Nick of Time

by HapHazred

Not Quite in the Nick of Time

Speed was what being a Wonderbolt was all about, and yet it always felt to Spitfire that she was perpetually a wingbeat behind at every turn. She felt like a pony who was always playing by the rules as they were the day before, unable to think ahead to what they could, or should be.

Around her burned the skeleton of an outdated vanity project. Blackened cloudstone fell around her hooves. Cracked structural altocumulus threatened to give way. To Spitfire, little of that mattered. Her mind was barely registering her imminent death. Spitfire’s battleground wasn’t the disaster zone around her but the stream of thoughts within. Hounding her mind and biting at the back of her brain was yet again the barking beratement of her inner voice telling her that she was too slow, too little, and too late.

Bending across her back was a beam, heavy and metal. Rivets intact even as the steel itself was warped and smoking hot. One fraction of a second earlier and she wouldn’t have become trapped. One fraction of a second later and it would have only been the one life lost, not two. Mathematically it would have been a better outcome.

Spitfire couldn’t make out the face of the pony she was stood over, nor did she frankly care to check. Mare or stallion, young or old, pretty or gross, it wasn’t about who they were to her, only that they were a who. Unfortunately for them, it wasn’t Spitfire’s destiny to arrive in the nick of time and save the day. She was only able to react, and always too late.

She had been too late to realise that Wonderbolts were arrogant, self-centred jerks like Wind Rider whose influence would have led her down a spiral of self-sabotage. Too late to realise that she had been treating her own ‘Bolts like disposable minions just because that’s how it had always worked. Too dim-witted to see them turned from something that provided true value to all of Equestria to a circlejerk of athletic prowess. At their best they were a Cloudsdale propaganda tool. At their worst, a toxic cesspool that ruined good pegasi.

Each time, Spitfire had been too blind. It had always been another who arrived to save her from herself.

The beam bent under the weight of an entire structure bearing down on it. Despite the imminence of Spitfire’s demise, she reckoned that it was a positive that she was uniquely resilient to fire and burning, otherwise this would probably hurt a lot more than it did. Or perhaps the beam had crushed her spine and she just couldn’t feel much of anything anymore. A question for the coroner, perhaps.

Perhaps, Spitfire mused, it was because she couldn’t help but calculate every move and overthink things to the n-th degree. A quality that made for a good captain, granted, but it was no small part of her that wondered if, had she just acted instead of calculated the risk-reward ratio, she might have saved the pony beneath her faster rather than become trapped in this collapsing bear-trap along with her.

That was her problem, Spitfire thought. She was a pony constantly at war with herself. One minute advancing the reputation of the Wonderbolts at any cost, the next sacrificing it to pursue advanced first-aid and rescue training (none of which endeared her to the Cloudsdale Bureaucracy, but in a minor quirk of irony, that too was currently burning down along with Spitfire’s own reputation there). One day ruthlessly throwing Soaring away to pursue new talent, the next taking steps to make sure her team could trust each other with their lives. She was a Frankenstein’s monster of a pony, part hero and part treacherous bitch. Constantly self-improving, but ultimately self-defeating.

“Are we going to be…” came a voice from beneath Spitfire. Through eyes blinded by smoke and tears, Spitfire tried to peer down at the pony she had failed to rescue, and failed.

“Probably,” she replied, not really sure how the question would have finished. “Don’t suppose you can get out from under me?”

“Leg stuck.”

Spitfire coughed. She could taste iron and smoke and little else. She bit back a retort about a leg being a little bit less than her entire spike and lower half. It would have been in poor taste.

“Can you move that beam?”

Spitfire coughed again, only just realising she had been trying to laugh. Interesting. She hadn’t been in many life-or-death situations, and she felt it was morbidly curious that it was only then that she developed a sense of humour. “It’s got... four stories of the Cloudsdale Bureau of Affairs on it.”

It was amazing that Spitfire was still able to keep it from crumbling onto the both of them. Then again, ponies and their cutie-marks could perform some truly incredible feats near death. Spitfire coughed again. Interesting also that she couldn’t stop herself from pondering abstract things like cutie-mark magic despite being about to get crushed. Or, actually, it would be the smoke that would kill her. Carbon monoxide was the true danger in a fire.

What would she give to be the action-mare type. Or maybe the sort that derived a sudden wellspring of strength when thinking about her friends. Or a destined pony determined by the stars to become an alicorn or something. Unfortunately none of those were true. Spitfire was a schemer first and foremost, didn’t appear to think about her friends when about to die, and most certainly wasn’t destined for anything but having a burning need to be more than she was and never living up to it.

Only heroes got to save the day in the nick of time.

Spitfire's vision dimmed. Good, she thought; she was right about the smoke being what would kill her. Being right felt nice.

From the corner of her eye, through the crumbling walls and columns, Spitfire saw a flash of light, and a rainbow arc crossing the sky.

Author's Note:

Aptly named, as I'm sure you'll agree. I do enjoy meta titles.

Cheers for reading, and I hoped you enjoyed. I had been wanting to read a non-romancey angle to Not-My-Rescuer for a while so a sort of damatic inner monologue felt like a good opportunity to do it.

Cheers to Bicyclette and the others for running the 1K word contest.

Comments

[Winter_Solstice]

Not a fan of Spitfire, I'm guessing.

Throughout the entire story, and reading her detached, almost clinical analysis of her situation, I found myself thinking: "WHY are you reminiscing?! The place is ON FIRE!! GET! OUT!" You really triggered my anxiety with this one, and I'd like to keep my own head version of the ending, as I'm sure you intended.

[HapHazred]

11653682 What? No, I think she's great. I kind of ran with my headcanon that she sort of puts on different hats to deal with different situations and I kinda like the darker, toxic edge she gives the 'Bolts whilst still always seemingly either trying to be better or willing to learn at the end. Makes me wonder what goes on in her head more than I should. Probably why a lot of my later stories, from Versus Jet, Not my Rescuer, and now this kind of hyperfixate on that sort of contradiction.

Glad you enjoyed it though! Sorry I triggered your anxiety, but sacrifices must be made when writing mlp fanfic.

[Cerulean Blue]

I like the darker, grittier versions of MLP that the show couldn't and shouldn't have shown. Nice story :)

[HapHazred]

11653853 Cheers! Glad you enjoyed it.

I have a love-hate relationship with stories that try to be MLP, but darker, as a lot of the times it just sort of ends up feeling cartoonish but in the opposite direction. I hope I strike a nice balance.

[Cerulean Blue]

11653905

This was a nice balance - enough grit that it's not the land of cheerful bright ponies any more, not pain and suffering for the sake of pain and suffering.

[Gavier]

interesting read, I love this kind of headcanons that change the character a lot by changing very little

[new55]

That was a good story.

[Bicyclette]

Blackened cloudstone fell around her hooves. Cracked structural altocumulus threatened to give way.

do love this pegasus architecture worldbuilding

Spitfire couldn’t make out the face of the pony she was stood over, nor did she frankly care to check. Mare or stallion, young or old, pretty or gross, it wasn’t about who they were to her, only that they were a who. Unfortunately for them, it wasn’t Spitfire’s destiny to arrive in the nick of time and save the day. She was only able to react, and always too late.

oof…

She had been too late to realise that Wonderbolts were arrogant, self-centred jerks like Wind Rider whose influence would have led her down a spiral of self-sabotage. Too late to realise that she had been treating her own ‘Bolts like disposable minions just because that’s how it had always worked. Too dim-witted to see them turned from something that provided true value to all of Equestria to a circlejerk of athletic prowess. At their best they were a Cloudsdale propaganda tool. At their worst, a toxic cesspool that ruined good pegasi.

Each time, Spitfire had been too blind. It had always been another who arrived to save her from herself.

hurtful, yet merited

The beam bent under the weight of an entire structure bearing down on it. Despite the imminence of Spitfire’s demise, she reckoned that it was a positive that she was uniquely resilient to fire and burning, otherwise this would probably hurt a lot more than it did. Or perhaps the beam had crushed her spine and she just couldn’t feel much of anything anymore. A question for the coroner, perhaps.

oof, that is grim. but a great take on what Spitfire’s cutie mark-powered passive superpower is

That was her problem, Spitfire thought. She was a pony constantly at war with herself. One minute advancing the reputation of the Wonderbolts at any cost, the next sacrificing it to pursue advanced first-aid and rescue training (none of which endeared her to the Cloudsdale Bureaucracy, but in a minor quirk of irony, that too was currently burning down along with Spitfire’s own reputation there). One day ruthlessly throwing Soaring away to pursue new talent, the next taking steps to make sure her team could trust each other with their lives. She was a Frankenstein’s monster of a pony, part hero and part treacherous bitch. Constantly self-improving, but ultimately self-defeating.

love this take on just how self-contradictory the portrayal of the Wonderbolts has been throughout the years of canon. it all coming down to Spitfire being a Frankenstein’s monster of a pony makes more sense than anything else

Only heroes got to save the day in the nick of time.

oof…

From the corner of her eye, through the crumbling walls and columns, Spitfire saw a flash of light, and a rainbow arc crossing the sky.

so this is what it feels like to be a side character in a world of protagonists. poor Spitfire! i love the depth you’ve given her with this one. cheers to you for writing!

[HapHazred]

11698028 To be fair I personally feel Spits is being very hard on herself. It's not really super fair for her to have her behaviour rewarded to the point of being made captain, then torn down. And to her credit, in almost every episode with her I can recall, she always tries to improve at the end.

One of life's perpetual students, but instead of seeing how much her effort is worth all she feels is like a Frankenstein creation.

If you enjoyed this you really ought to check out Rescuer. Similar focus but also with horse kissing.

[FanOfMostEverything]

Sometimes your life flashes before your eyes in your last moments. Sometimes it’s just the regrets.

Fascinating and heartrending internal monologue. Poor Spitfire really was buffeted by the needs of the narrative over the course of the show, and she rarely came out of that turbulence looking out. She certainly has a lot of ruminate on here. My only complaint is that she identifies her nature without really doing anything about it. Grim resignation is certainly one way to approach the end of a life, but it still feels like the overview was leading up to something bigger. I suppose that will come after Dash rescues both of them.

Again, great exploration of the character’s mind at a critical moment. Thank you for the entry.