d get cornered again if she stayed on the ground, so once she’d gotten her hat and money stowed away, she took flight, landing on the roof of the monorail.
Sweetsong had heard of monorails but had never ridden on one, and after she’d preened her wings back in order, she flew around to the actual station entrance and paid for a ticket, then hop-flew her way up the stairs to the monorail station—there were too many people for her to properly fly up the stairwell.
While the monorail had seemed safe enough from the ground, seeing it as it approached the station gave her pause. It was balanced on a single rail, and she couldn’t figure out why it didn’t fall off.
Maybe the low-hanging parts of it were heavy keels, like on a ship, to keep it balanced.
Plenty of passengers were getting aboard, and a sign at the platform said that it had been operating since 1962, which implied it was safe enough. Safer, say, than riding a grain car through the Cascade Tunnel.
She’d felt the current as the train approached the station, and felt it again as the motorman advanced the throttle: a surge of electricity, barely-contained lightening leaping from conductors on the cement rail to conductors on the train, filling the car with eddy currents that were different than the faint prickle of electricity coming from the overhead lights.
It always boggled her mind that humans had done so much with electricity, even when they couldn’t properly feel it.
Sweetsong shifted on her hooves and flared out her wings as the train accelerated, the current peaking and then steadying out. She could have had a seat and a good view, but feeling the electric surge through her hooves was better.
The train didn’t rock like she’d expected; it stayed steady on the center of the rail, not leaning even as it took a curve. Some passengers were holding on to handrails—she’d learned from an old hobo that the railroads said you always needed three points of contact to be safe. With her wings she had twice that.
Admittedly, he’d been better at climbing ladders than she was, but she didn’t need ladders.
•••
The monorail dropped her off at a shopping center, which wasn’t the ideal place to earn bits, so she walked the sidewalks and looked into windows to see what people were selling.
When she’d first come to Earth, it had boggled her mind just how much stuff was for sale, and how full the shelves were. There never seemed to be empty spaces where the product had sold out, and it got completely overwhelming.
Not that she needed much. Anything she bought had to fit into her saddlebags, had to be something she could carry around with her, and most importantly had to be able to withstand a life on the rails. Before her army blanket, she’d had a polar fleece blanket which was soft and snuggly when it was new, but not so good after a few months of use.
Where there were stores there were restaurants, and she had a lot of options in a small radius. She found a ginger beer store that sold ginger beer by the cup or gallon if she was really thirsty, and in an alleyway behind that, a small cluster of restaurants including a clam chowder restaurant.
Sweetsong hadn’t had clam chowder since she was on the East Coast, and while it was tempting to try their New England version, she decided to try smoked salmon chowder instead. Maybe like pizza, everyplace had their own spin on the dish.
Best of all, they didn’t mind that she had a jug of Rachel’s Ginger Beer, and she could eat outdoors.
Right across the street was an actual fish market, which was a more familiar place to browse. Unfortunately, fish didn’t travel well, so she didn’t buy any.
Beyond that was a harbor and an aquarium which was tempting to visit, but she didn’t feel like spending nearly thirty dollars to see fish in glass cages.
Wings over Washington was ten dollars cheaper and promised a flying theater, but they didn’t have any seats that were pony-friendly. She could fly over Washington for free anyway, if she wanted to.
It was easier to ride a train.
•••
As she flew over Elliott Bay, she saw a ferry leaving the dock and she couldn’t help herself; she landed on the roof above the pilothouse and stayed there until the crew started yelling at her, then flew off to the nearest point of land.
That had a hilltop park where she earned some more bits, and a beach with a small Statue of Liberty. The real one was in New York and was big enough to go inside.
Inland, she found a big tree-y park that was the perfect place to spend the night. This time she scouted it out before nightfall, and found the perfect tree that was high enough to give her a view of the water but not be too obvious to the rangers.
That was the perfect place to eat some of her braid-bread and drink some more ginger beer as she watched the sun set in the distance and the lights of Seattle.
Tomorrow, she’d see what else Seattle had to offer.
•••
She was up before the sun, already headed east. Yesterday, she’d spotted a huge fuel depot along the water and while that wasn’t anywhere she wanted to try and catch a train—if there were even any cars there she could ride—it was easy to spot and had to connect to something.
The secondary railyard wasn’t hard to find; it was laid out diagonally just beyond the island the tank farm sat on. An airport was south of the railyard, something to be avoided. Sweetsong glanced around to make sure there weren’t any airplanes close to her, and then down at the runway to see if any airplanes were lining up to take off. Even if they passed overhead, she’d been warned that the big ones could make horizontal tornados in the air.
She didn’t see any airplanes lined up to fly, but she did see lots of them parked around the airport, one of which had the same blue-green wrapper on it as the ones that had ridden, wingless, on the flat cars.
That did pique her interest.
Airplanes couldn’t turn all that sharply, so she followed a river that paralleled the railyard and airport. It was tempting to dive down and see if she could find a fish for breakfast, but with the amount of industries all tucked up along it, not to mention the fleets of barges, that would be a bad idea. Human waterways were often polluted in cities.
•••
As she approached a marina, the smell of food got her attention, and she swooped down a street with a cluster of restaurants. The restaurants had attracted food trucks, and she decided to try the Burrito Express truck, which was parked behind Mi Fondita Del Itsmo. She got a ‘mare on a budget’ breakfast burrito with bacon, and a frijolero for later.
The roof of a marina was a good place to eat her breakfast burrito, and she had a good view of all the airplanes sitting on the other side of the river. Strangely, there were dozens of different airplane liveries and most of them had covers over their engines and windows. Is it an airplane museum? There weren’t people walking around enjoying the airplanes, just a single security car patrolling the airplane parking, its yellow light blinking.
It was too early for Mi Fondita Del Itsmo to be open; maybe it was too early for an airplane museum to be open, as well.
What if it’s an airplane factory? She’d seen auto factories and their giant parking lots full of cars, and she’d seen a train go by with airplane fuselages. Where airplanes were built hadn’t really come up in any of her classes.
Some of the buildings near the storage lot had big doors for airplanes to go in and out of . . . it would be an interesting place to explore before she flew back to Seattle and buzzed the Space Needle.
•••
The south end of the airport had T-hangers for little airplanes and a museum. The museum wasn’t open yet, so she found a FBO instead and settled into the lounge for some bad coffee and flying gossip. She knew about FBOs, the mareport had one, and they were supposed to be open to pilots. She could fly and had a provisional pilot’s license, although she’d have to rummage through her saddlebags to find it.
Not that she needed to; before she’d taken a single sip of coffee she’d already become the center of attention of the FBO.
Stats
Page generated in 0.033 seconds
Total duration
999 users online
377,457 hits today, 2,561,572 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
Though some people have figured out a way to sort of cheat on that...
https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5477830
11149225
You're welcome :3
I love how Sweetsong is the complete opposite of Miss "Rules are rules" Silver Glow. Her whole attitude is "I can fly! What are YOU gonna do about it?"
I bet Sweetsong could make a good salary as a street performer for one reason: she is so adorable.
Theres a nice article somewhere about when NASA? did some research into trailing vortices of heavy aircraft.
They took off in a 4 engined medium aircraft instrumented up, and flew up behind a 747 to take some measurements.
They landed in a 2 engined medium aircraft.
Aw she's fond enough of children to not care if they mess her up.
Yes the hand out was nice but the fact that she simply stayed there just for them is sweet, like her name eh?
FBO?
11149350
Funnily enough, Cody from Cody’s Lab implanted a magnet in his finger years ago just to see if he could use it to identify ferrous metals by touch (he could). In your example, the surgery was more precise than what Cody did.
Also, I never would have thought of it to feel electrical currents, although apparently it works for that. Huh.
11149638
You know, I hadn’t really thought about it that way, but you’re totally right. Sweetsong is far less concerned with the rules than Silver Glow was.
11149834
Being adorable goes a long way; having talent to back that up takes her even further. She can make all the money she wants by just playing her guitar, singing, telling stories, or whatever else she cares to do.
11149893
Those vortices are no joke. They’ve caused airplanes to crash before, and there’s a video that’s made the rounds a time or two of an airplane trying to take off, he rotates, and then it doesn’t fly until further down the runway . . . they inadvertently intersected the wing vortices of an airplane that landed just before their takeoff roll, and while they were in it, it spoiled their lift.
I could do some digging, maybe find that video.
11150139
I feel like nearly every pony would have a soft spot for children . . . or should have, anyway. Plus I bet kids tend to be more forthcoming with scritches and pets than adults.
Sure, on one hoof she’s a law-breaking pegasus who goes where she wants and does what she wants, but when it really matters, she’s got her heart in the right place.
11152797
FBO = Fixed Base Operator, generally referring to someone who operates at an airport and provides service to airmen. Colloquially, it often refers to a base for general aviation, usually providing a lounge, bathrooms, a computer terminal for weather reports and NOTAMS (notice to airmen), questionable coffee, vending machines, and pilot stories (’so there I was...’); depending on the airport, they’re either really nice and modern or else they’re vintage.
In the broader sense, though, they might also include things like a fueling service, a maintenance base, or any number of other operations to support aviation at the airport.
Sweetsong: "Worth it!"
Sweetsong: "Not that there is anything wrong with that."
11160275
Totally worth it!
<video>
Heh, I can just imagine her saying that.