Scootaloo and Rainbow Dash come to terms with the lives they've shattered and those that lay ahead.
Time marches ever onward, heedless of two ponies it left to sift through the fragments of their shattered lives for a reason to spread their wings and soar. Only darker skies await them, but above the clouds, the sun still shines.
Five minutes. That was all Spitfire would allow. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Three days had passed since Rainbow Dash last saw Scootaloo, but it felt like a lifetime. She had only those moments between events during the Wonderbolts Tryouts—those little glances her way, the tiny smiles she snuck. The separation ate at her.
Scootaloo's house stood out among those around it, indistinguishable but for the countless times Rainbow Dash had spiralled down toward its little thatched roof. Instinct found her way to its door, not sight.
She raised a hoof, heart staying it. Making the Wonderbolts meant everything to Scootaloo, but Rainbow Dash knew what it meant for the two of them. This could very well be the last time she’d see her for a long while.
But the longer Rainbow Dash hesitated, the more she’d have to catch up with the team. Not that their gliding pace was anything intensive. She had to make a good first impression.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to knock. All she could do was stare at the door. A solid, heavy door. She had grown fond of it, the short moments they shared before it swung aside to those large violet eyes that never failed to make all the extra training worth it. Those eyes wouldn’t be very happy when she’d have to break the news to her.
No, it wouldn’t be news. Scootaloo wasn’t stupid. She’d always known—just too brave to show it.
For all her hesitation, the door opened without her knocking. Scootaloo stood across the threshold, sleep still dragging down the corners of her eyes, staring up at her like the world had been turned upside down. Rainbow Dash could only grin before tumbling over backwards from the force of a cannonball against her chest. She laughed, the warmth of the hooves wrapped around her worth ten Wonderbolts acceptance letters.
“I couldn’t wait to come show you,” Rainbow Dash said, casting a brief glance to her blue-and-yellow flightsuit. “I’m glad you’re happy, Scoot.”
Scootaloo grinned ear to ear. Sometimes, Rainbow Dash wondered what was running through the little filly’s head, what thoughts were behind that adoring smile. It had changed since they first met. Not a fanfilly smile anymore. Something greater. All Rainbow Dash knew was she would find a way to raise the sun itself if that’s what it took to see it.
“It means a lot,” she continued. What little of her mind cared for anything beyond that smile reminded her time was short. She brought a hesitant hoof up against Scootaloo’s chest, and she loathed the gentle push she had to give.
Likewise, Scootaloo resisted the notion. She fought against the push but for a moment; though, she stood, slowly, her smile turning for the worse.
It took all the strength in the world for Rainbow Dash to quell the lump in her throat.
Be strong. For her.
She managed a smile, and with it a hoof to bring those sad eyes back toward her. Don’t cry. Not in front of her. “What’s wrong, Scoot?” Like she didn’t already know...
Scootaloo looked down, body trembling, wings limp at her sides. Her voice choked, and she pulled away again. “I don’t want you to leave.”
There it was. She had wished it would be easier, that Scootaloo, though surely wanting her to fulfill her dreams as a Wonderbolt, wouldn’t make a scene, would just be happy and nothing more. There was fear in her eyes—fear of a future apart.
Keep it together. Keep her happy. “Hey,” Rainbow Dash said, gently. She traced a hoof down Scootaloo’s cheek. She drew those eyes back to hers and willed the best smile she could to her face. “This doesn’t mean I’ll be gone forever. You know I’ll see you at the Best Young Flier’s.”
Scootaloo seemed insistent on hiding her feelings. Again she turned away, but Rainbow Dash could see the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I just want to be with you.” She barely got the words out. Her heart was breaking before Rainbow Dash’s eyes, and she herself held the hammer.
Don’t lose it now. “I know it’s hard, Scoot, but we all have to grow up.” Rainbow Dash wiped a tear from Scootaloo’s cheek. She was a strong filly, but needed firm ground to stand on.
Be her rock.
“Can you do that for me?” Rainbow Dash asked.
Her words found a smile buried somewhere deep inside, and Scootaloo wore it bravely on quivering lip. “Of course. I’ll grow up to be just like you!”
Rainbow Dash laughed. Somewhere within herself she found the same smile, one that knew the filly standing before her had already grown up in her own way, was more than she could have ever hoped to call a part of her life.
“No,” she said, soft, almost a whisper. “No you won’t. You’re not gonna grow up to be some dumb, old Rainbow Dash. You’re gonna grow up to be Scootaloo. The Scootaloo, the best flier in all of Equestria.”
Before she knew it, Scootaloo had wrapped her hooves around her, holding tight to never let go. Hot tears stained through her flightsuit. “I love you, Rainbow Dash!”
The lump surged up Rainbow Dash’s throat, eyes welling with tears she couldn’t show—not now. She prayed to Celestia for the strength to hold them back, and for the courage to spread her wings in the imminent moments she wished would never exist. Tyco appeared in the doorway, curious, but stopped and smiled when he caught her eye.
She returned the smile for a moment, then closed her eyes, drawing it out with a deep breath the last few seconds she held Scootaloo in her hooves, gently stroking her mane, listening to the sobs. There was something comforting about them, that somepony hated seeing her go.
Beyond friendship. Beyond admiration. Somepony cared about her. It made her hold Scootaloo all the tighter.
But as much as she wanted to stay there forever, the Wonderbolts were waiting. “Hey.”
Scootaloo quieted down, wiping her nose. She looked up, the tiniest smile hiding at the corners of her lips.
“I have to go now, but just remember one thing for me. When you think you’ve got nothing left…” She nodded over Scootaloo’s shoulder, at Tyco. “You do.”
Tyco’s smile widened, leaning as he was against the doorframe. He returned her nod, a silent ‘go on’ on his lips, eyes bright with well-wishing. He would be there in her stead, like he always had. He shared a bond with Scootaloo that she could never replace, never outdo. No matter what happened to herself, it would get Scootaloo through this. That was all that mattered.
Time to go. The shorter the farewell, the easier. Rainbow Dash took off. She needed the momentum to keep from staying there forever. Over her shoulder, Scootaloo gave a few steps of chase, a beaming, hopeful smile on her lips.
“One month!” Rainbow Dash yelled. There was no return shout, but Rainbow Dash didn’t need one.
That smile said it all.
She turned ahead, the cool tailwind lending her speed. The sun had risen fully in the east, and it shone warm on her back.
It was going to be a beautiful day. She could feel it.
Before her the world lay bare, waiting, expectant of the wonders she would accomplish, the name she would carve out for herself, the dream she would realize. Beyond the horizon lay Vanhoover, and all its crowds and adoring fans awaited the debut of this year’s new Wonderbolts.
A brief thought back to Scootaloo. That smile, wishing her the best of luck despite the distance between them, was all she needed—her own little solace she could hold close in the month ahead. Scootaloo would be there for her. And at that moment, as she kicked off from a cloud for an extra burst of speed, she shook her away to focus on the performance ahead.
Rainbow Dash had never been to Vanhoover. “The Little Town on the Shore.” Only half right, if she had a say in the matter. ‘On the shore’ definitely stood true, but she drew the line before ‘town,’ and way before ‘little.’
Buildings sprung from the ground like those of Manehattan—tall, concrete things that reached up to punch holes in the sky. Heads move past the windows, shut in with their busy lives and busier work schedules. She heard how little ponies in big cities lived from minute to minute, never ceasing, never slowing down. She didn’t much care for it. Speed might have been the most exhilarating thing in the world, but even she knew it needed a counterbalance. Those could only truly be found in the smaller, quieter towns. Even at this height, she could glean from the ant-sized ponies scurrying through the streets that there was no resting in this sort of city.
Neither did she have a moment to rest, the sun well on its way to nine o’ clock. She checked the waterproof flight sleeve on the inside of her suit’s foreleg. Maretro Park, Vanhoover. Warm-ups nine. Show nine-thirty, her messy notes read. A little late for the warm-ups. She grimaced and kicked in another burst of speed. So much for her spunk about ‘five minutes.’
The outlying skyscrapers gave way to smaller and smaller buildings as they neared the city’s center, where Rainbow Dash spied a prominent grassy clearing among the many parks and tree cover. She honed in on the congregation of ponies and the bright fanfare of waving pennants and poster boards.
Adrenaline pumped through her veins at the sight of so many ponies, all there to watch her soar. Her leg muscles tensed as a grin swept across her face, and she couldn’t banish the thought of an early sonic rainboom to announce her arrival.
She laughed at the thought. Spitfire would have a heart attack if she strayed from the plan like that. And then she would probably clip her wings or something equally extreme. That mare didn’t know how to lighten up sometimes.
Rainbow Dash withheld the urge and glided into a canter beside the Wonderbolts gathered in the middle of the clearing. She felt the eyes of spectators gravitate toward her as the Wonderbolts greeted her with smiles.
“Hey,” she said, flashing a grin.
“Bout time you showed up,” Soarin replied. He stepped closer, a bent hoof absently raised. There was something about his smile that seemed more genuine. “Get everything squared away?”
“Yep, good to go. Were we gonna start soon? It’s getting close to showtime.” She squinted up at the sun, checking that it hadn’t jumped to high noon just to mess with her.
“Soon. Spitfire’s brushing up the last-minute details with Fast Clip in the tent. Then it’s just whenever Fleetfoot decides she’s done chatting up her fans.” Soarin nodded over her shoulder, where Rainbow Dash spotted Fleetfoot’s snow-white mane and winning smile far across the field, a cluster of colts all jostling to be at the front of her fanclub.
Rainbow Dash smirked, wondering when she would gather a following like that. A month? A week? Hay, maybe even this afternoon. “Oh, man, I’m so excited!” Her legs shook with pent-up energy, and her heart hammered against her ribs. It was all she could do not to scream.
“Don’t let that excitement get to you too much,” Jet Stream said, striding up beside her. A stocky second-year flier. He had an edge to his voice only matched by the icy blue of his eyes, but Rainbow Dash had quickly learned it was merely the outer shell of a loving father of two. The photograph he kept in his flight sleeve had been there since the first time he wore it. “Too much adrenaline now will screw you over later.”
Certainly true. Many a time had she psyched herself out before some performance or race and lost her competitive edge. She still won, of course. That never changed. But personal records were still records meant to be broken. Not beating herself was the same as losing.
“Yeah, but too much adrenaline then and you sometimes don’t think straight.” Soarin grinned, nudging Jet Stream with an elbow.
Jet Stream laughed, his eyes slowly shifting to another Wonderbolt chatting nearby. “Surprise came up with that stunt just to watch me screw up and you know it.”
“Still doesn’t make crashing through the officer showers while Spitfire was taking a bubble bath any less hilarious, or the toilets any less shiny.”
“And they were immaculate the whole damn season.” Jet Stream punched him on the shoulder. He spread his wings. “Come on, Spitfire’s coming.”
The three joined the half moon of Wonderbolts gathering around their leader. Rainbow Dash leaned toward Soarin. “When did that happen and what did he do?”
“His first week,” Soarin whispered back. “Surprise’s Super Spiral Surprise stunt. Rest of us call it the Barf Barrel. But I’m not supposed to tell the new ponies that.” He winked. Rainbow Dash snickered, remembering to file that away in her ‘don’t fall for it’ pranks folder.
They filled in a staggered second row. Spitfire paced inside the half moon, the grey of her windbreaker rippling in the breeze like smoke. A quick whisper to Fast Clip, the team coordinator, standing beside her before sweeping her gaze over the group. She pushed her aviators up the bridge of her nose, and a small grin turned up one side of her mouth.
“Bolts,” she said. There was a relaxedness to her voice, softer than the tough-mare growl Rainbow Dash had adjusted to. “Today’s the day. The first show of the season. You veterans know how often I say this, but that doesn’t make it any less true. I’m excited to be here. I see a lot of talent standing before me, both old and new.” Her eyes flicked to Rainbow Dash for a moment, then to the other cadets in order.
A mumble rippled through the group, shared grins and nods. Rainbow Dash couldn’t help her smile, and only after Soarin nudged her did she notice how high she had been holding herself.
“This crowd…” She nodded beyond the group. Behind them, the stands swelled with ponies. Banners and posters waved to a rising din of cheers. “They don’t know you. They don’t know you” —she pointed at Soarin— “they don’t know you” —at Misty Fly— “and they sure as hay don’t know you.” She pointed at Fleetfoot, who smirked.
“You know why? Because you aren’t who you were last season. They know that Jet Stream and that Lightning Streak and that Wave Chill. They don’t know the newer you’s, the stronger you’s, the faster you’s. And not a single one of them’s even heard of you newbies here.
“But that’s what tonight is.” She removed her aviators, hooking them into the V-neck of her windbreaker. She swept her grin across them, infecting each in turn. “They don’t know you now, but by Celestia will they be naming their damned foals after you tonight.”
The team raised a disorganized cheer at that, Rainbow Dash among them. She glanced around at the ponies beside her, their triumphant grins and unwavering confidence. The static practically danced between each and every one of them, their collective energy charging the very air. It and the weight of the goggles about her neck made her hold her head all the higher.
“That little warm up we just had? Nothing. Damned nothing next to what they won’t even believe they’re seeing next. We’re gonna go out there, and we’re gonna make sure these ponies are dragging their jaws all the way home!”
Another cheer rose to the skies, with just as many hooves. Rainbow Dash found herself flying without even realizing she had left the ground. An instant of anxiety smacked her hard in the chest, but vanished at the sight of so many others hovering in place.
They rose as one, and together they formed a V ripping the sky in two, Spitfire at the lead, windbreaker cast off, her cool-blue flightsuit the flash at the tip of their arrow. Rainbow Dash had taken her designated position third back on the right, with the pleasant view of Soarin’s right flank and the sky above. He gave her a quick look over the shoulder. A smile and a wink, and he looked ahead. She smirked, donning her goggles. This was where she belonged.
The wind roared in her ears, far louder than any shout, but she learned quickly in her two days of basics that they operated under a different set of rules.
The Wonderbolt ahead was her lifeline, as was she to the one behind her. A break in the chain and the whole thing fell apart. Simple in theory, intense in practice. A dozen ponies acting as one. There was a reason everypony called them the Wonderbolts.
Soarin’s right forehoof, held relaxed against his chest, twitched to the right. She sent the signal down the wing, and less than a second later Spitfire veered the formation into a wide sideways turn that gave Rainbow Dash an arcing view of the cheering crowd far below.
Forward twitch. Down the wing. Spitfire straightened the team into a nosedive, the cascading signal for speed clear in Soarin’s outstretching hooves, wings flat against his back. Rainbow Dash followed suit, and she felt the familiar press of wind against her goggles.
They barrelled straight for the crowd. Soarin tilted his head upward. Down the wing. They pulled up not even ten meters above the highest-reaching poster boards, close enough to feel the pressure draft as they swept overtop. Excited and frightened shouts found her ears in the split second before the team again climbed toward the heavens, and after half a minute’s flight they righted into a wide turn.
Soarin relaxed his forehoof and flipped up the tips of his primaries, Rainbow Dash mimicking before falling into single-file. He gave one last grin over his shoulder. “Take ‘em to the cleaners!” he shouted over the wind.
Rainbow Dash laughed before rocketing into the sky. This was it. Her moment to shine. Her limelight in Wonderbolt history as the season opener—the first rookie to ever hold the honor.
The frozen air filled her lungs, crystallized on her flight suit, as she rose to skirt the edge of space, far above the anvil heads of far-off thunderstorms, where the wind forgot to howl and only the warm sun could touch her. When her ears began to pop and she felt the blood inside her veins pulsing in anticipation, she reclined her head and breathed out a final plume of frost. Barely a speck below, the Wonderbolts encircled the stands, but she knew as true as the sun and moon she would reach them in seconds.
She powered her wings, wresting the reins from gravity and pushing them further. The wind pressed her goggles deep into the skin around her eyes and blew back her mane. Her flightsuit clung tight about her, keeping her sleek and stretching with her as she lengthened herself pencil thin. The cone formed at the tip of her hoof, aimed at the middle of the circle the others spun. It pulled tight around her, honing to the point of an arrow soaring for its mark.
She held it there, feeling it unravel thread by thread. It came to a hair’s width as she passed through the circle of Wonderbolts, then snapped to the sudden silence of the world.
Feeling washed away in the void of sound, and color to the corners of her eyes like paint running down a wall. The crowd cheered below, voiceless yet wild as she peeled above them.
She craned her neck back toward the others and the expanding ring of grey they used as a backdrop to begin the rest of the show.
The Wonderbolt’s season opening stood as a monument to the mystery behind the team’s coordination—that only two days after their annual recruitment they had designed and perfected a dance tailored to each individual pony. But really—and Rainbow Dash had to grin at the simplicity—the beauty lay in each pony’s signature trick.
Wave Chill’s cloud freezing. High Wind’s spinning gales that shaved them into snowflakes as they fell toward the earth. Blaze’s knack for friction, turning half of the spontaneous snowstorm into a torrential downpour.
The whole of it was merely a melting pot of talent, choreographed to complement one another. A show. A display of already perfected instincts and quirks given direction. Calling it a performance gave it too much credit. Performance implied effort.
They were having fun.
A way of kicking back and laughing at the impossible standard of perfection they vaulted like the smallest of puddles. Buckling down came later. Here, now, the void of sense and unending grey enshrined the beginning of her career.
And so she laughed, relishing the silence, counting the heartbeats pounding solely in her chest.
She powered between buildings, through the bustling streets, not a cart’s height over the heads of the ponies below. Little glances over her shoulder brightened the grin on her face for all the silent, wind-swept papers and hats of surprised ponies and excited foals.
Out of town she led her streak of grey, brought her silent world to the rolling fields that lapped against this side of the city as the ocean did the other. She banked wide to wrap around the city, keeping her speed with hardly a wing flap to fight off the air slipping past her.
The thrill of the nothingness tingled in the tips of her hooves and wings, little pins and needles urging her to go faster, to pitch the script and show them what Dash really meant. Her heart pounded in her chest, drawing the air deep into her lungs and filling her with the crispness of her noiseless world.
Every instinct cried out in agreement, but her mind knew better. She stayed her inner yearnings. The team needed her for the finale.
Poetic, Twilight would have probably called it, or some other eggheaded word, her rainboom both the opener and closer of the show. The first rookie to ever hold the honor.
Definitely one for the history books.
She swung out over the ocean, waves breaking away in sprays of foam. The smell of sea salt filled her nostrils, and only the finest mist of crashing waves speckled her face. Beach-going ponies gathered along the water’s edge, their eyes and hooves following her across the shore.
In her circle, she brought a large splash of water overtop the gathered crowd, grinning at what she imagined would have been cheers and laughter had she the senses to hear them.
Back around to the grassy fields, the tail end of her rainbow dissipated into the wind. She veered down the street as the final traces vanished, and she again flew over the heads of the cheering ponies.
The park’s trees fell away, and she saw the final loops and dives of the others, the spiralled and spiralling cloud no wider than a barrel awaiting her moment of glory.
Rainbow Dash took a final breath. She held it in, flattening her wings against her sides. The thinnest filaments of a cone formed at her hooftip as she returned to subsonic speeds, each colored thread loomed in by physics’ invisible hooves as the milliseconds passed.
She stretched herself long like a swimmer from the highdive, the faintest whispers of wind in her ears as she threaded the needle of the spiral cloud. A simple surge of her wings tore a hole through the cloth of color, and she rocketed out the other side.
She held onto the silence for but a moment before eagerness gripped tight and called for her to admire her handiwork. A flare of her wings, one held just wider than the other, and the wind whipped her about. Supine, free falling, she smiled at the rainbow bursting outward from the cloud’s center, its rainbow hues snaking its length and splintering outward. Her grin couldn’t have widened any further.
Rainbow Dash rolled over into an easy glide, swooping overtop the crowd, their raucous cheers finally able to reach her. She made no attempt to hide the swelling pride in her chest as she drank in their praise. A thousand ponies whooping and hollering at the spectacle she had perfected, her icing on the cake. Surreal beyond all expectations, but still somehow unsatisfying.
She landed in the middle of the field with the other Wonderbolts. They gazed up at the falling rainbow glitter, sparkling as it caught the light of the sun.
“Nice,” Soarin said.
“Fast Clip was right about that,” Jet Stream added.
Rainbow Dash raised a brow at him. “About what?”
Jet Stream smirked. “Ending it on a bang like that.” He glanced down at his flight sleeve, then smiled back at the fading spectrum of vapors above.
“Fast Clip came up with that?” Rainbow Dash asked. “I thought the whole ‘boom in, boom out’ thing was Spitfire’s idea.”
Jet Stream shook his head. “Nah, Spitfire actually wanted to end it with Heat Lightning’s thunder trick. Old Clippy’s the traditional one.”
Her eyes naturally gravitated to the smoke-blue stallion at the other end of the gathering. He reminded her of one of those surfer ponies. A little too laid back, even for her.
“You’re a little green to be calling him ‘Old Clippy,” Soarin said. Rainbow Dash shook her head, refocusing on the conversation. Soarin had flashed Jet Stream a smile. “And a little old to be calling him old.”
“Hey, us old geezers are allowed to call each other nicknames, unlike you kids.”
“Alright, Streamer, I’ll keep that in mind. And I’ll stay off your lawn while I’m at it.”
They shared a laugh, one Rainbow Dash shared in with a nostalgic smile. Stream’s mention of ‘geezers’ reminded her of a conversation she once had with Scootaloo’s dad after a morning practice, how excited he had been to hear a stallion his age actually made it on the team.
You were never too old to be awesome, she remembered saying. That had earned her a ruffle of her mane and a winning grin. A phantom of that grin traced her lips, but blew away with the breeze.
Scootaloo.
After years of hard work and dedication, she had finally earned her place among the stars, yet her number one fan hadn’t been there to see her shine. She should have asked her to come. That smile. Seeing it in the stands would have made the world seem complete. But they both had a regimen to maintain, and she couldn’t let hers get in the way of Scootaloo’s.
Not that today was part of any sort of regimen. Today had been nothing more than a bunch of pegasus ponies flying around for kicks. She hadn’t even been scolded for showing up late. Knowing the team, she had expected at least a few more jabs than just Soarin’s. They gave each other more flak for less than that. The friendly kind, though—the kind only shared between friends. She sighed, staring at that violet-eyed smile etched into the grass.
“Hey, Rainbow,” Soarin called from the group gathering at the tent. “You comin’?”
She forced a smile to her lips. “Yeah.”
≈≈≈×≈≈≈
The team had booked the Hayseed Hotel and one of its six ballrooms for the reception. Apparently it was some prestigious place, despite the down-on-the-farm-y name. Sure, it had a bunch of fancy chandeliers and shiny bar counters, but who really cared about all that? Besides Rarity, anyway. Clouds looked—and were!—cooler than any sparkly gems and polished brass and those wood panel things that ran along the wall and ceiling with little dancing ponies carved into them. Rarity would have cared about what those were called, too. At least the refreshments were good, if a little strong.
Rainbow Dash rolled into the place with the rest of the Wonderbolts, laughs and cheers and fanfare in tow. She knew to expect reporters, but hadn’t quite prepared for all their flashing cameras and millions of questions. Spitfire intercepted all but the most basic ones, to which Rainbow Dash had the pleasure of answering. Minutes stretched into hours, and before she knew it, she lay face up in bed, staring at the underside of the top bunk.
Nopony slept there. While the rest of the team stacked the front of the barracks, she chose to sleep in the back corner by herself. It gave her room to think. Something about the Wonderbolts Academy made it hard to close her eyes. It wasn’t excitement or an eagerness for tomorrow. Something just didn’t feel right.
Scootaloo wasn’t there.
Tomorrow would come with its crack-of-dawn workout, but not with the filly she had grown close to, that little tired-but-happy smile flying beside her. She would fly with the ponies she looked up to, the ones she had always dreamed of becoming. Had become.
Rainbow Dash rolled over. Everypony had long since dozed off, their gentle snores sparring with the buzz of nighttime insects outside her window. She could make out the shapes of her teammates in the far bunks, chests rising and falling in the darkness.
How many of them left behind somepony they cared about? She spied Jet Stream’s smoky-grey mane in a top bunk. He had two fillies of his own back home. At the reception, he mentioned a piano recital he’d have to miss tomorrow morning. Not something she’d want to sit through, but knowing him, that was like telling a pegasus not to fly for a day, or a unicorn not to use magic. But he wanted to be here, too. It’s why he was here. He had dreams and aspirations just like everypony else in the room.
She rolled over again. Above, in the metal wires supporting the top bunk, she had hooked a covert feather. Even in the washed-out darkness it retained its definitive orange and the crisp sharpness needed for flight. She reached out a hoof to touch it. Smoother than silk, despite the months spent between the pages of a Daring Do book.
“One month,” she whispered. She rolled to her side, tail tucked between her legs, and closed her eyes. “One month.”
Out here, on top of the world, nopony could touch her.
It had been so for as long as Scootaloo could remember. She had flown these skies countless times, knew the world from above like no other pony. The air was too thin for most to breathe, let alone fly, but she made it her domain. From here the world lay itself bare, hid no secrets from her—couldn’t—and she relished the view from first flap to last.
The Equestrian countryside rolled out beyond the eastern horizon, shrouded in the ghostly pre-dawn. Lazy cirrus clouds of pinks and oranges swirled in the far off sky like paint splashed on a wall. To the north, the Clefthoof Mountains squatted in the distant blue, massive teeth reaching up to bite at the stars blinking out one by one. Soon, the world would find its color, and the mists of the meadows and lowlands would gather before the sun chased them away.
She looked over her shoulder, grinning. Nothing but empty sky and the few stars too stubborn to yield to the sun.
Hers and hers alone.
But every good thing must come to an end. Below, barely a swatch of color on the landscape, Ponyville glinted in the sunlight. Work would start soon. She sighed. Time to head home.
≈≈≈×≈≈≈
The front door swung open on silent hinges. Darkness held sway over the living room. A pot of coffee gurgled on the counter while a pan of vegetables sizzled on the stove. The aroma wafted thick beneath her nostrils as she passed the bar table for the hallway. Her eyes fluttered at the scent of peppers and corn and carrots and broccoli, and she clenched her mouth shut to keep from drooling.
The sound of running water overtook the vegetables’ sizzle, and she stopped before the bathroom door, eyes to the line of light peeking out beneath it. She smiled.
“Morning, Dad.”
“Morning, Scoot,” he replied, his voice muffled behind the door. “Breakfast is on the stove.”
“I saw.” She headed for her bedroom. From the door handle she snagged a towel to wipe away the sweat of her morning flight. The cool air in her room brushed against her face, and she breathed deeply. Stuffy, for the shut window, but better than the muggy air she practically had to swim through after the sun melted off the morning fog. She threw the towel in the corner and headed back out to the kitchen.
Once an emergency circumstance, scarfing down breakfast before work had become a habit over the years. A necessity, really. Her morning flights grew longer, yet she never woke earlier to compensate. Not that she cared for the tighter schedule. Neither did Mayor Mare, if she happened to arrive late. She got her work done in half the time it took the others anyway.
Accounting was easy with a dad like hers to teach her all the shortcuts.
The water shut off as she stirred the vegetables, and Dad stepped out of the bathroom by the time she plated them—one for him, one for her. His coat was damp and stuck up in places where he had dried against its nap.
“Featherweight was over here a minute ago,” he said, drying his mane with a towel.
Scootaloo raised an eyebrow, a forkful of bell peppers hanging momentarily forgotten from her mouth. “What for?”
“He was askin’ about you.” Dad said. He hung the towel over the back of a bar chair and headed for the coffee pot. “Thanks,” he added, nodding at his plate.
Her eyebrow couldn’t have gone any higher if she tried. “Did he say why?”
“No, just asked if you were here or not. Told him you were out on your morning flight and he left.” The faintest smirk crossed his lips as he poured his coffee.
“Okay…” Scootaloo returned her attention to her plate. Weird. She hadn’t seen Featherweight in a while. Not since the Summer Sun Celebration last week. He acted weird then, too. Apple Bloom thought it was funny.
Smitten, was the word she had used. Something about that word worked its way under Scootaloo’s skin, made her groan every time she heard it. The mere thought soured the bell peppers in her mouth. Whatever. Featherweight’d stop by toward the end of her shift to courier Ponyville’s monthly fiscal reports to Canterlot. Maybe then she could get him to just stop being weird about it.
She horked down the last of her plate and rose to toss it in the sink. Dad turned around, coffee in hoof. His eyes went wide at her empty plate, then at her. He shook his head, sitting down at the counter.
“Headin’ out?” he asked.
“Only if you want me going in smelling like Ball Point.” She headed for the bathroom.
“Nah, probably not.” He crunched a bell pepper in half with his fork. “The office couldn’t handle two Ball Points.”
Scootaloo laughed. She stepped inside the bathroom, but poked her head out around the corner, grinning. “You think he ever showers?”
“Or wears deodorant?” Dad replied.
“Or brushes his teeth?” Her smile widened. Pearly white, as it should be.
“Or wipes his ass?” Dad took a sip of coffee.
Scootaloo laughed again, shutting the door. She turned the handle of the shower faucet, and out came a spray of water, already steaming hot—a bonus of letting dad shower first. She stepped in and closed her eyes, feeling the water plaster her mane to her face, strands draping over her muzzle, and let out a deep sigh.
She loved taking showers, just standing there in the hot water and steam, mind wandering to whatever stupid fantasies it desired. An easy work day. Going somewhere fun with Apple Bloom. Her evening flight and which edge of Equestria she might explore this time. She had to grab the shampoo before wanderlust made her late for work again.
Squeaky clean, she stepped out and dried off. Coat sticking up where she had toweled off against her nap, she trotted to the living room to grab her saddle bags.
“Now you heading out?” Dad asked through a mouthful of vegetables.
“Yep.” She smirked. “And don’t talk with your mouth full.”
He smiled back and playfully gestured a stabbing motion at her with his fork before taking another bite.
“But yeah,” she said, grabbing her saddlebags from the hatstand by the door. “You wanted Quick Quill’s notes on that disbursement dispute, right?”
He swallowed, nodding. “Yeah, just throw ‘em on my desk. If he’s not there yet I’ll find him when I get in.”
“Alright. See you there.” She opened the door and took a step outside.
Tyco took a sip of coffee and ‘mmm’d. “Before you go...”
Scootaloo looked back. “What’s up?”
“Come here.” He motioned her over with a hoof. She stepped up to him, and when in hoof reach he grabbed her head and ruffled her mane. “Can’t let you leave without a noogie first.”
“Ah! Dad!” She flared her wings, tugging her head from his grip. She met his stupid smile with a glare. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
“You’ll always be my kid, Scoot.”
Scootaloo looked to the loveseat in the living room, trying and failing to hide a smile. Celestia, that was corny.
“Love you, too, dad.” She couldn’t help the tiny chuckle as she said it. She headed for the door. “Alright. Bye!”
“See, you.”
She shut the door and took to the skies. While the humidity dragged at her like grasping hands and filled her lungs with its suffocating heat, the wind ran its fingers through her wet mane, cool to the touch.
Eight hours. Just eight hours until the weekend. Four until lunch, and then only four more after that. Three and a half, technically. Easy.
She hated looking at things in such a manner, but it was how her brain worked. Break things into stepping stones, miniature goals that eventually added up to the whole. She could thank her interval flight training all those years ago for that.
She found herself doing it most often with work. Not that work was as difficult as interval training. It was rather easy, actually. Boring didn’t quite describe it. Just… unexciting. However anypony were to put it, it wasn’t her favorite thing.
