Chapter 1 – Reconnaissance

The leaves rustled despite the absence of wind.

“Wind, this is no time for games! The guests will be here any minute now!”

“I know! That’s why I got up here!” the colt replied, concealed in the foliage ablaze with the colors of the fast-approaching autumn. He grunted as he navigated further up the tree. “If I’m closer to the sky I’ll see them first!”

Doctor Sunlit Hugs, a stallion of decent cognition nodded to such undeniable logic. “Ah, that explains it,” he murmured. He then shook his head violently, rebuking himself yet again for skipping his morning cup of invigorating tea. “That’s not how it works!” he called up. He stepped left, right, and around the tree, trying to guess where his unruly pupil would drop should he fall—which, if his recent misadventure was any indication, was likely. “You heard what Miss Redheart said! No straining that wing until it’s fully healed!” He rested his forehooves on the trunk and looked around. “By the way, have you seen Nutsie? I just told her to—gyah!”

A filly with a cobblestone coat and a two-tone brownish mane popped an inch from the stallion, hanging upside down from the tree. With her tail wrapped around one of the thicker branches she swung back and forth without a care in the world, and when her muzzle bumped the other pony’s waiting hoof, she revealed her tiny, pointy fangs in a juvenile grin.

“Hiya, Doc!” she cheered.

Doctor Hugs collected himself quickly. He could use a good shock to wash away his afternoon drowsiness, but over the years of work as the head of the Canterlot Orphanarium he had survived enough sudden shouts, surprises, squeaks, magic flares, and general silliness to get affected by Chestnut’s playfully feral assaults. He didn’t mind those—the filly was a thestral, so the need of the hunt was pretty much hardwired in her brain of a nine-year old. On the bright side, she wasn’t fulfilling her predatory quota at night like the rest of her race, and instead of hunting her peers or poor local critters she indulged herself in pursuing small eatables between the meals.

Socialization was a wonderful process indeed.

“Chestnut, just what are you doing? You were supposed to bring Wind Whisper back, not go hanging around with him! And how did he even get up there? Did you help him?”

“Hey, I think I’m almost there!” the colt’s excited voice was heard.

“Wind, get down here this instant!” Doctor Hugs shouted, then turned back to the filly with a frown. “I’m waiting. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Well, you told us to find Wind and make sure he doesn’t ouchie his wing, but when we got to him he wasn’t even using it,” Chestnut said, splaying out her forelegs as she rotated slowly on her tail. “I, uhm, kinda helped him get to here on the tree, and then he was climbing on his own, and he had his bandages all okay, and he told us he’d be careful. And now we’re waiting for him to come down to get him back to you like you asked.”

The stallion shook his head, his annoyance mingling with confusion. “Hold on, hold on. What do you mean, ‘we’? What ‘us’? What—oh no.” When the realization struck, colors ebbed from his face. “Please don’t tell me you’ve got Glavia up there as well.”

“No, of course not!”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

“I put her in the trunk!”

“What!”

Instead of a relieved sigh, Doctor Hugs earned a substitute of a shock when a miniscule beak shot at him from the tree hollow. This wasn’t an attack but an act of affection, as the griffon attached at the beak’s other end was easily the gentlest little thing he had ever sheltered in his foundation. Glavia was a fledgling, pretty much a soft ball composed of snow-white feathers and a contrasting graphite coat who still stumbled whenever she was dragging her talons and paws into the unknown—which more often than not meant going after Chestnut and Wind Whisper in their continuous quest for mayhem.

Doctor Hugs reached inside and caressed Glavia’s feathery fringe. When she silently nuzzled against his hoof, his irritation was all but gone. If he didn’t know any better he’d say it was magic, but instead he attributed the sudden sensation of serenity to the fragile bundle of innocence herself.

“You know, you should be more careful,” he said at a hushed tone. “She could get stuck inside, or fall out, and the splinters could have ouchied her. She’s very little, and although she seems to enjoy your company, she doesn’t know how to play your games yet. She doesn’t know what’s safe and what’s not.”

Chestnut crossed her forelegs in a sulky protest. “It’s not my fault she’s following me. Can’t she enjoy someone else’s company? I don’t like getting stuck with her when everybody else is playing. Every time we’re about to do something cool she comes by and catches my leg. Sometimes she even bites my wings! So I have to put her on the sofa, find her a toy, put her on the sofa again because she’s going after me just because, give her the toy, tell her to stay and then, when I’m finally done—everybody else is done playing too.”

“The word for today is ‘responsibility’. Sometimes being responsible feels boring, but it’s important to take care for others.”

“Others should take care of themselves,” Chestnut muttered, adding a cocoon of wings to her already closed posture.

“Hey, that’s not what you’re really thinking, is it, so why the long face?” he replied. “For lack of a better example, look at me. I’m doing my best to take care of you and the others and I would never-ever give up on doing that, but I need the help of everyone who can help. You may be young, but Glavia and Wind Whisper are both younger than you, which is why I need you to guard one and inspire the other.” He caught Chestnut’s eye. “Unless, of course, there’s something else that’s worrying you?”

“No,” she quickly replied. “There is nothing else that is worrying me, why?”

The filly was lying, Doctor Hugs knew that in an instant. Her answer was too hasty. Her surprise at his inquire lasted too long to be considered natural. She had repeated his own words while formulating her answer. There was a topic she was afraid to talk about, and he was yet to crack what it was. For the good of them all—Wind Whisper included, as Chestnut had a good influence on him—Doctor Hugs hoped to get to the bottom of the issue soon.

They heard the rebellious colt over their heads.

“Here they come! Lookie-look, they’re coming! The Wonderbolts are coming!”

Chestnut loosened the grip of her tail, pushed herself off the trunk, and dashed a few paces away from the tree.

“He’s right!” she said. She put her forehooves to the sides of her muzzle and yelled, “You were right, Wind! You really saw them first by getting higher than me!”

“Thanks to you, so thanks! That was a great idea!”

She spun towards the stallion. “Come on, Doc, or you’ll miss the landing!”

With his leg still blocking Glavia’s way out of the hollow, Doctor Hugs leaned like a graceless ballet school dropout to see a slightly bigger snip of the sky.

Like a fireball cast by the wizards of old, an ember-maned pegasus blazed from the firmament. She was followed closely by five streaks of blue, four of which flew in a ring directly behind her while the last one completed the formation at the rear. Unlike them, the mare in lead wasn’t suited up and was wearing a blue jacket contrasting with her warm yellow coat instead. The fliers avoided every cloud on their way down, more than once making a sharp turn after the mare decided to change her course. Such dangerous maneuvers would send an average pegasus into a crazed spin, but this team of elite sky acrobats had their ways to utilize the fickle wind streams and avoid ending up splattered on the Orphanarium’s courtyard below.

The children gathered there cheered as the Wonderbolts and their captain touched the ground.

“Three o’clock to the minute! Gotta love the military,” Doctor Hugs said.

Amid the crowd, he spotted a filly-turning-mare clothed in a black hoodie, the long sleeves of which looked like they were cross-stitched to the rest of the garment with thick drawstrings. Silvered studs guarded the pockets and protruded alongside the stylish zipper—the actual, for there were several fakes ones serving no other purpose than contributing to the questionable aesthetics. The hoodie had been left halfway open to give a sneak peek of the shirt underneath which presented one of those aggressively loud rock bands the youth were so fond of. If the clothing wasn’t giving away the wearer’s nature, then her makeup certainly was. Bold and fierce, achieved through wine lipstick and heavy, albeit smudged eyeliner, it was a suitable accentuation of her shaggy cerulean mane that had its tips dipped in varying shades of purple and blue.

Such were the looks of Doctor Hugs’s trusted part-time volunteer Fizzy, or Bubble Effervescence as she was actually called, a reluctant future heiress to her parents’ bottled soda empire. She trotted to the captain and greeted her on the side, away from the kids bombarding the suited pegasi with questions. They talked over some papers for a while, then the captain seemingly disagreed. Fizzy rubbed the back of her head. She replied, pointed to the lonesome tree, and when the captain turned away, she nervously beckoned at the stallion.

“Wind, they’re already here! Come down, quick!” Chestnut shouted. She landed on the stallion’s back, prepping on his neck and burdening his head with her own weight. “The others are already talking to them! Oh, and next time, maybe you should climb the other tree! It’s closer to the house!”

“I’m coming, yeah! And next time I will go to the roof!”

Doctor Hugs frowned. He looked up and saw Chestnut squinting down at him with a stupid grin.

“Oh, by all means, please. It’s been some time since I was getting one of you off the windowsills,” he said, but his words were drowned out by the rustling leaves.

“What did Doctor say? I can’t hear you, I’m climbing down!”

“He says you have the right idea!” Chestnut exclaimed.

“No, that’s not what I—”

“Whoa!”

First came the crack. Then, from a broken branch overhead, an anvil fell on the stallion’s back—or so he felt when a sudden impact pinned him to the ground. With his legs splayed to the sides and face buried deep in a colorful pile of dry leaves, he varied groans and moans when the two ponies got off him with an impromptu back rub of negative finesse.

“You okay?” Chestnut asked.

“I’m alright!” Wind Whisper replied. “Because I fell on you it didn’t hurt that much, so thanks for taking this one for me. The straps are okay, too,” he said, inspecting the bandages wrapped around his steel blue wing. He straightened up and helped the filly drag the branch aside to uncover the stallion beneath it. “I could swear it’d hold. It did before, right?”

“Yeah, silly. But it also cracked on your way up. I thought you knew,” she said. “Oh, and Doc, uhm, thanks for catching us.”

Hearing that, Doctor Hugs gasped and rolled to his back to see Glavia dropping from the hollow. Without a hoof blocking her way, she climbed on the edge and flapped her wings to take flight, but they were yet too weak to keep her in the air. The stallion captured the falling bundle none too soon and placed her safely on his belly. He exhaled deeply, glad that his sleepiness was gone. He chuckled. Even with all those recent surprises, the day was still a typical slice of the life’s cake served at the Orphanarium.

“Alright, little one, I think that’s enough adventures for one day,” he said. Though Glavia didn’t seem aware she had just avoided an unpleasant introduction to the ground, she cocked her head as if she was listening all the same. “At this rate you’ll be flying by the end of the year, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. If you were only as eager to flap this hook of yours”—he touched the slightly curved tip of her beak—“as you are with your wings, we’d all be much happier, you know what I’m saying?”

Judging by the unfocused gaze, she had no idea. Then again, she was just a fledgling.

Chestnut poked the stallion. “Doc? Does this count as me bringing Wind Whisper back? Because he kinda fell on me before I fell on you.”

“I think it counts,” Wind Whisper said. “It’s like that one time we threw a ball with a magnet on a string glued to it, remember? We decided it counted as throwing the magnet too.”

“Hey, you’re right! That’s almost exactly like back then, but also not.” Chestnut furrowed her brow. “Does the branch counts as a string?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. What do you think, Doctor?”

Doctor Hugs straightened up with a soft ball nestled in his foreleg. There was time for participating in the shenanigans, and there was time for being serious. Even though he loved his orphans from the bottom of his soul, having no children of his own, he had to admonish them from time to time, or else the Orphanarium would go boom before anyone could spell ‘adoption’.

“I think you both deserve a time out, and if it weren’t for our guests today I’d send you on one. But it seems the official part is about to start, so you better join the rest. Wait!” he said firmly as the ponies turned their tails and paced a few steps away. “Not so fast. Wind, we talked about what you’re allowed and what you’re not allowed to do with your bandages on, and I believe climbing was on the second list. Chestnut, you knew Wind wasn’t allowed that, but you encouraged him instead of talking him out of it. And you put Glavia in danger!” he said over the disheartened children. “I’ll have a talk with you later. For now, you’re both going to the back of the line.”

“Back of the line?” Chestnut cried out. “But I was third already!”

“I was third too!” Wind Whisper moaned.

“You were not! I was third, and you were like third plus hundred!”

“But you can’t read though. You’re always asking me to read for you, so it’s like I was third with you!”

Flustered, Chestnut pushed her muzzle against the colt’s. “I can read! I know some words! And it’s your fault that I’m at the back of the line now!”

“Is not!” Wind Whisper pressed back.

“Is too!”

“Is not, infinity!”

“Is too, infinity plus one!”

“Enough!” Doctor Hugs thundered. “One more word and you’re out from today’s trip! It seems to me that you both need a lesson in responsibility, which is why you’ll be taking care of Glavia for the rest of the day,” he decreed, to which Chestnut and Wind Whisper joined in a unified sigh of disappointment. “Ah-ah, I don’t want to hear that. You’ll be taking turns. Chestnut goes first, Wind Whisper second. If you prove that you can think about others and not just yourselves, I may put you back on your spots on the list, how does it sound to you? I will ask your Wonderbolt to keep an eye on you, so I’ll know if you don’t do well.” He seated Glavia between the filly’s leathery wings. “Now off you go, and think about your behavior.”

The two ponies trotted obediently towards the commotion, leaving their caretaker with the broken branch clenched in his teeth—and to some extent, a broken heart reminding him how much he didn’t like that part of his job.

In the bursting and bubbling sea of hyperactive earth ponies, unicorns, pegasi, and one or two zebras, Doctor Hugs saw Fizzy waving for his attention again. Seeing a tense look on her face he nodded stiffly, the branch agreeing in unison, and gestured back to let her know they could go on. If Chestnut, Wind Whisper, and Glavia were already present, then everyone had to be as well. Fizzy peeled the children off the Wonderbolts and rounded them up, or tried to do so with a sadly laughable success rate, while the fliers commenced a quick repositioning and landed in line behind their leader, proudly presenting the badges pinned to their chests.

“Atteeen-tion!” their leader yelled, reducing the scattered crowd’s cheer into a curious murmur. She marched along her pegasi, paying more attention to whether they were standing straight than she was to the children. “My name is Spitfire, the current captain of the Wonderbolts,” she said at a strict tone. “As you probably know, the Wonderbolts are tasked with protecting Equestria from threats impossible to contain by the Royal Guard. We employ our air superiority for the good of the land, but we don’t stray from occasional friendly competition, which is why you can sometimes see us during the Wonderbolts Derby or other events of athletic importance. Now hear this!”

Spitfire’s sudden turn elicited surprised, perhaps slightly worried gasps left and right. She didn’t look kind to begin with, but what truly sealed her inalienable glower was a pair of sunglasses she put on.

“Whether we’re fighting for Equestria or for the sweet taste of victory, we act swiftly. We act with dedication. We do not tolerate laziness, tardiness, shabbiness, any-ness that’s not getting us to becoming the best these skies have to offer,” she said. “I heard some of you want to enlist, is that true? Then know that a Wonderbolt has to have respect for the chain of command, and so far I’ve seen none here. So if your Miss Effervescence tells you to step in line, you comply without question, recruits!”

Hardly any of the kids understood the mare’s strange wording, but the tone and the glare were enough to get them moving.

Spitfire gave a quick nod, then resumed her walk. “Commendable! I will now go over the details regarding today’s joint operation between the Wonderbolts and the Canterlot Orphanarium,” she said. “Objective number one: you and the Wonderbolts will create a special task force for the occasion, one with multiple squads within it, with one Wonderbolt and a number of you each. Objective number two: you will move and secure a number of locations in the city. Your ultimate destination is the Red Cuckoo Café on Ruby Street. Objective number three: you get to eat ice cream! Does this sound like a plan to you?”

“Yes!” the orphans shouted back.

“That’s a ‘yes, ma’am’, recruits!”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Do you want to hear your code name for this operation?”

“Yes, ma’am!” they eagerly responded, neither knowing nor caring what a code name actually was.

Spitfire stopped in her tracks and faced the crowd.

“You are the Wonderbits! Do you like it?” she asked, and was answered by a cheerful roar. “That’s what I thought. Operation Wonderbit is a chance to meet these fine Wonderbolts, ask them questions, and get to know them better. From left to right, I give you: Soarin, Fleetfoot, Rapidfire, Lightning Streak, and Cloudchaser!” she introduced the pegasi, then turned back to the children. “Report to Miss Effervescence to find out which Wonderbolt will be your squad leader. Oh, and don’t worry if you’re not a pegasus or if you’re otherwise flightless. This operation will be conducted strictly on the ground level,” she said. “You have been briefed. Dismissed!”

Nopony moved. They all stood still in the awkward silence.

Spitfire, noticing the clueless faces in her audience, for once gave up her militaristic demeanor.

“Uh, that means you can go find your Wonderbolts,” she clarified.

After the initial wave of ‘ahas’ and ‘alrights’, the orphans ran to their respective Wonderbolts. Many of them realized they had no idea who they were running towards, so they hurried back to Fizzy and her clipboard of all knowledge. They galloped across the courtyard. A few apparently forgot that the name itself wasn’t much use to them, so they yet again dashed back to ask Fizzy if Soarin was that or the other stallion, or if Cloudchaser was the one with the super mane. Those more timid ones asked to be precisely pointed at, or straight walked to the right pony, and Fizzy did her best to get every orphan under the right set of wings.

She only had trouble in three little cases.

Chapter 2 – Situation Normal, All Fired Up

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Doctor Hugs discarded the branch near a stack of firewood.

“That was a most inspiring speech, captain,” he said, bringing up his trademark smile as he approached the Wonderbolt in charge. “My name is Hugs, Sunlit Hugs. I’ve been corresponding with your office?”

“Spitfire. You have,” Spitfire replied with a stern hoofshake. “Well met, doctor. On behalf of the Wonderbolts I’d like to thank you and the Canterlot Orphanarium for having us. We find Operation Wonderbit to be an excellent opportunity to introduce the younger generation to our organization, and we hope some of them will choose to join our ranks when they grow up. Perhaps we’re looking at the future of the Wonderbolts right now?”

By the time Spitfire was done talking, Doctor Hugs had sketched her psychological portrait. Curious as it looked, he tucked it at the back of his head for the moment.

“Thank you for coming. I realize that you have a tight schedule, and I appreciate you found an afternoon to spare for a good cause. If you please follow me, I’d like to introduce you to someone of my own team. She’ll have more details regarding the kids assigned to you. It’s important to know such things when you’re in command, wouldn’t you say? You’re about to spend the entire afternoon with them, after all!”

“Now that’s something I wanted to talk over with you. Your assistant was convinced I’d be joining Operation Wonderbit as well, but that won’t be the case. My ponies are at your disposal for the rest of the day, but I only dropped by to get them in position, do the pep talk, and clear any questions you may have. The moment we’re done I’m heading to the Academy for my own debriefing.”

The stallion’s ears flopped as he summoned a disappointed look to his face. “Oh? That’s… unfortunate to hear. You see, we’ve already split the children into six groups, and based on our letters I was led to believe you’d be participating as well.” He paced away a few steps and put a hoof to his chin, pondering on a solution. He turned back to the mare. “That debriefing of yours. Wouldn’t it be something you could postpone, by any chance?”

“Negative. I’m expected at sixteen hundred hours sharp,” Spitfire replied. “I don’t see a problem here, to be honest. Since I’m not vital for the success of this mission, I suggest you disband that sixth group and reassign your pupils to someone else. It’s better than leaving them behind, and I’m certain any of my Wonderbolts can handle another foal or two. If you think about it, it’s going to be a good experience of how things work in the military.”

Doctor Hugs shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, captain. These children aren’t your regular recruits, even though they need guidance all the same. The thing is, they’ve been preparing for your visit for over a week now. Your history, uniforms, flight patterns, achievements—you name it, they talked about it. Moreover, each group was tasked with making a card they’ll give their respective Wonderbolts later today. A little gift from the orphans to their heroes,” he said, then leaned closer to the mare and whispered, “Just don’t tell anyone. It’s a surprise.”

“I-I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t even have my suit on. What’s the worth of meeting a Wonderbolt when she looks no better than a post office clerk?”

“I’d be sending letters everyday if that was the case,” he replied with disarming honesty.

Spitfire pursed her lips and glared from over her glasses. “I hope you’re not trying to convince me with cheap compliments, doctor.”

“Not at all, captain. What I meant was, seeing a Wonderbolt without her costume is also something. For the kids, that is,” he added. “In the end, they want to meet not the suit, but the pony underneath in her true colors, even if the costume was what captured their attention in the first place.”

That perhaps wasn’t the best explanation he could have gone for, but going further had a risk of sounding even clumsier. He wasn’t thinking clearly but he couldn’t pinpoint the cause—either the adrenaline shot from the raining orphans was wearing off, or it had something to do with the faint yet pleasant scent of perfume on the mare’s neck. The cause was irrelevant. He spent too much time with Fizzy organizing today’s grand event and making sure every one of his pupils would have the best time ever to allow the sixth pegasus to go now, even if she was the Wonderbolt prime. Even if it meant unleashing the full capacity of his psychological bag of tricks to make her stay. For the children!

As he was choosing his approach, another Wonderbolt came by—a stallion of dark mane and easy-going attitude.

“Doctor Hugs, is it?” he asked. “Hi, my name’s Soarin. My squad has reported a missing beanie cap. Permission to go inside and retrieve it real quick?”

Not for the first time the problems of others had overridden his own. “A beanie cap? That means you’re with Soft Spot. She’s our expert on all things fashion. By all means, please, take the stairs to your, uhm,”—he hesitated, turned to face the large entrance doors, and nodded to himself—“left, follow the corridor, and take the second doors to your”—he turned a quarter—“right. Or, you know, just follow the kids,” he said, spun back to the stallion, and added at a hushed tone, “Oh, and Mister Soarin? Just to give you some context. Before she passed away, Soft’s mother told her to never go outside without a headwear. She’s very attached to her cap.”

“Understood,” Soarin said with a nod. “Hey, chief! I’m so glad we’re doing this. And I heard you’re staying after all? Some kids I talked to said they’re assigned to you and they were pretty fired up about it. Well, gotta run!” He trotted to a pack of ponies behind him. “Wonderbits, we have a go! That means Doctor Hugs said we can go and find your missing cap, what was your name again, Sweet Spot? Soft Spot, alright. You guys know the area better than I do, so lead the way!”

Doctor Hugs pretended to watch Soarin and his squad breaching the perimeter, but in truth he kept an eye on Spitfire. She flushed, winced, and looked away. Her conviction crumbled when her subordinate presented her with a fait accompli, something that had more convincing power than any persuasion. Doctor Hugs felt his upper lip twitch. It was the only part of his expression he never learned to control, and it trembled whenever he was trying to hide strong emotions—in that case, the gloat of the upcoming success, of how exposed the mare had become. He could very well use her embarrassment against her, but she was of the proud type, and would likely react with hostility, so he decided not to.

“Back to you, Miss Spitfire,” he said. “I believe there has been some miscommunication in our correspondence. I obviously can’t ask you to spend the rest of the day with our orphans. Perhaps we could reschedule?” he asked, but at the first glance of the mare shaking her head he cut in before she could say a word. “No, you’re right, I’d hate to bother you when you’ll be even busier. But you’ve said your meeting is at four o’clock, correct? How about you at least walk your group to the café? It’s a short trip from here, it shouldn’t take long. That way the kids will get to spend some time with you, we’ll get the gift part done real quick, and you’ll be free to go. Unless, of course, there are other premises that would keep you from joining?”

“There… are no such premises, I admit. But it doesn’t seem you’re giving me much of a choice, either.”

Doctor Hugs laughed heartily. “But you’re a Wonderbolt. Even if I was a pegasus I couldn’t possibly catch up to you if you decided to flee now! Besides, we’re both adults. There’s no point in telling you, say, that you’d disappoint the poor parentless ponies and you’d never forgive yourself, or to blackmail you otherwise. No, I’m simply counting on your good nature to free up maybe half an hour from your timetable.”

“You’re putting a lot of hope in my supposed good nature.”

“Of course I do. What would become of us ponies if we weren’t?”

After a moment of careful consideration Spitfire sighed and took off her glasses.

“Alright, doctor. I’ll do it,” she said and then shrugged. “I think there was a singer in the eighties who had a number about the children being our future, so let’s make it a good one.”

“If we teach them well and let them lead the way, then I’m sure they are. Honey Whitestone, eleven eighty-six, I believe,” he replied. “I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding. Of course should you so desire, and should your meeting be a short one, know that much like your teammates you’re invited for the rest of the Wonderbolt-themed games and activities we’ve prepared for today,” he suggested, receiving an angry glare that lost a lot of its force without the glasses framing it. “Or perhaps we’ll settle for just the walk. Follow me, if you please!”

The kids and adults gathered around the courtyard were having the time of their lives. To the left, Soarin and his team crouched in a circle to discuss the success of their recent escapade to the second floor. To the right, Fleetfoot described her dreamed Prince Charming to a group of giggling girls. She called him the strong but silent type, and oddly specified his likely whereabouts to a farm in a town south from Canterlot. Cloudchaser told a story about how her flight goggles helped her stay on course in an unexpected dust storm during a sheep rescue mission near Dodge Junction, Rapidfire joked about how the Wonderbolts were eating clouds for breakfast to stay in shape, and Lightning Streak and his group trotted to Fizzy to get clearance for heading into the city.

Doctor Hugs led Spitfire to the last leaderless squad—the three orphans he knew all too well.

“Miss Spitfire, I’d like you to meet the three of the Orphanarium’s most valiant explorers. Well, two and a half, actually,” he said and, proud of his joke, flashed a smug smile. “Kids, this is Miss Spitfire. I’m sure she needs no introduction. Why don’t you tell her a little something about yourselves?”

“Hi! I’m Wind Whisper and I want to be a Wonderbolt when I’m older!” He jumped forth to inspect a big, decorative button keeping the mare’s jacket together, engraved with the emblem of the Wonderbolts. “Is this a medal? How many dragons did you have to fight to win it? More than five?”

“Hiya!” Chestnut shouted out and cut in before the colt. “My name is Chestnut and I like listening to music and also when there’s sunny outside! It’s pleasurific to meet you, Miss Captain Spitfire!”

Wind pushed the filly’s rump aside, turning her sideways. “And here is Glavia. She’s a griffon and she’s very little. Go on, Glavia, say hello! Hell-o!” he said and poked the fledgling. “Hello? Say hello!” He walked around Chestnut and squeezed himself between her and the mare where he met Glavia’s foggy stare. She looked at him and let out a yawn so endearing it could as well reinstate a dozen outlaws back to the society. Resigned, Wind Whisper looked up at Spitfire. “She won’t say.”

Spitfire gave an uncertain nod. “Well met, uh, all three of you. I’m… glad I’ll be working with you during this assignment.”

“I’m certain you’ll all get along just fine,” Doctor Hugs said. “Alright, kids, you know the rules. You stick to Miss Spitfire on your way through the city. Captain, as you can see there’s three of them here, but you’ll have to pay attention only to the big ones, because Chestnut and Wind Whisper have a task of their own—they’re taking care of Glavia and they will carry her on your way to the café.”

“What? Doc, no!” Chestnut protested. “Now we have to carry her there as well? She can walk, right?”

“She can, but she gets tired easily. Just look at her, she’s already asleep!” he said. Chestnut turned to see the griffon, but the more she turned the further her back eluded her, for some undisclosed reason. She was stopped by the stallion after a few dizzying spins. “For you two, trotting to the Cuckoo and back may be nothing, but for her it’s like she had to walk the whole Canterlot. You and Wind can switch every hundred steps if you want.”

“Fine by me!” She paced around the stallion. “One, two, three, four…”

“Alright, alright, that’s not how it works. Every five minutes, then.”

“But we don’t have a watch though,” Wind Whisper pointed out. “How can I tell it’s time when it’s time? How will I know Nutsie’s not cheating?”

“Hey, I’m no cheater! I’m an honester!”

“And how long is five minutes, anyway?”

Doctor Hugs mustered up all of his self-control not to respond with a tired sigh. Now he really craved for that cup of tea.

“Five minutes is the time you spend in your bed after you say ‘just five more minutes’ every morning I come to wake you up,” he said. He spotted Chestnut furrowing her brow in deep consideration, but before she managed to point out that she was, in fact, an early bird who enjoyed greeting the day the moment the first rays of sunlight touched the ground, he defused her argument. “You know what, I think it’ll be for the best if we ask Miss Spitfire to watch the time. She’ll be also making sure that you’re behaving well. You know what I’m talking about,” he said, to which the two young ponies nodded. “And that’s about it! You go now, see if Miss Fizzy has anything to tell you about today’s trip.”

“It’s so cool you’re coming with us, Miss Spitfire!” Wind Whisper said. “We’ll be your best team ever. You’ll see!”

With that warning of a promise ringing in the air, the orphans bounced towards the gate.

When they were no longer within earshot, Spitfire turned to the stallion.

“Those children. I understand their parents have passed on?” She reflected upon what she said. “Well of course they have, that’s what makes them orphans. Sorry, that wasn’t well thought out of me.”

Doctor Hugs’s smile made way for a pensive look. “Oh, you’d be surprised. I actually wish the passing of the parents was the only cause these children get orphaned,” he said. “Wind Whisper, for example, he comes from a broken family. When the father left with another mare, the mother slipped into serious alcoholism. Or did her addiction come before? I’m sorry, my memory fails me today. Anyway, abuse came next, first psychological, then physical. Thankfully the child services intervened in time,” he said. “Wind has been with us quite some time already, but I’m afraid he’s still a bit of a troublemaker. He doesn’t respond well to authority because, well, he never had a positive model to follow in either of his parents.”

“What about the griffon? Is she from a broken family too?”

“She’s a mystery. A foundling. You could say her story has been taken from a novel no less—a doorbell in the night, a wicker basket at our doorstep and a hastily written note with her name. When we found her she was nibbling a scone. A scone! Hardly the right diet for a newborn, but that’s all she had,” he said. “Now she’s barely two years old, she’s really calm, and she doesn’t get into trouble. Not on her own, at least,” he added and looked up to the sky. “What else? Oh, she’s chirping and tweeting alright, even if on rare occasions, but she’s yet to say her first word. I’m a bit worried, you know, as by now she should have about ten to twenty in her vocabulary. But she’s a talented doodler!”

Spitfire chuckled. “The more I listen to you, the more respect I have for my own parents,” she said. “What should I know about the thestral?”

“First and foremost, try avoid mentioning Princess Luna around Chestnut. She’s… not too fond of her.”

The mare threw him a questioning stare. “That’s it? Aren’t you going to elaborate on that?”

“I’m afraid I can’t go into details due to the ongoing therapy. Chestnut may be an orphaned child like the rest, but she, specifically, is also my patient and thus I’d like to limit her exposure to potentially damaging elements. I’m only telling you this because I’d hate to see months of my work go for naught, so don’t worry about it too much—just keep it in mind,” he said. “Aside from that, you’ll find her quite talkative. She’s the one who balances Wind’s troublemaking tendencies, and I’m counting on her to become his role model, like an older sister, but she still needs to learn a bit about responsibility. They both do, actually.”

“Is that why you’ve tasked them with carrying Gladia around?”

“Glavia. And yes, you’re quite right. Of course for legal purposes you’re still the one responsible for all three, but please do show your disapproval if they try anything you’d classify as irresponsible around Glavia. I have a hunch your word will do wonders for their maturity.” He looked around the courtyard that got empty in the meantime, for other teams had already headed out for the Red Cuckoo. “Good gracious, would you look at the time! You have so little today and yet I’m still taking minute after minute you should be spending with your group. Your Wonderbit squadron, rather.”

“After we’re done, can I just leave them at the café?”

“I’ll have Bubble Effervescence pick them up,” he assured. “Once again, thank you for adjusting your plans for us, Miss Spitfire. It was a pleasure meeting you. I’m afraid I have matters to attend to here, and I won’t make it to the, oh, what’s the word? Rendezvous point, is that how you call it?”

Spitfire rolled her eyes and snorted a mocking affirmative.

She trotted away and swapped places with Fizzy who left her at the mercy of the notorious duet.

“A new t-shirt, I see,” Doctor Hugs noticed when the rocker girl approached. “What ear-bleeding band you’ve got there this time, kid?”

Fizzy pulled the zipper and revealed a world where words and musical instruments waged war over a pile of shattered crystals—at least that’s what the stallion got from the picture.

“It’s Gemtrance. Thirty-five bits at Rockerture,” she said, stretching the shirt down. “They just came in from Manehattan. Pretty radical, isn’t it? The overprint is made in the same style as the cover of their latest album, Shouts & Whispers. I have it—of course I have it, and I’m thinking about bringing it, you know, so that the kids could listen to some real music for a change.”

“Please don’t,” Doctor Hugs implored. “We’d rather keep to the classics.”

“Just because they’re old doesn’t make them classic. When was the last time you bought a fresh album, anyway? Ten, twenty years ago? Hit me with a decade. The seventies? Was zebra funk still a thing?” She waved her hoof. “Forget it. I’ll just bring something and then we’ll talk,” she promised and glanced back at Spitfire. “So, I take Captain Snooty is coming after all.”

“Only until four, but yes, she’s in.”

“She didn’t seem like she would be when she talked to me. What did you do?”

Doctor Hugs shrugged. “I implied that misery will occur should she not join us,” he replied. “She took some convincing, you know. She’s a strict, task-oriented pony with a strong military mindset, and unlike the rest of her team, she was here exclusively to represent the organization of which she is obviously very fond of. I did my best to warm her up to the idea of spending time with the kids, but I’m afraid it may not be enough.” He sighed. “A shame, really, considering how excited they’ve been to meet one of their heroes.”

“Well, it’s still a lot better than having them stay. That would suck.”

“I’m not giving up on her completely,” he continued. “There was that little shrug shortly before she agreed, the universal gesture of uncertainty, the subtle switch in posture indicating submission. That’s not how your average fighter archetype reacts to defeat, and they definitely don’t do casual pop culture references either. Did you know she likes the same music as I do? I mean, I can extrapolate her taste basing on her likely fondness of Honey Whitestone. Can’t be sure, though.” The stallion met Fizzy’s eyes when she stared deep into his own, as if in search of something. “Get off my face, kid. I know I have bags, it’s been a long week. Anyway, my point is, Miss Spitfire may not be a hundred percent drill sergeant she wants to pass for.”

“Do you have a crush on her?” Fizzy asked unexpectedly.

“No,” he quickly replied. “I do not have a crush on her, why?”

Wrong answer, he realized twelve words too late, the first ten of which had left his mouth.

“You do! Oh, you so have a crush on her!” Fizzy exclaimed, getting to the tips of her hooves.

“What are you prattling about?”

She laughed. “What, did you think you were the only one who can play this game?” She circled around him like a predator delighting in its prey’s obliviousness. “You had your head tilted to appear friendly and less dominant. You stayed leaned towards her after you’ve had a chance to whisper something to her ear. You sound softer whenever you speak her name. Oh, and my personal favorite”—she found herself face to face with the stallion again—“I can see your dilated pupils from a mile away. Do you want me to go on, or will you go ask her out?”

Beaten at his own discipline, what a disgrace. Doctor Hugs cursed the day he suggested the idea of studying psychology to the filly. Her parents cursed him for that very reason as well.

“Out of the question!” he shouted, only stoking his furious blush further. “What I will do is go to my office for a cup of tea!”

Fizzy stood in his way. “No-no-no, no way! I know you! The moment you step through that door you’ll head not to your office, but to the living room to ‘check on some things’ and you’ll end up preparing everything yourself,” she said, turning the stallion away from the building. “But hey, here’s a totally random but sound idea: since the kids are off, and Summer Rainfall has the gift bags covered, me and the guys will get everything up and running here. We’ll clean the popcorn machine, put the mattresses and pillows around, and set up the screen. It’ll be great, just as you planned.” She walked him up to the cast iron gate, smoothing his tie and fixing the collar of his shirt on the go. “You, in turn, will go to the café, order half a cake and a big cup of tea, and have, uhm, about fifteen minutes for yourself before the kids get there.”

“Fifteen minutes! That’s ridiculous! What is it, early Hearth’s Warming?”

Fizzy rolled her smoke-smudged eyes. “Right. Like you’re going to have even five on Hearth’s Warming.”

She had a point. Last year, he spent half of the evening frantically searching for Glavia until he found her slumbering inside a woolen sock hung on the mantel. Then he spent half an hour explaining to Chestnut and Wind Whisper why you don’t put griffon fledglings inside woolen socks for safekeeping. Truth be told, he himself was to blame—earlier that day he made a remark over Glavia’s doodling, saying that she was a gifted griffon indeed. The crafty minds of the other two did the rest.

“Alright,” he said after a while, “here’s the deal: I’ll go to the café to see if Vicky needs a hoof. I’ll take a quarter of a cake and I’ll get back to help you wrap things up.”

“And you’ll get yourself a tea if you want to stay awake until the evening.”

“And I’ll get myself a tea,” he repeated and went through the gate. He turned around. “And kid? Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Fizzy giggled. “Boss.”

Chapter 3 – Staying Frosty on the Move

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That wasn’t exactly how she had planned this afternoon.

A day in the life of a Wonderbolt captain didn’t strike as much exciting, and most of the time had you follow the same, practiced routine. Five thirty, shuteye’s over, roll to the floor and give me twenty. Push-ups, sit-ups, wing-ups—it didn’t matter what you were doing as long as you could get the blood running. Five forty, take a cold shower followed by thorough brushing and flossing, both vital if you were the face representing the peak of aerial prowess. Five fifty-five, button your jacket and show the day outside who’s boss. Precisely at six hundred hours, wake the rest of your team and keep yelling until you’ve shouted all tardiness and shabbiness out of them. After that came training sessions to oversee, assignments to give, Royal Guards to get in touch with, and of course tons of paperwork to do before it piled up.

What a life! Spitfire enjoyed her high rank and the responsibilities that came with it, but she was no workaholic—or tried her best to not become one. She seldom had time exclusively for herself, so she welcomed the idea of sending her pegasi on a charity run to the Canterlot Orphanarium. With how she had arranged everything, she figured she would have some time to spend on window shopping, drinking a nice cup of civilian-quality whatever, or taking a seat by Terrace Avenue, all while relaxing and not having to think about anyone but herself.

The orphan triad took away a lot of her desired freedom, true, but she wasn’t going to make it any harder for either party.

Embrace the suck, they said when she enlisted.

Chestnut climbed on the edge of the fountain and looked over Spitfire’s shoulder.

“Whatcha reading there, Miss Captain Spitfire?”

“A little something I got from Bubble Effervescence. I have to say I’m impressed! She and your Doctor Hugs gave us a pretty solid operation plan.”

“I wanna see it!” The filly scanned the sheet. It had too many lines of text and not enough pictures, but she spotted something familiar before she got bored. “Here! That’s my name, you see? Uhm, I think? What else does it say?”

“Well, you’ve got all the information about the Canterlot Orphanarium, the address, a few words to the Wonderbolts. And here’s a list of things for us to do today, see?”

Chestnut frowned and sat beside her. “Word stuff is hard! All of that to say we’ll be eating ice cream?”

Spitfire couldn’t tell if she was being serious, or was just playing silly. Her act sure was convincing, though.

“It’s more than just that,” she replied. “It tells the order in which to do things, so that us and the other squads won’t bump into each other. Can you imagine how it would look like if all six of us and all of you trotted together to the café? It would be a mess, and I sure don’t like when things get messy when I’m in charge,” she said and skimmed through the plan again. Most of the activities had been planned after the Rad Cuckoo—she still didn’t know how to break to the kids that she wasn’t going to participate in the Wonderbolt Quizzitron or the Flight Fashion Show. Or Cloudchaser’s Manes in the Air Semi-seminar. “For example, we started with Chariot Plaza and the fountain, and our next stop is the Firefly Gate on a bearing of one-eighty. Uh, it’s thataway,” she said, pointing southbound. “We better get going. Wind! So what number did you get in the end?”

Wind Whisper came back from his personal reconnaissance mission.

“I counted three hundred steps and two!"

“Three hundred!” Spitfire chuckled. “And how many laps did you do?”

“Just one! It takes ten steps to get from here to that metal plate-thingy there,” he said and presented the way he took one step at the time. “Eleven, twelve, thirteen, forty, fifty… it goes on!”

Chestnut went to the edge of the fountain’s concrete ring. She immersed her hoof in the water and stirred her mischievous reflection.

“Hey, but did you count this here as well?” she asked innocently.

“This what where now?”

“Come… and I’ll show you.”

The colt approached. “What? What is—”

“WATER ATTACK!” Chestnut shouted, sending a tidal wave into the air.

“Hey! That’s not funny!” Wind Whisper jumped away like burned, but he quickly reached into the fountain as well. Glavia, still seated on his back, clung desperately to his bandaged wing when he took a risky lean to the side. Getting caught in the crossfire was never good, especially when your tiny fringe was already soaked. Chestnut didn’t wait for his retribution and flew behind the mare. That set Wind Whisper off. “Miss Spitfire! Chestnut is throwing water at me!”

“You can’t throw water because it sticks to you, silly!” Chestnut replied, snickering. “And you can’t unstick it without a towel! That’s how you get wet!”

The colt took an angry step. “But I didn’t want to get wet though! You have to say sorry to me now!”

“After you say sorry for saying that I can’t read!”

“But it’s true! I don’t have to say sorry for things that are true!”

Spitfire stood up and separated the two ponies. As much as her guts encouraged her to shout at them until she clamored down all conflict, she chose to appeal to their juvenile reason instead. “Alright, tigers, cut the bickering. We’re all flying in the same team today, and we’ve got a plan to follow, right? There’s still a lot for us to do before the clock strikes four. Speaking of—Chestnut, I think it’s your turn with Glavia now, so you two make a swap and be nice to each other, okay? You’re good buddies, after all.”

Wind Whispered summoned a cold stare and passed the feathery bundle. “Chestnut, buddy. Can you please take Glavia now?”

“Of course I can, Wind, my buddy. I’ll be happy to,” the filly replied in an equally frigid, if sweetened manner. She seated the clueless fledgling between her wings. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“Good to hear.”

Spitfire scratched the top of her head. If those two were friends, they had a pretty odd way of expressing that. Still, she didn’t want to take sides, and she didn’t feel competent to teach anyone how to maintain relationships with their peers. Those few she had been in involved her two high school coltfriends, both terrible mistakes in hindsight she’d rather forget. After she enrolled at the Hurricane Academy there was only the chain of command for her, and it wasn’t exactly helping those in a mood for emotional bonding. It wasn’t for her, anyway, and the only thing which changed since then was the link in the chain Spitfire had been assigned as her own.

Maybe Soarin was right. Maybe she really should be going out more often. Just… not today. Besides, she preferred teaching others how to stay focused on tasks, not ponies—in real life, relationships weren’t half as useful as a well-placed dedication to the cause.

She shook her head. That was one strange train of thought she’d taken.

“Alright, Wonderbits, move out! Destination: Firefly Gate, named after General Firefly herself!”

The squad ventured further into Canterlot. The streets weren’t that packed all things considered, as by a popular choice many ponies would spend their Summer Wrap Up outside the city walls. The last days of summer heralded the beginning of busy schedules for both kids and adults, so they all joined the national weekend migration to the countryside. Small hamlets like Ponyville or Rainbow Falls excelled in celebrating Equestria’s quarterly Wrap Ups, often organizing fairs and games that were a real treat for urban dwellers. Of course many families had their own traditions—from hiking to rafting, the ponies would go to great lengths to preserve the late summer magic for a little longer.

“I have a question, Miss Spitfire,” Wind Whisper said as he bounced next to the mare. “You said the statue in the fountain was there because the ponies of Canterlot wanted to thank the Wonderbolts for their help. Gates are bigger than fountains, so what did the Wonderbolts do to earn one? I mean, I know that General Firefly started the Wonderbolts, but why did she get a gate named after her?” he asked, then hastily added, “Please say she fought dragons!”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Wind, but being a Wonderbolt isn’t always about fighting dragons. We’re part of the Royal Guard, and yes, we do fight for Equestria when needed, but we’re also assisting in other tasks that may sound dull but are still important. For example, we’re solving weather problems that got out of hoof. We’re delivering messages and parcels for the Princesses because, let’s be honest, we’re faster than the mail ponies. We also help testing things at the Cloudsdale Weather Factory because we know the skies like nopony else.”

“But Cloudsdale was built a super long time ago,” Chestnut said, “and General Firefly lived… some time before that, I guess. So testing weather can’t be why she got the gate.”

“She didn’t ‘get’ the gate. The gate was already there, but it had no name,” Spitfire explained. “It was just called ‘a western gate’ if I remember correctly. A long time ago, when Canterlot was still mostly a gem mining community, there were no buildings beyond that gate and the old city walls. You know the Promenade, right? The street that goes from the Royal Castle to Victory Plaza? It was only one-third long back then and it ended with the western gate. So, when General Firefly came up with the name ‘Wonderbolts’ and Princess Celestia moved to Canterlot after—” Spitfire bit her tongue and eyed Chestnut. “Uh, when she moved to Canterlot, there was that parade during which the first Wonderbolts followed General Firefly into the city. They went through the western gate and all the way to the Palace, or at least the big construction site that would become the Palace. It was such a big event that everypony started calling the gate ‘the one that General Firefly went through’ or something like that when they were talking about it.”

“That’s a really dumb name for a gate,” Wind Whisper said.

“That’s why they shortened it to Firefly Gate we know today,” Spitfire ended the story.

“Wait,” Chestnut said. “So they named the gate after her because she first came up with a new word and then she walked through it? Pfft! I could do that!”

“Oh, really? Let’s hear it, then.”

“What, now?” She stared into the sky in an obvious attempt at fake thinking. “Okay, I got it. Easy! But I can’t tell you right now. I’ll tell you once I find a gate I like.”

“Whatever you say, recruit,” she chuckled.

As they took the corner, Spitfire’s smile waned. Her eyes went wide.

Saying that the road ahead was blocked would be an understatement, for there was no road at all. Instead, someone put a gaping, partially flooded hole in the middle of the street, and that hole devoured everything from one line of buildings to another, sidewalks included, for the length of about three or four storefronts. Only an island of concrete with a small crane on it had been spared. As if that wasn’t unwelcoming enough, the area was barricaded with red and white safety barriers and cones that separated the pedestrians from the workers below. If it weren’t for the brutal pounding of the jackhammers and the total lack of respect for the ground underneath the street, one would think the ponies in bright vests and hard hats were valiant archeologist, keen to uncover the capital’s secrets buried beneath the omnipresent mud.

The reality was less romantic, alas.

“I think it says ‘someone stole the road, please find another way’,” Chestnut said as she stopped in front of a DANGER – CONSTRUCTION AREA – KEEP OUT sign. “Huh. At least they’re asking nicely. What are we gonna do? Fly?” She flapped her wings, but did not get high before landing and taking a glance at Glavia. “Oomph! You’re heavier than you look! I can carry, but flying with you is a no-no. Someone else has to. Hmm, I wonder whose five minutes are about to start?”

“Yeah. Nice try, but I can’t fly because of the wing,” Wind Whisper said. “And Miss Spitfire said that today is a strictly ground mission. No flying allowed.”

“Not really what I meant,” Spitfire replied, “but I sure can’t carry all three of you, and I’d rather not move you one by one. Stay here. I’ll ask if we can just cut it.”

“Oh, oh! When one pony of the squad goes forth alone it’s called ‘scouting ahead’, isn’t it? You’re going to scout ahead now?”

Spitfire shrugged. “Not really, I’ll just—” She caught the colt’s excited eyes. Now that’s dedication she wanted to see! It would appear Doctor Hugs underestimated his pupil who was not only quickly catching on the military jargon, but presented himself as a disciplined recruit despite the doctor’s claims. If he was only three times as old, Spitfire would happily mold him into a Wonderbolt of the next generation. “Scouting ahead? That’s a positive, recruit! I’ll scout ahead,” she said, much to Wind Whisper’s mirth. “Do you know what the rest of the squad is supposed to do in the meantime? They wait. So you three stay here and make sure nothing dangerous is following me, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Wind Whisper exclaimed.

“Mhm,” Chestnut murmured, her interest fixed elsewhere.

Spitfire crawled under the safety barrier and slid down the great dig site, wondering if Doctor Hugs hadn’t actually mislabeled the troublemaker and the obedient one.

With Spitfire gone, Chestnut’s eyes escaped a rock throw’s away from the hole, to a wall of red bricks that stood against the otherwise sandstone facades of the Sapphire Street. There was a museum of sorts on the other side, and judging by the colorful posters inviting the passers-by to come in, it was having some sort of a unique display for the Summer Wrap Up. The interests was substantial, as there was already a group of school-age ponies lining up before the entrance and dividing their attention between their teacher—a mare of cheerful aesthetics—and a giant wooden crate being delivered to the capable hooves of the museum staff.

“Nice!” Chestnut exclaimed and pulled Wind Whisper’s tail. “Hey, Wind, check out that super box they’ve got there! Wanna go see what’s inside?”

The colt threw a fleeting glance at the commotion. “Nope. We’re supposed to stay here and make sure nothing happens to Miss Spitfire. That’s what she asked us to do, so that’s what I’m gonna do.” He hopped on a toolbox that belonged to one of the workers and made his way up the barrier. “Right… here. Hey, not bad. I can see everything from here!”

A mocking expression crept to Chestnut’s face. “And you’re gonna just sit there? That’s stupid,” she judged. “Since when do you even care, like, at all? Whenever Doc Hugs asks you to do something, you never listen. When Miss Fizzy asks, you never listen. When Mister Eyebrow asks—”

“Mister Eyebrow’s not a Wonderbolt though. None of them are! And I want to be one when I’m older—I wanna fly with Equestria’s fastest fliers.”

“Yeah, right. That’s what you said the last time. You want to break the other, too?” she asked, pointing at his bandaged wing.

He glared at her from up high. “This time I’m not flying anywhere. I won’t get hurt from just listening!”

She laughed in response. “Well, you surely won’t get into the Wonderbolts for that, either.”

“I may! You don’t know that! Shut up!” Wind Whisper snapped, his eyes glinting. “You’re dumb! I will get into the Wonderbolts, but YOU won’t get a gate named after you for not listening, that’s for sure!”

“That’s because I’ll get it for doing stuff that’s awesometastic, like discovering what’s in there!”

Wind Whisper crossed his forelegs. “Oh yeah? And how will you know they wrote your name right? You can’t even spell it.”

Chestnut stomped her hoof angrily. “I know how to spell my name! It goes like… C… H-E-S-S—uhm, T-S—no, S-T-N? Also something, also an ‘A’ and—I know how to spell my name!” Red on her face, she shouted, “You’re stupid! Stay here if you want. Me and Glavia will go see something cool! Ouch! What was that for?” She ejected Glavia from her back and held her in front. “Oh, I get it. You want to stay with him. Well, fine by me. My five minutes are up anyway.” She removed Glavia’s grip off her hoof and put her at the toolbox. “You’re not fun, just like him. You hear, Wind Whisper? I’m putting Glavia here. And I’m gonna check out what’s in there and I won’t tell you nothing!”

“Yeah, whatever,” the colt replied as Chestnut took her injured pride and stormed off towards the museum. He added at a hushed tone, “It’s not like I need you.”

He turned his attention back to what was happening down the hole.

None of Spitfire’s friends would claim her to be good with kids, and she would be the last one to mind if they hadn’t described her as such a pony. If they tried, she’d immediately point out that she had never worked as a foalsitter and that she steered clear from the younger part of her fan base—she was, in fact, using Soarin as her first line of defense whenever a shorter individual approached. Kids were lazy, tardy, shabby, undisciplined, and didn’t respond well to her favorite method of teaching that involved shouting a lot.

She learned it the hard way during the Junior Flyers Summer Camp three years ago. She still owed Rainbow Dash for that one.

“Excuse me,” she said to a worker pony whose front half was swallowed by a pipe. “Excuse me, what is the situation here? Why is the street like this?”

Without turning back, the stallion replied, his voice echoing, “We’re fixing the pipes, ma’am. Pretty much all of them. There’s been a blockage in the network, specifically at the old 17-B, you know, the junction that goes under Ivory. Of course to keep the running water in the block they went and rerouted the flow through the reserve, standard procedure, but the reserve on that section has been put into maintenance last week. These idiots weren’t at the meeting and no one told them to stay clear from 17-B!” he shouted, the pipe resounding with his irritation. “So all the pressure gathered here and blew up the line. We’d be done by now if it weren’t for those white-collar idiots who have never seen a valve before. I told them to use the eighties here, but no, they knew better and told us to try with the sixties first. The sixties! There are like five places in Canterlot that still work well with them, but Sapphire Street ain’t one!”

Spitfire made a mental note to always trust in the eighties, not sixties. Whatever that meant.

“Darn budgetary cuts!” the stallion said, emerging from the pipe. “I can tell the difference in quality when—whoa! Aren’t you too fancy-looking for the plumbing business, ma’am?”

“Well, I fixed my sink once, but anything beyond that I’d rather leave to the experts,” she replied, knocking on the pipe. “No, I’m just a concerned citizen. I was wondering if you could tell me and a couple of foals how to get across these trenches. We’re in a bit of a rush, but we’d also like to keep our hooves and coats clean. Is there a relatively safe path you could recommend?”

“I’m afraid no, ma’am.” He pointed at a pile of pale bluish tiles growing nearby. “As you can see, we had to remove the sidewalks to make sure the water doesn’t threaten the foundations. The pipes are uncovered, but we can’t have anyone step on them. Aside from this lucky rock,” he said, stomping his hoof at the relatively dry square of land, “everything’s all muddy, like a swamp or something. Can’t you and your foals fly over?” he suggested, to which Spitfire shook her head. “No? Well then, I’m afraid you have to go around this mess. Go down the street up to Chariot Plaza, then take right into Marble, and then the first right into a street that will lead you straight to the Promenade.”

“But that’s a twenty minute walk! I don’t suppose you have a few pegasi on your team to help us out?”

The stallion shook his head. “They don’t send pegasi to do the dirty work like this. You’ll find only earth ponies here, and a few unicorn evaporators from the Weather Corps.”

“Understood, and thanks for the tip. I guess we’ll be taking the long way around.”

As she was about to take off, she heard the stallion’s uncertain voice. “Excuse me, ma’am… don’t I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”

Spitfire didn’t consider herself a celebrity. That word served best to describe actors, singers, models, and sportsponies that weren’t also the soldiers of the sky, but she had learned time and again that there was no escape from being slightly more recognizable. Of course when she had taken the job the general, the former captain, and even her own mother all hammered into her that being a Wonderbolt was a responsibility, not a free grab at the last slice of pizza, so she never used her status for personal gain. The scandal-seeking ponies like Raisin Rose from The Voice of the Promenade—oh, how she hated that mare!—would happily write a few columns on the abuse of power if she had.

“I work at the post office. Perhaps you’ve seen me stamping letters or something,” Spitfire replied dryly and took off.

He cocked his head, squinted, and after a moment of careful consideration, he nodded. “Oh, yeah, yeah. That’s probably it,” he said to himself and dived back into his pipe. “A Wonderbolt, bah! What was I thinking?”

Back on the street level, Chestnut returned to where Wind Whisper was perched. She was keen on getting her friend’s attention, but he didn’t seem to care, his indifferent expression revealing his lack of interest.

“Wind, listen to me! I’ve got something super important to tell you!”

“I told you, I don’t care what’s in that box.”

“It’s not about the box, it’s something else, and I need you to come down because I can’t say it out loud! It’s very secretful!”

“Well, it’ll have to wait. Miss Spitfire is coming back from her scouting mission,” he said and waved. “Hey, Miss Spitfire! Over here! I’ve been watching your back but nothing followed you. Did I do well?”

Spitfire touched the ground. “I felt safe the entire time!” she chuckled. “Alright, kids, here’s the situation. We can’t go through here, the road is a complete mess. We’ll have to make a small course correction for this approach. The bad news is, it’ll take us at least fifteen to get to Firefly Gate, which means we may be late for the official part at the Cuckoo.” She glanced over the mission plan. “Right, we’re supposed to be there in half. If we assume two at the gate and another ten to get to the café… argh, there’s no way we can do both. And I can’t be late!” she said, thinking more about her debriefing than anything else. “Alright, new plan. Plans. One of them, actually. Do you want to get to the gate and be a little late at the Cuckoo, or do you want to skip the gate and be there a little early?”

Wind Whisper jumped off the barrier. “Let’s go see the gate! It’s okay to be late!”

“It’s not okay to be late!” Chestnut countered. “Let’s go straight to the café so that Miss Spitfire could stay there longer!”

“No, let’s see the gate first!”

“Café first!”

“Why?”

“Because… reasons!”

“Cease hostility, both of you!” Spitfire boomed. The commanding tone was enough for Wind Whisper to withdraw, but what silenced Chestnut was, judging by her questioning stare, the strange wording the mare employed. “Stop squabbling, I mean. Be quiet! Just listen to yourself—is that how two big ponies talk to each other, or did we end up in some kind of a blasted kindergarten? Doctor Hugs told me that you’re making a good team together, and that I wouldn’t regret working with you, but so far I’ve only seen you two being mean and fighting over nothing!” she said. “If you can’t find common ground over such a simple matter, then whatever, we’ll toss a coin, or better yet, we will ask Glavia for a third opinion. She’s the youngest of you three, and yet she’s making the least trouble. Take it after her.” She then checked both Chestnut’s and Wind Whisper’s backs. “Where is Glavia, anyway? Chestnut?”

The filly pointed at the toolbox. “Uh, I don’t know. I left her here because she wanted to stay with Wind while I was checking the big box there,” she explained and rummaged through the contents of the toolbox. Nowhere in a pile of various wrenches, cringers, and a hacksaw as well as a plunger was griffon fledgling to be found. “She’s not here. That’s not good. Wind?”

Wind Whisper checked under nearby cones. “She’s not here either. No. Nope. Not here,” he said, visibly shaken. “It’s not my fault, is it? I was watching you. I thought she’d be too!”

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is!” Spitfire said, swooping the area. “What’s important is to find your friend as soon as possible. Quick, she couldn’t have gone far, so look around!”

The jargon had a few lovely words for such situations, but Spitfire clenched her teeth and stopped any from ever surfacing. How long was she gone, a minute? Two, three? It wasn’t like she had gone for a coffee with a friend to discuss her life choices—she was right there the entire time, within earshot. She scanned the area, looked back into the hole, checked everywhere. What it the griffon was kidnapped by the enemy force and was now held hostage in a dark cellar, strapped to a chair? Excessive much? Right, like the regular kidnapping wasn’t frightening enough. Maybe she just wandered off a bit? But what if she tripped and fell and drowned in the mud below? Great job, Spitfire, you legally-responsible-for-all-three featherbrain. You screwed up a rookie assignment. Idiot.

“There she is!” Chestnut shot her hoof beyond the safety barriers. “Over there, in that pipe!”

Spitfire caught a glimpse of grey disappearing inside the tube. She heaved relieved sigh. “Phew. That was a close call,” she said. “Alright. let’s try it again. You stay here, keep one eye on me, and the other on each other, alright? I’ll be back in a minute. I think I’ll be carrying Glavia for the rest of the day if that’s okay with you.”

“It’s getting away!” Wind Whisper shouted.

Hooked in the crane’s grip, the pipe flew over the dig site, leaving but a wet print in the mud.

“Stop! Put it down! I’ve got a kid in there!” Spitfire yelled in the general direction of the crane’s operator. For naught—the jackhammers came back to life and drowned out both her desperate appeal and a short but nasty chain of swear words in which she packaged her frustration, depriving potential listeners of the first part of the rhyme. “Just my luck!” she added and blasted into the air, nearly knocking the foals over with the sheer power of her take-off.

The inside of the pipe wasn’t spacious, so Spitfire had to crawl her way through. It felt like running the Academy’s Gooseberry Fields all over again, only that this time the barbed wire was made of rocky minerals that had built up over the years. Pieces of scale were crumbling upon touch, leaving white smears all over her jacket and coat. She pressed forward. It was either that, or riding your belly along a trail of wet rust that occupied the bottom.

“I’m gonna get you out, you hear?” she called to Glavia who crouched at the other end. She was trembling and whimpering. “Stay! For the love of Celestia, just stay there! Don’t move!” she said and crawled to about three quarters of the pipe’s length. “It’s going to be alright!”

The opposite happened.

Spitfire heard a snap on the outside. The shift in the gravity and the alternating glimpses of rooftops and the sky told her enough. She recovered, but Glavia lost her grip and tumbled towards her. She caught her with her face, now a pin cushion for the griffon’s hopelessly merciless talons. “Argh! Gotcha! It hurts like Tartarus and I can’t see a thing, but you better not let go!” she said, braced all fours against the walls, and renewed her climb up the shaft. Something cut her foreleg. She ignored the pain. Her heart was pounding, and her mind reminded her of an ancient self-empowerment chant she had been singing when she had been stationed in Saddle Arabia. Get it together, Spitfire, and make the climb!

“Oi! You, weather chaps! Give us a hoof, eh?” someone outside shouted.

“Too late! Clear the area!” a less promising voice was heard.

Rise up! Only a few inches left! Glavia and Spitfire’s muzzle were already free from the stale smell of the pipe.

She was stuck. She couldn’t see, but there was something around her chest that kept her from escaping. Having no choice, she risked her grip by reaching down. The jacket? The button! She wiggled back a little, up and down, but a rusty metal ring with a somewhat washed out number sixty was holding her. She stretched her wings forward, first right and then left. She grabbed the outside of the pipe with her wings and hooves alike and tried to force her way out, with no eyes whatsoever on the situation. She strained in her efforts, first with grunts and then through a continuous groan that got louder the fiercer she pressed.

Something snapped. Something broke. Glavia cried.

“Watch out!” came a shout from below.

Blinded by a sudden gleam of sunlight and the griffon on her face, Spitfire shot out with all the wing power she could muster—and not a moment too soon.

The pipe thumped the street.

Chapter 4 – Very Important Griffon

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Through panicked chirps and tweets, Glavia’s symphony of woe approached its desperate crescendo.

“You’re afraid, I get it, but we’re in the clear now,” Spitfire said. “Get off me! You’re not going to fall, I’m holding you. Let me—let me just land it, will you? And shut up already!”

Her hooves clicked on the ground. No, not the ground, she assessed after she finally detached the griffon from her face. It seemed they wound up on a roof terrace of sorts that aside from a couple of chairs and red clay pots was empty.

She sat the crying griffon at the nearest chair. “You! What were you thinking back there, recruit?” she shouted. “You could have been seriously injured not staying with the team. Did it even occur to you what I would have to report to your CO if you’d returned as a griffon pancake? And look what happened to my jacket!” She took it off with ease, now that it had been so brutally unbuttoned, and beat it to get scale and residue off it. “I liked that one! I! Liked! That! One!”

More tears joined Glavia’s lament.

“Don’t you turn the waterworks on me—darn, I’m doing this again!“

Spitfire landed a hoof on her face. She had to get it together, or she was going to have another saddened kid on her conscience. One Loopy was enough.

“Hey, don’t cry. It’s alright now. I don’t blame you for this, I’ll have it patched up in no time,” she said, but the more comforting she wanted to sound, the stronger the wailing became. She suspected it had something to do with her raspy voice that wasn’t among the most pleasant to listen to. Decent enough for barking orders left and right, but tragically unfit for lullaby duty. “See? It’s just a little dirty and the button’s missing too, but it’s still good.”

Glavia tried to take a hold of the collar.

”You like it? Yes, you do! Hey, maybe there’s something interesting in the pockets. Let’s see. My sunglasses? No, you’d look ridiculous. Trust me. A handful of bits, no? You’re not a materialistic griffon? Well, you must be the first.” She fished the jacket again. “Alright, what else? Oh, now that’s a treat! A few of my signed photos,” she said with pride and presented the fancy hairdo she had for the session. “No? Why? Not a fan, I understand. I-I can respect that. Argh, please, please stop crying already!” she implored, but Glavia was relentless. Defeated, Spitfire rested her head, hooves and her jacket on the chair. To her surprise, the wailing stopped.

She raised her eyes and immediately cracked a smile seeing as her companion was making herself comfortable.

“Heh. You were cold. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Glavia stuck her beak in the buttonhole and covered herself with the quality quilt worthy of an aspiring Wonderbit. She squeaked a tiny yawn and buried herself in the smooth lining of the jacket. Spitfire had no idea if young griffons needed as much shut-eye as pony foals, but it seemed they were prone to getting exhausted from excessive adventuring or crying all the same. One thing was certain—the captain wasn’t wearing her favorite non-suit threads today. Good thing she’d taken that self-weatherproofing course in the Frozen North a few years back, courtesy of the Crystal Empire.

“Here, let me help you with that,” she offered and wrapped the jacket around the griffon. “Better now?”

Glavia chirped in appreciation.

“I’ll take it as a ‘yes’, ball. C’mon, let’s get you back to your friends.”

She flew to the street level where she had left Chestnut and Wind Whisper. Instead of the two orphans, she found only the pipe she had acquainted.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! What does it take to make you kids stay in one place?”

Still in mid-air, she spun and scanned the area. Sapphire Street was the only way leading out, but the two had no reason to run from her—at least she was pretty sure she hadn’t given them any. A little to the right stood the bank with its awfully boring grey walls that, if she had the right hunch, wouldn’t be much appealing to the children. A tenement house came next, then a group of workers moving the pipe off the street while sputtering profanities to no end. The dig site was still impassable by hoof, and a similar tenement had its doors shut much like its twin. Besides, it was highly unlikely that either of the orphans had friends there, so unless they’d been kidnapped—Spitfire’s guts twisted at the thought—they wouldn’t go there. Finally, there was a building of red bricks with a wagon and a big wooden crate in front of it.

Glavia wriggled in Spitfire’s grip.

“Hey, stay frosty. What’s up? Why, you think they went there? Why not the other way?” she asked, showing Glavia a pair of elegant ponies leaving the bank. The griffon reached her talons to the other building. “Hmm. You may be onto something. Chestnut was saying something about the box, too. Besides, there’s no use in going to the bank when you’re short on cash, and, forgive me, I doubt you orphans have a lot to spare. Do you even get any pocket money from Doctor Hugs or the others?”

Glavia cooed with somewhat of a questioning note.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Spitfire said and seated the griffon on her back. “I know it all too well.”

They landed before the display.

There stood the famous Candledrops wax museum, one of the major tourist attractions in Canterlot. It used to be called Candle Drop’s back in the day, but after the founder died, the entirety of the collection was acquired by the Marelin Amusement Group, the guys also known from their recent revitalization of Las Pegasus’ entertainment sector. After the deal with the founder’s heirs, it had been decided that since Candle Drop was no longer the owner of the place, there was no need of keeping the apostrophe, or the space in the name for a reason no other than ‘it looks unappealing as two words’. The MAG certainly were serious about fun.

Spitfire felt a hoof on her buttock.

“Hey! Watch it!” she shouted.

“Yikes! You’re not made of wax!” a shocked stallion replied.

“Wax? I’m a hundred and ten percent pain, buddy, which means I have plenty to share!”

“Sorry, sorry! I’m so terribly sorry, Mrs. Spitfire—“

“Miss!” Spitfire thundered.

The stallion fled behind the crate, his face burning with embarrassment as he hid it behind his blue cap. “Sorry! W-we’re just delivering these Wonderbolt figures and I-I mistook you for one,” he explained. “They look really realistic and I would never think that a real you—I mean, wow, that’s actually you—I mean, sorry, I’m a big fan! B-but not one of the weird ones, I have the greatest respect for you and the Wonderbolts, and I saw you at the last Equestria Games and you were amazing!” He slowly emerged from his hiding spot, wary of the mare’s wrath. “Oh, if only you were here a minute ago! A school trip from Ponyville just went in and they were pretty excited about Mr. Soarin’s figure. Can you imagine what would they do if they saw the real captain of the Wonderbolts?”

“Unfortunately, I do,” Spitfire replied with a frown. “By the way, among these children, have you seen a filly thestral with a brown mane, or a blue pegasus? With bandages all over his wing?”

The stallion nodded. “Yes, they were in a bit of a rush. First the filly ran inside, then the colt soon after. I think they wanted to join their teacher.” He pointed at a colorful poster plastered on the doors. “It’s the Summer Wrap Up, so Candledrops have a thirty percent discount for all group tickets. Not a bad deal if you can get fifteen ponies together. Oh, that’s for me? Thank you!”

“Say again?”

The stallion was staring into one of Spitfire’s autographed photos wide-eyed like he found a new purpose in life.

“Your little friend just handed me this. Is it okay if I keep it, maybe?”

Spitfire threw a quick glance at the griffon. “What are you, my manager now?” she said. “Sure, take it. Just do us both a favor and don’t brag to your friends about how soft my flanks are, will you?”

Though the stallion’s blush had waned in the last minute, it now returned with twice as much fire. “O-of course, Miss Spitfire, I won’t tell anyone. Your flanks are safe with me,” he mumbled. “Uhm, that came out wrong, sorry. If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them that I only know how hard the flanks of the wax you are, and that I have no idea if the real you has the same shapely croup, which you obviously have, by the way, but more realistic still and—uhm, I should probably go now. Good day!” he said and walked away with abashment.

Spitfire shook her head. Fans. Always digging the wrapping, never the whole package.

She walked up to the doors. If the poster was telling the truth, then Candledrops had gathered quite a collection. From historical figures and sport starts to famous singers and alicorns up to scale, the museum had immortalized a good chunk of Equestrian culture for all to admire—now with thirty percent off for organized groups. Spitfire hesitated. Her parents took her to a Candledrops branch back in Baltimare when she was a kid, and she remembered how much she wanted for her favorite heroes to come to life. If there was a school trip on the move, then finding and retrieving the two orphans was going to be a rough ride, and as safe as scouting the Everfree Forest with glowing neon streaks all over your coat.

“Realistic, you say?” she murmured. “This I gotta see for myself.”

The lobby was tiled in grey. Aside from a small gift shop and a gallery of famous ponies with their respective wax counterparts, only the reception desk brought any warmth into the room. Enclosed by a short wall of bricks like those forming the exterior, it had a single line of shelves attached visitor-front with multiple booklets on the museum’s rich history and upcoming seasonal displays. On the other side, a bored mare with tight curls sticking all around her head was bobbing to the smooth sounds pouring from a red gramophone.

She didn’t noticed Spitfire at first. She was too busy filing her hoof.

“Excuse me? Excuse me! Hi, have you seen a pair of foals entering?”

“I’ve seen, like, a hundred young ponies entering only this morning. I can’t really tell if the two you’re after went through. Obviously.”

“Do you mind if I come in and take a quick look?”

“Yeah… you still have to pay for the entrance. Then you can look as long as you want. Until, like, seven. We close at seven, so you can’t stay after that. Obviously.”

“Alright. I’ll have one ticket, please.”

The mare put her beautifying tool aside and blew a cloud of dust off her hoof.

“What about your kid?” she asked.

“She’s not technically mine. Obviously,” Spitfire scoffed. She instantly regretted her brazen wit as she was presented with the pricing table. “Oh, come on! You’re charging me for her, too? It’s not like I’m taking her to watch the figures. Heck, I’m not going in there to watch them myself! I just want to find my missing ponies. Look at her!” She put the bundled griffon on the brick counter. “Does she look like a wax enthusiast to you? No! She’s more like a piece of luggage at this point, not someone who can appreciate the art. She doesn’t even know what art is!”

The mare shrugged. It seemed that she, like, totally didn’t care.

“Neither do half of our visitors, but rules are rules. Sixteen bits for full, nine for reduced.”

Spitfire’s arising growl concluded as a bored sigh. She counted the right amount of shiny coins and put them on the counter. There went her coffee and cake.

“One full and one reduced, that’s twenty-five bits total,” the register mare said, sounding like a blasé salespony. “The entrance is this way, and the two exits are here and at the other side of the exhibition. You can pose and make photos—no flash, though—but please be careful while approaching and-or breathing at the figures. They’re made of, like, wax, and can melt down or whatever. If you want a souvenir for yourself or your friends, please drop by our gift shop which we have stocked with various merchandise related to the current display. We have vintage Power Ponies comic books, a line of t-shirts inspired by the Three Tribes, coffee mugs with the Princesses and more. Do you collect Canterlot Culture Card stickers?”

“No!” Spitfire retorted, offended to her core that Canterlot Culture Card stickers were even a thing.

“Here you are. Enjoy your time at Candledrops.”

Spitfire snorted and slid the tickets into her jacket. If the exhibition was going to be as lively as that mare, then she’d rather take the scouting mission.

Glavia tried to peck the tickets out of the pocket.

“No eating, ball. We may still need those,” Spitfire said and entered the museum proper.

The sounds of the street dwindled to a quiet undertone. The interior called for solemnity with its poorly lit corridors and soft covering of the floor, and the visitors obliged by speaking at hushed tones. Every few steps, the corridors branched and opened to rooms full of lifelike figures captured in a single moment in time. Although it were the figures that mattered the most, the backgrounds and other elements of display were of respectable quality as well.

In the first room, thankfully properly illuminated, Spitfire and Glavia took part in a fancy cocktail party where red carpets and evening ensembles were a must. The mysterious Cherry Cushion was giving them a wink from behind a curtain, Lucy Buckstone stood in the spotlight in her trademark bell-like gown, and Drinkwater Meadows stared dramatically into the unknown, dreaming a dream impossible to bear by the streams of consciousness of his audience, but nonetheless encouraging them to think about the rivers in their own lives. Spitfire had little knowledge about any of these ponies, but the informational labels told her that she was facing stage actors who had paved the way for the modern theater. She wouldn’t know. She was an average theatergoer and she struggled to work out her statistical one-fifth of a play per year. ‘Unrefined’ and ‘culturally backward’ were the words to use against her type, but at least she could proudly place herself in the top percentage of ponies attending sport events.

It was perhaps a good thing that the second display they visited had little to do with culture. The room, hexagonal in shape much like the first one, was reigned by the primal forces of nature and their furry, feathery, and scaly representatives that came in all sizes and levels of toothing and clawing. Spitfire knocked on a fake tree to sate her curiosity—it was not made of wax—but when inspecting the rest of the room revealed neither of the missing orphans, she headed to one of the three passages leading out of the room.

Nervous wriggling stopped her.

Spitfire glanced at her back. “What is it now? What, you like animals? Well, from what I heard most kids do, and I see you’re no exception.” She held Glavia close to her chest and showed her the figures up-close. “You know, I used to like animals when I was a kid, too,” she said to her ear. “Phoenixes were my favorites. Still are, actually. But they don’t have phoenixes here, so I guess… falcons? Eagles? The one there, see? I’m into big birds of prey, but my mom never let me have one. So, what’s your favorite?” She walked along the terrestrial display, slowing down by the figures. “Which one do you like? A bear?” she asked, but Glavia didn’t seem interested. “No? Maybe a rabbit? Wrong again. How about a fox?”

Glavia ruffled her feathers, excited about the curious critter sitting under a fallen tree. She reached towards the fox, trying to free herself from the jacket.

“So fox it is. Oh, you want to touch it? Uhm, I don’t think we can do that,” Spitfire said but dealt with her doubts quickly. “Come to think of it, that humdrum of a mare charged us twenty-five bits, and that’s a rip-off if I ever saw one.” She set the griffon free and crouched beside her. “Go ahead, touch it. Just don’t melt his face or something.”

Glavia gave the fox a quick hug, then turned back and produced the most appreciative squeak Spitfire had ever heard, one that made her want to return to the register girl and give her a motivational pep talk for life. The desire lasted only a moment, for she remembered she was still on a search and rescue mission and thus had her priorities. Nonetheless, it came all too easy to share in the griffon’s mirth.

“Aren’t you sweet,” she chuckled. “Alright, let’s get out of here before somebody sees us.”

When she turned to leave the room, she bumped into Wind Whisper.

“Miss Spitfire! Glavia!” he exclaimed and hugged the mare, seemingly relieved. “You’re alright!”

“We’re safe and sound, kid,” Spitfire replied, dumbstruck with the colt’s outburst of affection. “What happened? Why weren’t you where I left you?”

Wind Whisper rubbed his neck in embarrassment. “I’m sorry! I wanted to stay, honestly, but first that pipe hit the ground and started rolling at us, and the worker ponies told us to run, so we did,” he explained. “Then we couldn’t find you or Glavia anywhere and we didn’t know what to do. I wanted to stay, because I thought that’s what you’d want us to do and because you’d come for us eventually, but Chestnut said she saw Mr. Soarin entering this place. She said we should get the help of another Wonderbolt to find you, so she ran away to find him.”

“I’m not seeing any Chestnuts here, only one Wind Whisper.”

“Uhm… I followed her?”

“Well, yes, I figured that much, but I want to know why you did that. Chestnut running away, now her I can understand. She’s more undisciplined than a broken storm cloud, but you? You said it yourself that you knew you should’ve stayed, so why didn’t you?”

The colt’s blush deepened. “Because… she’s too okay to hang out with.”

Spitfire took a moment to process the simplicity of his answer. Here she was, expecting a response based on the situation assessment—that strength was in numbers, that being loyal to the squad was how the winning was done, or that getting off the streets was a purely tactical decision. At the end of the day, however, children saw the spin of the world from a different angle. They weren’t just small adults with shorter limbs and limited attention span, but they were entirely unique fellows who valued certain things more than grown-ups could.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen,” Wind Whisper said quietly, his ears flattened back. “I was worried about you two, and I didn’t want her to get into trouble as well. I’d be alone again, and I didn’t want to. I guess I’m a no-good recruit.”

Spitfire raised his chin up. “Hey, don’t say that, kid. You’re a great Wonderbit already, and you can only soar higher from here.”

“But you said that a Wonderbolt has to have a chain to the respect of command!”

“But then, I never gave you the order to stay, didn’t I?” She smiled and gave him a playful punch in the shoulder, which cheered him up. “You did the right thing by going after your friend, recruit, and if I were you, I’d have done the same. Striving to be the strongest, fastest, and even most obedient Wonderbolt—that is, a Wonderbolt who follows orders to the letter—those things must never come before your fellow flyers. If you think they may need help, always be there to support them regardless of what some wise guys at the top told you to do.”

“Thanks, Miss Spitfire. I’ll try to remember that,” Wind Whisper said. “So, do you want me to carry Glavia now? I think it’s still my turn.”

Spitfire shrugged. “Nah. I’m good. We’re good out there, ball?” she asked, glancing back. “The priority one now is to reunite the squad. Do you have any idea where Chestnut might be?”

“I haven’t seen her, but she’s probably still here in the museum somewhere. Maybe she found Mr. Soarin already?”

“No, I don’t think Soarin’s here,” she muttered. “The sooner we find her, the better. The last thing we need is a lost filly wreaking havoc somewhere on the Promenade. Let’s move out!”

She left the animal room and pondered where to head next, having three ways to choose from before her. The left one got scratched immediately, as it would eventually lead her back to the theater world. The signposted wall had its second plate removed and didn’t tell her where the middle corridor was going. The right one, however, seemed to be a path to a Power Ponies display. She knew close to nothing about those supposed superheroes from Maretropolis—she tried a single issue, it turned out too nerdy for her taste—but she felt that every young pony before a voice change would eventually go there.

As luck, or lack thereof would have it, she was correct. She didn’t have to make a single step off the crossroads.

The corridor resounded with a harsh, tomboyish voice. “I’m telling you, guys, I’ve seen her. She was right there, talking to the animals. Come on, don’t just stand there!”

“Sure. ‘Course she was,” somepony with a country flair didn’t sound convinced. “You saw a Spitfire figure that was all movin’ and talkin’.”

“Maybe that was just somepony really similar to Spitfire,” the most dignified so far suggested. “What do you think, girls?”

The next filly sounded like she could become a great singer had she devoted herself to it. “On one hoof, wax figures can’t move. On the other… maybe that was the real Spitfire?”

“Oh my gosh, yes!” the last one of the group added. “It would be so cool to meet her in person. Wonderbolts and Royal Guards are just so amazing!”

Spitfire counted five distinctive voices heading her way, but none of them belonged to Chestnut. If there was anything more despicable than the adult admirers who ogled her with their tongues out at the first sign of her suit sticking to her sweaty thighs, it would be the children who wanted to talk. Who had questions and wanted to have a picture together, or to get an autograph. At the risk of sounding hypocritical—two and a half kids she could handle, especially since they had a scarcity of grown-up figures in their lives, but facing a school trip was way beyond reasonable limits, especially since she had neither time nor enough pictures for them. Though Spitfire had accepted she wasn’t going to make it to the Firefly Gate, she still had to round up her squad, deliver them to the café, and make it to her debriefing by four. A minute late and the Command would brand her lazy, tardy, and shabby, and they would blacklist her from their new initiative faster than she could spell ‘bat’.

Wind Whisper made a few steps to the right. “Hey, maybe these ponies will know—”

“They won’t. Quick, follow me!” Spitfire ordered and threw herself down the middle corridor, but years of depending on wings and flying took its toll. On hooves, her dashes weren’t anything special.

“There she is!” one of the fillies exclaimed, spotting the mare in the last second. “That’s your moving Spitfire! Let’s find out if she can fly!”

The corridor zigzagged between hexagonal rooms. The entire Candledrops was, in a fitting manner, fashioned after a honeycomb, and Spitfire felt like she was being pursued for stealing its precious gooey goodness. In her flight from the five curious bees, she searched for a cell with a relatively low buzz, but the first two were too crowded to be good hiding spots. She ran past a room in which a trio of ponies bickered under the painting of a fearsome Windigo. Then, with a heavy heart, she ditched the opportunity to meet her favorite singers from the eighties. One fleeting glance sufficed to recognize them all, however—from the blind prodigy Split “Splitty” Sunder, the famous from his flamboyant stage presence Purple Duke, and the ex-military Cougar Rich from a naval-sounding band she could not recall because he started to shine as a solo artist. Spitfire promised herself to return here on her next day off.

She scurried into a promisingly idle passage, grabbing Wind Whisper along.

“Shh!” she hushed him as she glued to the wall. “You too, ball. Just keep your usual, okay? If we’re lucky, they’ll go right pass us.”

“What if we’re not?” Wind Whisper asked, but the mare just waved him shut.

“Where did she go?” came the voice from the corridor.

“I don’t know! Let’s split up!”

“Good idea!”

Wind Whisper shook his head. “Hiding here won’t work,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere!”

Despite Spitfire’s warning hiss he headed outside before she could stop him. He stood in the way of the small pony mob which, however of unimpressive height, was still taller and older than him.

“Everyone! If you’re looking for Spitfire, I just saw her coming this way!” he said, pointing away from the room. “The… leading to the other side of the museum! Way.”

“Cool! Wanna help us find her?”

“Uhm, sure,” Wind Whisper said. “Follow me!”

The ponies went onwards with their crusade. Spitfire sighed with relief, somewhat torn between wanting to promote the kid for his quick-thinking and tactical wit, and wanting to discharge him for once again running away. She dearly hoped she wouldn’t end up being his commanding officer should he one day join the Wonderbolts. By then, she hoped to be long retired after passing the torch to someone with a fresh pool of patience. If her recruits had been like that, she’d lose her sanity after the first week.

Mentally back in the museum, she inspected her surroundings and gasped at a most uncanny view. On the far side of the room, standing between Soarin and Fleetfoot, she saw herself.

Yet there was somepony else visiting the apparent special Summer Wrap Up Wonderbolts display, and Spitfire was positive she had met them both before. The stallion—elegant, chatty, and excessively well-mannered, he was one of the most recognizable nobles in Canterlot and a notable noble individual himself. He had come to be known as a huge enthusiast of the Wonderbolts Derby who, for once, could stay a gentlecolt during meet-and-greets. The mare—his wife perhaps, complemented him in every aspect, and it was impossible not to notice the chiseled shapes of her form. Admittedly, they were to die for.

“Look, that’s Spitfire!” Fleur said to Fancy Pants. “Come-come. I’ll get you a photo.”

Chapter 5 – Rendezvous Point

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Spitfire’s heart resumed its beat.

The two unicorns seemed preoccupied with her wax counterpart, giving her tactical awareness enough time to kick in. There were two ways out—a red brick archway through which she came in, and a similar one near the Wonderbolt display on the other side of the room. She could dash her way out, but with her luck she would run into some other demanding kids waiting outside. Surely the five lured away by Wind Whisper’s bravery weren’t the entire school trip assaulting Candledrops, and on top of that, the colt told her not to go anywhere. Staying here to be found later, however, was almost certainly going to end with a perfectly pleasant though painfully prolonging chat with Fancy Pants.

Spitfire didn’t have time for that. She sneaked to the darkest of the six corners and hid behind a wheeled platform cart.

“I’m not a colt, Fleur,” the stallion’s voice echoed across the room. “I have seen Spitfire on plenty of occasions—during the Derby, the last Grand Galloping Gala, the Equestria Games after-party… I shook hooves with her, even. Wouldn’t it be a tad petty of me to pose next to her here and strike faces or squeal in delight like a foal fan of sorts?”

“Which you are.”

“Which I am indeed!” he agreed and stepped between the figures. “Do get the camera ready!”

Spitfire assumed a low profile and froze. Blast! Couldn’t they just read whatever biographical nonsense had been put on the label and be on their way?

Fleur reached inside her Toity By Design saddlebag and took out a cutting-edge camera that, until this year’s Hearth’s Warming, would remain impossible to get anywhere outside Germaney.

“Alright, here it comes!” She peeked through the viewfinder. “I… guess? I’m not seeing anything.” She trotted to Fancy Pants with the camera in the pink grasp of her magic. “Is it the battery, perhaps?”

When the couple was busy inspecting the instrument, Spitfire grabbed a square sheet off the platform and threw it on her back. Glavia, who buried herself under the jacket didn’t mind the sudden darkness that enveloped her and didn’t protest, for which the mare blessed her in her thoughts. In what must have been the stupidest idea in the history of hiding in plain sight, she silently climbed on the platform and replicated the pose of the figure. Chest protruding forward, head and chin high, right foreleg set to a salute, and a serious glare to go with that. Getting into the correct pose was easy. Now to hold it without getting compromised.

Fancy Pants rolled the camera in his hooves. “The battery would be fine, it’s brand new. It seems to be on, and it’s set to Automatik as it should be… unless the manual lied to me… aha!” He looked at his wife with compassion, holding up a plastic disk. “The lid, dear. Truly, you’d think that one of the only two triple Cosmare Cover Mares would know how to handle it.”

“Oh, tais-toi. I was born to stand on the more demanding side of the camera,” she riposted and turned around, facing Spitfire for a second—but thankfully not noticing her—then walked away to get the best frame possible. “Smile for me, husband! And… voila!” She intercepted the lid sailing towards her and put it back on. “Hmm. Maybe you should have mustered an angrier glare to fit the picture. Just look at this Spitfire. She does look intimidating, doesn’t she?”

“They all do. Spitfire, Soarin, Fleetfoot. Clearly, the intent was to present the Wonderbolts not as celebrities or even athletes, but as those who are willing to protect Equestria should the need arise. An odd choice for the times of peace but it goes well with the message, don’t you think?” Fancy Pants said, tapping on the plaque. “And the quality is simply superb,” he added and took out a brochure out of his tailcoat. “Wonderbolts—checked. Come along, dear. There’s a lot more for us to see!”

Fleur, who in the meantime had leaned on the stallion’s back, waved at the real Spitfire. “What about the one over there? Don’t you want a picture with her as well?”

That was it. Spitfire was done for.

“Not necessarily,” Fancy Pants said. “That one must be from some older exhibition. Look, she doesn’t even have a flight suit! Some would say there’s little worth in meeting a Wonderbolt without their colors on.”

“Since when do you pay so much attention to what other ponies are wearing, I wonder?” Fleur asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

“Since I first saw you on the catwalk.”

“Aww!” She beamed with pleasure, but then immediately assumed a serious expression. She took a step back and placed her hoof on the stallion’s chest in demonstrative denial. From under a frown, she threw him a downhearted stare. “So what you’re saying is that you fell in love with my ensembles and not with who I am underneath? I knew it. You stallions are all the same,” she judged. She shot her muzzle at the ceiling, but her eyes, full of kittenish flares, were quick to escape back to her husband.

“Aren’t you in high spirits today!” Fancy Pants said as he pulled her closer. She didn’t resist. “What got into you?”

“Nothing. It’s just… I’ve been thinking about my career recently. About what I have achieved, and what I couldn’t have achieved yet. And I… I made some plans for the future.”

“What kind of plans, if I may inquire?” he asked, but met only with a cryptic smile substituting for a response. “Ah, spectacular. It’s a mystery. Do they involve me personally, at least?”

Fleur burst out laughing. “Oh, I certainly hope they do!” she chuckled and headed towards the exit. “Shall we, husband?”

Throughout her service, Spitfire had put her heart and soul into becoming a tough mare, as it was expected from a pony rewarded with the stripes. Part of that effort involved getting rid of all sappiness. To quote the former Captain of the Wonderbolts, now retired major Soot Squall: ‘Don’t burn your bingo fuel on getting nostalgic until the day is done and you’ve parked yourself back in the barn’. Right he was—losing focus was a dangerous thing both in and out of combat, and Spitfire was finding no place for sentimentality whether she was training, flying with her squad, or running the office. Right now, while she was standing still like a monument not made by pony hooves, and had only the criticizing gaze of her wax self watching her, she allowed herself a moment of weakness.

Those two unicorns were something special. It was near impossible to spot during meet-and-greets or galas of importance because of the unending game of appearances in which you could either win, or fall into social oblivion. Without the rules guiding them, however, they were natural in their behavior, casual but still decent and true. They were a couple first and foremost, and not just for the show, as some would assume seeing a supermodel mare next to somepony as outstanding as Fancy Pants. They had something that wasn’t included in the drill sergeant starting package.

Spitfire sighed, once again recalling Soarin’s advice. Sure, she would love to go out sometime, but as the many, many chance encounters in the likes of the one outside had proven, a Wonderbolt had rather slim chances of meeting someone interested in what hid beneath the costume. She wasn’t lonely—everybody got that? She wasn’t. But she would nonetheless welcome the company of someone alongside whom she could talk about other matters than flying or the job.

Maybe she didn’t put her heart and soul into her job. Maybe she traded them for it.

She shook her head and remembered she could stop saluting now. Her muscles wobbled when she stretched. Sweet Celestia, she got sappy fast. Good thing no one was watching.

Shortly after Fancy Pants and Fleur left the room, Chestnut popped up in the other entrance.

“Hello? Miss Captain Spitfire, are you here somewhere? Glavia?”

“Present and accounted for,” Spitfire grunted and left the platform, letting the sheet slide off. The uncovered Glavia had another of the mare’s pictures pinched in her beak. “You wanted them to have one too, huh? Good call, just for another day. I sure don’t need their love,” she said and walked to the filly looking around the room. “Well, well, just look what the eastern winds brought us today. Isn’t it the recruit who can’t sit still for five minutes straight?”

Chestnut crossed her forelegs on her chest. “Hey, I can sit still for a lot more than that,” she protested. “Think dinners! Dinners take longer and you have to sit until you’re done. It counts, and I can, so it counts. Ha!”

Spitfire added another note to her mental scratch pad: the understanding of sarcasm wasn’t a thing the ponies were born with.

“Yeah, whatever you say, hotshot,” she replied. “Where’s Wind Whisper? Have you met up with him, or did you find me on your own?”

The filly nodded. “I found him. Or, no, he found me, because I wasn’t really looking for him. It was a surprise-find, I think.”

The tone of her voice shifted into that of a mysterious informant met in a dark alley.

“Psst. He told me that he was looking for you, but not for real. He was actually doing that because some other fillies were looking for you and he said you didn’t want to meet them. So I told them I haven’t seen you, and that wasn’t a lie because they asked about me seeing you in the museum,” she explained. “And then they gave up and me and Wind were going to go back to secretly meet you here.”

She sprung up without warning.

“But then! Then they noticed that he doesn’t have his cutie mark yet and they asked him questions about what he’s good at. I think they were some kind of expresses on finding cutie marks because theirs were so similar to each other. Those of the three of them, I mean. The other two had a spoon and a crown which I think was super cool! The crown, not the spoon.”

That was one terrible sitrep if Spitfire had ever heard one. Too little facts, too much storytelling.

“And here you are at last,” Spitfire cut her short. “I take it that Wind’s on the move as well?”

“He’ll be here soon. He told me to tell you to maintain your position. But since you moved already… yeah. Kinda your fault.”

“My fault, huh? And who’s responsible for dragging me here in the first place?”

Chestnut shuffled her hooves in the awkward silence.

“Well?”

The filly sighed. “Alright, I’m sorry. I know I should have stayed, but I had to do something. I saw Mr. Soarin entering the building and I thought it would be a good idea to call for him, He’s the second most important Wonderbolt after you, right?” She trotted towards the display and to the figure of the stallion. “But I guess I just saw this guy as they were bringing him in. Huh. He’s not even like the real one when you look closer. So, yeah. I’m sorry,” she said and turned to Spitfire. “I don’t get one thing. Wind Whisper said that you were escaping from those schoolponies. Why?”

“I guess I wasn’t in the mood for answering the stupid questions they would throw at me,” Spitfire replied.

“But they all seemed to like you so much! Don’t you like when others think you’re important?”

“You know, sometimes I wish the Wonderbolts weren’t so popular. Sometimes I’d rather have the world forget about me and let me do my job in peace,” she admitted and sat in front of her figure. “The attention we’re getting isn’t as fun as most ponies think and after a while it gets annoying. When I fly, I fly because I’m good at it and because I want to do my part to keep this country running. But when I land, suddenly there are all those crazy ponies who want to have a chat, an autograph, or a photo. And they always ask the same blasted questions. ‘How was your flight?’ ‘Will you be participating during the next Derby?’ ‘What technique did you use this time?’ Shaking hooves, interviews, gala invitations… it’s a waste of everyone’s time.”

Chestnut sat beside her.

“I think… I think it must be nice to have so many ponies interested in you…”

“No. No it’s not.”

Spitfire gazed at her figure with contempt. Stunts like that were only making things worse. They were sealing her celebrity status in the minds of the pony folk—obviously, she wouldn’t have her own figure in Candledrops if that wasn’t the case. The truth was, Spitfire didn’t like the idea from the start and she agreed to attend a measuring session only when the Command issued the order. She was to quit acting offended, and accept the tradition of giving prominent Wonderbolts their figures.

What the Command failed to mention was that the first Wonderbolt ever depicted in wax got his statue after he met his end in a burning ship loaded with gunpowder. He saved six members of the H.M.S. Trailblazer’s crew before it turned into a giant pyre and condemned him to the depths of the South Luna Ocean. For his act of bravery, Captain Typhoon Chaser deserved every moment of admiration, those preserved in wax included, but every future Wonderbolt would get theirs statues because their predecessors had theirs. Even if the best they had done in life was winning a few races.

She heard a snivel.

Chestnut was in tears, her ears flopped and her composure suffering a meltdown.

“Hey! Hey, what is it?” Spitfire asked. She felt Glavia wriggling on her back, so she sat her under the other Spitfire. The griffon’s stare was also saddened. “No! You’ve had your share today, so be brave!” She leveled herself with the filly. “Hey, kid, talk to me! What’s the matter?”

Burdened by the weight of her sobs, Chestnut subsided into the floor and wrapped her wings around her crestfallen figure.

“I’m sorry! It’s just… it’s just this is my fifth year at the Orphanarium. There’s been a lot of nice ponies coming and going and talking with Doc Hugs about us, and sometimes choosing one of us to talk more or even to spend a special time at their homes. Sometimes they take us after that and we can have a new home and a new mommy and daddy. Sometimes they don’t, but that’s okay. It’s the first thing you’re supposed to learn when you’re an orphan, right? To not cry when ponies go away.”

“Is that why you’re upset? Did somepony chose you and then left you?”

“No one ever chooses me,” Chestnut whispered. “No one has ever been as interested in me as they are in you.”

Spitfire felt a sting of grief piercing her heart. She got it now. What was the saying again? One pony’s trash is another pony’s treasure?

“O-of course they are! Maybe they’re just not showing that because they’re not ready, or maybe it’s because… uhm, because…”

“Because I’m so different!” Chestnut cried out in ire. “It’s not fair! They all want a pony who’ll be just like them. They always want a unicorn, or a pegasus, or an earth pony. When they see me, they look away. They pretend they don’t see me. They laugh at the way I say words. They don’t like my wings. They are scared because my eyes aren’t like theirs,” she said, “I’m sure Wind and Glavia will get adopted soon, just like Crackdawn did. And Lodestar. And Verdant. They were all younger than me. And I’m older every year, and no thestrals are coming for me. Not one.”

Spitfire spread her wing over the filly. She hesitated. She wasn’t the hug-giving type and the Hurricane Academy had hardly any lectures on how to handle such situations. Truth be told, she could understand the wannabe parents who wanted their children to be alike them—such were probably much easier to adopt and to adapt to—but she didn’t want to leave the kid with nothing. She didn’t feel like feeding her with lies, either. The chances of getting picked up by thestrals in a city like Canterlot were rather slim, as aside from Princess Luna’s entourage and some among the Nightguard, there just weren’t enough of them in Equestria to give Chestnut a promising perspective.

Slowly, Spitfire wrapped her wing around the filly.

“We ponies should look beneath the surface more often,” she said, squeezing the absolute drips of softness out of her voice. “I’ve met a thestral in Saddle Arabia, you know, a guy with a beautiful voice. He would teach us those really old local songs and whatnots we would then sing by the campfire. We had a lot of fun, but when the fire was dying down, he told me exactly what you’re telling me now—that your kind gets the short end of the stick and that allegations against you are piling up wherever you go.”

Chestnut’s ears perked up. “Alle-what?”

“Allegations.”

“I don’t understand.”

Spitfire furrowed her brow. “It’s, uh—how to put it? It’s when someone thinks or says mean things about others but they don’t actually know if those other ponies are like that,” she explained. The filly nodded. “I know it’s rough to be a thestral these days, especially in Canterlot. But you mustn’t give up, okay? You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, so try to make the best of it. Be good to others, be proud of yourself, and eventually others will start noticing how great little filly you are.”

“Great enough… to get adopted?” Chestnut asked wishfully.

“Maybe not anytime soon. Maybe not the way you imagine, and maybe not even by thestrals you’re waiting for. But one day—one day you’ll get your special time with some nice ponies and when that happens, they better not find you all mopey and cowering on the floor. So saddle up and flex those wings, recruit!” Spitfire said, eliciting a chuckle from Chestnut whose tears were only remembered in her wet cheeks. “And hey, here’s the deal. If you’ll ever get too old for the Orphanarium and I’m still captaining the Wonderbolts, go find me. If your flying is any good we’ll make you a real Wonderbolt. Or at least find something for you to do to make a living.”

“I’m a big pony, you know. You don’t have to promise me things you can’t give just to make me feel better,” Chestnut said and crawled from under Spitfire’s wing. She straightened up. “We have your old recurrent poster in the bedroom. You only take pegasi.”

Spitfire opened her mouth to assure that thestrals were indeed considered, but then, in an afterthought, she realized that talking about covert initiatives born from the cooperation with the Nightguard wasn’t the brightest of ideas. The project, so affectionately named after shadows and bolts alike, was rumored to have been scrapped—which, considering its secrecy, almost certainly meant it would be getting a go. Knowing for sure was above her pay grade, but if she had put two and two together well enough, then today’s briefing was going to shed some light on the matter. Or soak it in darkness, rather.

“We’ll figure something out,” Spitfire said with a shrug.

A happy chirp cleansed the heavy atmosphere. Too small to understand the dilemmas of the big ponies around her, Glavia was instead finding the labyrinth of a dozen legs extremely fun to traverse.

“So that’s you. And that’s Mr. Soarin and Miss Fleetfoot,” Chestnut said, nodding her chin at the figures. She walked to an ornate plaque between the Spitfires. “We talked about them, too. But what’s that?”

“Looks like the speech I gave when I was sworn in as the commanding officer of the Wonderbolts.” Spitfire chuckled lightly upon giving the words a quick glance. “Heh, I didn’t remember phrasing it that way. They said I got cheesy towards the end, but I liked it.”

Chestnut strained to read the first line. “B… bee… ca… bee-ca-use, at a g-gla… glan-cee? Glancie. Bee-ca-use, at a glancie—”

“Would you like me to read it for you?”

Disconsonanted by the overvoweling odds, the filly planked her head on the plaque. “Yes, please. I’m kinda not super good at letters and stuff.”

The message was carved in bronze with golden letters. Spitfire cleared her throat.

“Because, at a glance, this is exactly what we are: a group of pegasi with strong wings who happens to fly well.

But we have to aspire to be more than just acrobats. We should, in a manner of speaking, spread our wings further and beyond race tracks, because we are tasked with protecting Equestria first and foremost. We are tasked with making sure that our country stays safe for the sake of us all. For every mare, for every stallion. Every earth pony, unicorn, pegasus, and anyone else who finds themselves in need. For every adult and for every child, we, the Wonderbolts, will be there when you need us.

The greater the wing span, the greater the responsibility for those resting underneath.”

Spitfire whistled. “Wow. I actually wrote the whole thing myself.”

“It sounds like all those things Doc Hugs tells us when he wants us to be nicer. He also talks a lot about respossibility,” Chestnut said, then turned a pleading expression at the mare. “Miss Captain Spitfire? If I’ll have nowhere else to go, and I’ll find you, and you’ll make me a Wonderbolt… could you please make Wind Whisper one as well? His wings are bigger than mine and he really wants to be a Wonderbolt when he’s older.”

“Am I hearing things? You want him to be on the same team after all the fighting you had today?”

Chestnut’s cheeks crimsoned as she cast her gaze downwards. “I guess I was just angry at him because last week some ponies talked to him. They didn’t choose him for the special time, but they didn’t choose any of us. But he was talking a lot about them, and I didn’t want to listen to that because, well, you know,” she said. “I mean… Doc Hugs says I should care about others, but why should I do that if no one cares about me?”

“Now, that? That’s definitely not true, miss,” Spitfire replied. “To not look too far—did you know that when you ran away, Wind Whisper came looking for you first?”

“He came after me?” she asked, her eyes growing wide. When the mare nodded, her blush deepened. “And after I was so mean to him! I know I wouldn’t come for myself if I was also him.” She sighed. “I’m a not-okay pony. After today, he probably won’t talk to me ever again.”

Spitfire threw a glance over Chestnut’s shoulder and cracked a smile. She gently turned the filly around.

“Only one way to find out, kid.”

Wind Whisper blasted into the room and looked around nervously. After he spotted Spitfire and Chestnut, he heaved a sigh and trotted towards them with a colored leaflet clenched in his teeth.

“Wind!” Chestnut exclaimed. “You’re back!”

“You made it, too!” he replied. “Sorry it took so long, Miss Spitfire! Those ponies that were chasing us? They’re from Ponyville. They help others find what they’re actually good at so they could get their cutie marks sooner. They even gave me their guide. Look!”

“And all I got was a cryptic firebird,” the mare said, grabbing the leaflet. “Speaking of birds, now that we’re all here, I’ll go get Glavia. In the meantime”—she looked upon the foals—“I feel that you two have something to discuss.”

She walked away to give the two kids some privacy and space. She wasn’t their mother, and now that they were both safe and sound, she didn’t feel like solving any more issues for them. As she reached out to get the fun-having Glavia from under the other Spitfire’s chiseled legs—wow, either she was like that, or they really gave her figure some improvements—she stuck her eyes in the leaflet. Before her was a list of the most common mistakes made by those seeking their cutie marks. She read the first sentence about something but she learned nothing, then read another but couldn’t repeat it either, because of course she was busy eavesdropping on what the two orphans were talking about. She had allowed herself to be a sentimental sap today before—she might as well go all the way.

“Uhm, so, hi again,” Chestnut said, shuffling her hooves. “Did you read anything interesting in that thing?”

“A few cool things,” Wind Whisper replied, avoiding the filly’s eyes.

“So… Miss Captain Spitfire said y-you went looking for me?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t just leave you. I mean, the last thing Miss Spitfire told us was to stay there, but that was before she went for Glavia. When you ran after Mr. Soarin, I was thinking what was more important: to stay like Miss Spitfire said, or to make sure you’re alright on your own.” He unstuck his gaze from the ceiling and flashed a sheepish smile. “I decided to go because I can’t get into the Wonderbolts for just listening, right?”

“You said it! And thanks for coming after me. I appreciate it,” she replied and winced. “And… I’m sorry for all the things I said earlier. I was mean, and being mean is not okay. I’m sure you’ll be a great Wonderbolt.”

“I was mean, too. I know that you have trouble reading, but you’re also getting better. And you can count on me if you’ll find something difficult. I’ll help you,” he assured. “Because, you know, I’m only good at maths thanks to you. So… yeah.”

“Yeah,” Chestnut replied. “Kinda cool to know it, too.”

“Totally.”

“Nice.”

When words no longer sufficed, the ponies turned at Glavia’s joyful squeak. Spitfire promptly looked away so that they wouldn’t capture the satisfied, dreamy smug she had on her face.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Wind Whisper said. “Doctor Hugs told us to take care of Glavia today and we almost lost her. We probably don’t deserve to get back to our spots on the list.”

“Fine by me,” Chestnut replied with a shrug. “If we’re both at the end, that means we’re both together at the end, and that means in a few months we’ll be getting the first read two weeks in a row.”

“Hey, that’s awesome! Maybe we’ll even get that when the Winter two-parter comes out!” He beamed with excitement and moments later was already bouncing up and down in glee. “Awesome, awesome!”

Chestnut laughed, joining in with a big grin of her own. When she suddenly stopped, the other pony froze as well. She took a step, stood muzzle to muzzle with the colt, and put her hoof on his shoulder.

“So… friends again?”

Wind Whisper nodded, welcoming the hug.

“Friends. Always.”

Chapter 6 – Final Approach

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The subsequent withdrawal of the Wonderbit forces from Candledrops was far from immediate, and it was mostly Spitfire’s fault.

After some convincing, she made a call to scratch the Firefly Gate off their schedule and spend a few more minutes at the museum. Now that she had the orphans banded up together again, she’d take the shortest route to the café rather than gallop all the way to the Promenade where more dangers certainly lurked. She didn’t want to pose as overprotective, but her squad—her cheerful, huggable, and all in all mostly innocent squad—was an asset worth securing. Like a good team, the children regained a lot of their concord once they reunited. Chestnut offered to carry Glavia, so Wind Whisper elected for her to choose which of the many remaining displays they would go and see. In return, Chestnut chose the Power Ponies room despite having visited it on her own earlier, so that her friend could see it too.

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” Spitfire said as they left the urban scenery of Maretropolis. “Radiance is the one with the glowing rope?”

The foals rolled their eyes in unison—because how dare Spitfire not know every bit of lore about the Power Ponies.

“It’s not a rope. It’s a lasso,” Wind Whisper replied. “And no, Radiance has the power bracelets she got from a superhero from another planet who crashed his spaceship in Maretropolis.”

Spitfire shook her head. “No, you’ve just said it was the zeppelin pilot who got the bracelets. Green Gardener or something like that?”

“Green Gardener is Radiance’s real name, duh!” Chestnut cut in. “And the one with the lasso is called Mistress Mare-velous. She’s super strong because she comes from a super old city of Alfalfis that’s also an island, but she had to leave her home to help others. She’s my favorite Power Pony and I know everything about her!” she threatened. “For example, did you know she had four costumes but only three red ones? That’s because after she got her powers back from Shadowmane who stole them, she started wearing more black and also a hood like the one Shadowmane is wearing. Some say it’s because the Mane-iac’s power stealing machine turned her evil, but I don’t think that’s true.”

“She threw her hoofarangs at Masked Matter-Horn though,” Wind Whisper pointed out. “And in the last issue she ran away. She’s hiding something.”

“Sometimes hiding stuff is the only way to keep others from a bigger danger. I’m sure she has her reasons!”

However civil, the chitchat on the difficult matters of trust and allegiances was getting increasingly confusing with every new character introduced. At first, Spitfire was impressed by how many bizarre names could be crammed into a young pony’s head, and she had to admit there was at least some well-thought backstory behind them, but she soon gave up on figuring the phenomenon of superheroes. Nerd fiction just wasn’t for her.

On their way out, they passed by a room where two actual heroines resided.

Instead of drawing a strong line between their figures and separating the display into two parts, one representing the day, and one mirroring the night, the room was kept in a state of perpetual twilight. The cunning use of lamps illuminating the horizon entwined with the darkening shades of blue going up to the ceiling adorned with shining sequins, creating the ultimate union between the two extremes. Similarly, the two sisters weren’t looking the opposite ways, but were turned towards each other. Their eyes aligned to the inch, suggesting that the visionary behind the scene wanted them to be parts of the same display from the very start.

A single peek inside was enough for Chestnut to quickly turn to the oh-so-interesting fire safety regulations in the corridor.

“Look, Miss Spitfire!” Wind Whisper called, getting to the tips of his hooves and shooting his chin up. “I can almost reach Princess Luna’s wing!”

“You sure can, kid, but we need to be going now. Come on, wave the Princesses goodbye!”

Unbeknown to her, Chestnut sighed with relief.

The museum’s other exit cast them out on Ivory Street. As they strolled southboundish, Spitfire scanned the area for pointers as to where exactly they ended up, but the ground level in no way matched the city plan she had in her head. She was used to finding her way in Canterlot through differing heights and more distinctive rooftops, and she only had to hoof it during official parades with predefined routes. She felt bad for not knowing the capital better—then again, she doubted anypony from around here knew Baltimare like she did.

She got the general idea of her whereabouts once she spotted a big-boned griffon sweeping the pavement before his store. She had visited the place a few times, most recently during a sudden shortage of color highlighters everywhere at the Hurricane Academy where she was supposed to hold a seminar on the tactical advantages of slipstreaming. If Gabriel’s Emporium was here, then their ETA was just a few minutes. Even though she didn’t dread the time with the orphans like she thought she would, she was looking forward to completing this assignment. She had enough adventures for one day.

Those, however, did not share her sentiment—and neither did a femme fatale unicorn sporting a classy fedora standing on the corner of Ivory and Ruby.

“What bounty! It seems our paths cross once again!” the mare said, her voice oozing with theatrical mockery. “Raisin Rose, Voice of the Promenade. May I ask you a few questions?”

Spitfire gritted her teeth. “I know who you are, Resin. What do you want? Haven’t you had enough fun at my expense?”

The reporter put a hoof to her chest. “Ah! I’m insulted, truly I am. You know that I’m here merely to build bridges between my readers and what’s worth knowing.” Her horn gleamed with jonquil light and immediately a small notepad and a pencil appeared out of nowhere. “So, I see you are in the company of children.” She glanced at them from over her glasses, the frame of which was fashioned after a twisted stalk. “Quite a… diverse bunch. Rescued them from a tree, have you? Would that be a recruiting attempt, or something to fix the public image of the Wonderbolts which, according to a recent poll, isn’t flawless, though still a bit better than back in the day? Oh, and do be a good pony and try to spit out something printable rather than telling me to stick my you-know-what you-know-where like you so cordially did the last time.”

“What the what now?” Wind Whisper turned to Chestnut, but the filly shrugged, blissfully clueless.

“Grown-ups,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

Spitfire recalled the nightmare that arose after a Wonderbolt veteran Wind Rider—now dishonorably discharged—tried to play dirty to preserve his long-distance speed record. In her commentary on the matter, Raisin Rose made it look like the whole team was morally corrupt and stopped at nothing when it came to winning. Spitfire had to go through an awful lot of inspections, present proper documentation, show that she knows the procedures, pass a herb test and so on. At some party later on, she firmly told the nosy reporter what she was thinking about her so-called journalism. The drama may or may not have ended with a bowl of cream on someone’s head. Since then, Spitfire had been in the state of war with Raisin Rose, Voice of the Promenade.

Though the memories got her hot under the collar, Spitfire decided to be a better pony this time.

“Oh, I’ll give you your material,” she chuckled. “The whole, unbiased truth.”

“Well, you do look like a walking fashion disaster, so I’m all ears.”

“Today I’m participating in the joint maneuvers between the Wonderbolts and the Canterlot Orphanarium,” Spitfire began. “We have been invited by Doctor Sunlit Hugs who runs the facility to drop by and spend the afternoon with his pupils.” She showed the mare to the foals who grinned and waved at the reporter. Raisin Rose gestured back slightly, though her expression remained impassive. “We’ve been visiting important landmarks in the vicinity, talking about the history of the Wonderbolts, and sharing in the virtues of discipline, responsibility, and fraternity which we are proud to adhere. Oh, and before you ask, we’re not getting a single bit out of it. Five of my teammates volunteered to spend their spare time with the kids, and they did it out of their good nature. Not that you have any idea what that is.”

“A pony is a timberwolf to pony, but we can skip the philosophers for your sake. But what I’m seeing here bears marks of an elaborate PR stunt. How do you plead?”

“Well, you’re seeing it wrong,” Spitfire retorted. “Your buddies at the Voice would’ve gotten a press release if we wanted publicity. Today’s not about us, however. It’s about these little guys.”

The pencil stopped its furious dance. The mare’s horn gleamed once again, causing the tools of her trade to vanish. At the same time, her headwear bulged a little.

“Careful, captain. You’re getting borderline sentimental. Or is that your new training regimen? Do you Wonderbolts actually drill those mawkish monologues?”

Spitfire groaned. “Are you for real? I’m giving you a chance to write something serious, to raise awareness, so that the poor kids could maybe get back a little something from life that’s been doing nothing but taking its toll, and you’re still in it just to make a mock of us?”

“And why would I do that? You and your flyponies are putting enough effort on your own.”

“Why, you—”

Raisin Rose intercepted Spitfire’s hoof and captured it in her own, taking a step forth. “Oh, I love when you’re getting all feisty because of me, truly I do.” She loosened her grip. “Alas, I see that you haven’t landed in the middle of a controversy for once, which means you are of no interest to me. Today. Thank you ever so kindly for your time, though,” she said with a generous smile.

Spitfire felt an urge to give someone a hoof bump. With a rusty, type-sixty pipe from a nearby dig site. Straight to the face. And multiple times.

Unshaken by Spitfire’s flustered figure, Raisin Rose stepped between the foals with a practiced sigh.

“I’ll probably pass my notes to some young idealist who thinks he can make a difference by reporting about what’s warm and fuzzy,” she said, cupping Chestnut’s chin. “About the world’s ‘good nature’, as you put it. Or perhaps I’ll write it myself!” She reached out to pat Glavia’s little head. “The day’s been awfully boring anyway, and I have to make a living somehow. Besides—ouch!” she exclaimed as the griffon playfully clenched onto her. She shook her off with ease. “Not bad! I tell you, Spitfire, if you’re planning on enlisting griffons then you may one day turn your little weather patrol into an actual defense force.”

“And if you’re planning on trying yourself at serious journalism… no, you’d be still far from being an actual reporter.” She put on her sunglasses. “Good day.”

“I’m not your enemy, captain!” the mare yelled on parting. “I’m just good at giving my readers what they want. It’s not my fault you’re such an interesting character!”

With that, Raisin Rose, Voice of the Promenade trotted down the city’s veins in hope of gripping another controversy right at its beating heart.

“That lady was mean,” Wind Whisper said. “Does she have a problem with the Wonderbolts?”

“A little, yeah. She thinks that we’re not very good at protecting Equestria.”

“How can she say that? The Wonderbolts are the best helping flying ponies there are, well, maybe next to the Princesses, but they also have magic so it doesn’t count. You’re great at protecting Equestria, I know it! She can ask me and I’ll tell her!”

Spitfire smiled, ruffled his mane, but succumbed to a sigh. “I’m afraid it would take more than one interview to convince her and her readers that we’re actually doing our job well. She’d need something more dramatic, like a catastrophe to write about, because these days we really are just a glorified weather patrol. Either nothing happens, or it’s a thing that’s so out of our league it’s better left to the Princesses. There haven’t been any threats lately the ponies of Equestria would need us at.”

“Well, I don’t know about the rest of Equestria, but Canterlot is big and a bit scary. But I’m not scared when you’re around. I feel protected!”

“Yeah, me too!” Chestnut added. “And remember that without you, we’d never-ever go on a trip like this, especially not with Glavia.” She glanced over her shoulder. “She isn’t even allowed to climb trees, let alone visit museums, am I right?”

“Wo!”

Spitfire chuckled. “Say again, ball?”

“Weird,” Wind Whisper said. “I’ve never heard this one before.” He gasped and grabbed the griffon. “She’s trying to say her first word! What is it, what are you going to say?”

“Wo!”

“Wo? Wo-what?” Chestnut asked.

“Wo-bolt!” Glavia replied, pointing at Spitfire.

“Wobolt? Oh, Wonderbolt! Yes, Miss Spitfire is a Wonderbolt. Very good! Say it with me: Won-der-bolt.”

“Wo-bolt!”

“That’s close enough,” Wind Whisper said, trying to get a hold of Glavia as she frantically flapped her wings and reached out towards Spitfire. “Hey, easy there! You sound sweet when you speak, but you’re still full of pointy endings! Help!”

“I think it’s time for my five minutes again,” Spitfire said and crouched by the colt so he could unload the griffon onto her back. Glavia, however, forced her way up Spitfire’s neck. The mare winced, but helped her get to the top. “On my head, then. Sure. I look like a thousand disasters anyway,” she said, glancing at her reflection in the nearby window. Her de-buttoned jacket, rumpled shirt, and tie with its pathetic excuse for a knot were as representative as her coat marked with whatever substances once flowed through the pipe she had crawled through.

She felt a set of talons reaching to her ear.

“Under one condition,” she said upwards. “You stay away from my glasses. Deal?”

Glavia burrowed herself in Spitfire’s mane.

“Good. You’d still look ridiculous.”

With her spirits lifted by the kids willing to support her, and her neck willing to support the kid she had lifted onto her head, Spitfire and her team of valiant Wonderbits mustered their strength, endurance and willpower one last time to reach their destination.

Soon they stopped at a welcoming passage that lead through the ground floor of a three-storey building. The archway framing the entrance was made of red bricks similar to those forming the museum’s facade, though possessing a charming flair of unevenly burnt clay to it. The windows on the right from the passage and along its right wall had reddish bird silhouettes painted all over. Blurred by design, those unruly cuckoos were the establishment’s trademark which attracted many artistic souls seeking inspiration in their two-dimensional flight of fancy. Of course the Red Cuckoo Café also offered regular nourishment for those unwilling to sustain themselves on their much moving art.

Spitfire heard Soarin’s laughter coming somewhere from the other end of the passage.

“Well, that’s it,” she said, landing Glavia on Wind Whisper’s back. “I know we didn’t take the planned route, but thanks to the little shortcut through the museum we’re like… six minutes ahead of schedule. Do you think your Doctor Hugs will mind?”

“Nah,” Wind Whisper said with a shrug. “He likes you way too much.”

“E-excuse me?”

“Totally! He was talking about your visit all week, you know. I think he was even more excited than we were. He told us you’re the most—”

Chestnut stuck her hoof in his mouth. “Shh! Wind! That’s a secret!”

“Oops! My bad!” He leaned to Chestnut’s ear and covered his muzzle, but his whisper was still perfectly audible. “What about that time when he asked Soft Spot which of his new ties she thinks will be more up to Miss Spitfire’s liking? Is this something we’re not telling too?”

Chestnut landed a hoof on her forehead. “You are a terrible keeper, you know that?” She then turned to the still dumbfounded mare. “Hey, did you know you’re red on your face? Right here.” She bopped Spitfire’s cheeks which blazed like wildfire. “Let’s go find the others!”

“The last at Doctor Hugs is a Hum Drum!”

They galloped forth, leaving the mare amid her thoughts.

She felt like a high schooler again, a naive, growing-up filly prone to silly crushes she’d later claim as great romances. She, the strict, task-oriented pony with a strong military mindset, caught herself wondering if there was a grain of truth to what the orphans spilled out. The perspective was intriguing, but for some reason made her continue down the passage rather reluctantly, perhaps even with a dose of anxiety. She actually considered turning her tail and fleeing right this instant, but that would be most un-Wonderbolty of her.

Should she stay out, or should she go for it? At least Soarin would cut his nagging if she tried, but she wouldn’t consider him her life coach. Still, it wasn’t like she had anything to lose, and if something went wrong she could always blame the kids for suggesting the idea to her. Yes! That was a flawless tactic. Yet it was also pure nonsense, because no pony in right mind would want to hang out with someone as cynical as her. Unless they were getting an autograph later on, but that wasn’t the case here. Hopefully. Wishfully?

Her ears perked up at the familiar sounds. In her thoughts she thanked to whoever picked the ambience of the café’s roofless patio, because if there was one thing she’d take as a promise of a good time, it was the music of the eighties—that, and seeing her Wonderbolts laughing and fooling around with the children. Seated at the low tables on red and black cushions, they were all present and accounted for, from Cloudchaser hoof-wrestling against the crystal pony twins, to Fleetfoot, swarmed by her recruits, posing for photographs. Soarin was the only one who spotted Spitfire right away. He straightened up in a reflex salute, and the Wonderbits gathered before him turned around and repeated the gesture.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Doctor Hugs beckoned to Spitfire. “Ah, captain! Please, join us! Hey, Vicky! Can we please get another seat to our table?”

The pony in question, Victory Sash, was an amber mare wearing the colors of the café and a small, silvered cuckoo token pinned on her chest.

“Sorry, Mr. Hugs, but we seem to be short on stock with that. We don’t usually serve such large, if small clientele. Tell you what, though”—she reached to the pillow underneath the stallion—“we have a few of these. Do get up, please. Here you are! We have a few expandable ones, they’re like flat sofas, I guess.” She turned to Spitfire with an apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry, captain, but as you can see we have a rush today!”

“Oh, I can stand. I-I can’t stay, actually,” Spitfire replied, but was quickly flanked by Chestnut and Wind Whisper who led her towards the table.

“Nonsense!” Victory Sash remarked. “I heard you’re on your way to the Academy, isn’t that right? It’s not too far from here, you know, even by hoof. Mr. Hugs, do move a bit!” she ordered and together with the foals seated Spitfire in the stallion’s personal space. “There! Not too tight for you two, I hope?”

“It’s actually quite, uhm, quite cozy,” Spitfire admitted, trying to fight the awkwardness with little to no success. “I-I guess I can stay a minute?”

“Don’t worry, captain,” Doctor Hugs said, leaning in, “I haven’t forgotten about our agreement. We’ll get the official part under way and you’ll be free to go.” He eyed the snickering orphans at the other side of the table. “So, from what I heard you didn’t get to the Firefly Gate, but instead went through… I’m not exactly sure how to put it. What did you say it was, you were saying?”

“Fountains!” Chestnut exclaimed. “Big holes in the ground! Pipes falling from the sky!”

“Missing Miss Spitfire! Missing Chestnut! Missing me!”

“Awesome museum shortcuts! Power Ponies!”

“A mean reporter lady! Glavia talking!”

“Wo-bolt!”

“Coming to the café! Finding you! Eating ice cream—wait, we’re still before that.”

“Ha-ha, I hear you,” Victory Sash deadpanned. “You want your ice cream, you’re going to help me first. I’ve got some bags in the back I need moved and I think it’ll take all three of you to make it happen, okay?” she said and gave them an intense stare.

Chestnut slowly backed away from the table, dragging Wind Whisper along. “Oh. Yeah. We’re gonna help with some bags, Doc. You know.”

“By all means, please do,” the stallion replied. “Excuse me, captain. You seem to have something stuck in your mane. About”—he pointed a little over his temple—“here?”

Her mane was a mess anyway, so she shook it forcefully. “Did I get it?”

“Not… exactly. May I?” he asked, and upon receiving one timid nod he gently stroked her hairline. “There, some white flakes. And there. I wonder, do clouds have that much lime in them, or were you just scratching scale off your kettle?” He nudged her, eliciting a muffled squeak, and whispered, “Shh, here they come! Try to act surprised, if you please.”

The orphans approached amid a conundrum of sorts.

“You talk,” Chestnut whispered.

“No, you talk. I give.”

“Okay. I talk. Glavia holds. You give.”

“Okay.”

Chestnut took a sharp breath and spouted, “Miss Captain Spitfire, we’d like to thank you for coming with us today and showing us the fountain and the museum and the stuff and teaching us a lot about the Wonderbolts. You are super great, which is like normal great but also more, and we like you very much and because of that we want you to have this.”

Wind Whisper raised Glavia to the mare’s eye level to deliver a colorful card the griffon was holding. Inside, there was an arty collage made of wool, pieces of fabric, beads, confetti, and whatever that smooth ribbon was.

Spitfire cracked a smile and coughed to not burst out laughing.

“So, whose idea it was to make my wings so big, hmm?”

“At first we thought that since you’re the captain you’ll have the biggest wings,” Chestnut said. “It made sense at the time, but then Doc Hugs told us that’s not how it works. Then we did it anyway because we had a lot of yellow wool to spare. Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful. I love the little beads for eyes, too. But I never imagined myself as a half-dragon.”

“You’re not a half-dragon here! A half-dragon would have half-scales and half-talons!”

“Well then, why I am breathing half-flames here? The Wonderbolts don’t do that, you know.”

Wind Whisper pumped up with a I-was-right-you-were-wrong gloat.

“See? I told you she doesn’t really spit fire.”

“How could I know? My name tells me what I’m good at. I thought hers would too.”

Spitfire crouched by the orphans and gave each a heartfelt hug. “You guys are the best. The best Wonderbits I could have ever asked for.” She cradled Glavia in her foreleg with gentleness she didn’t know she had in her. “That means you too, ball. But next time you want to go under the streets of Canterlot, make sure you have your friends watching your back, okay? They’ll take care of you when I’m gone. As for you two, no fighting over nothing, okay?”

The foals nodded, and Glavia cooed in understanding and nuzzled up against Spitfire’s chest. A sensation of peace filled the mare now that she realized she had delivered the kids and thus accomplished her mission. She was free to go at last.

But then a thorn of grief stung her.

She dried her eyes and straightened up. “Listen up, recruits,” she said, bringing up her military swagger again. “I had a great time working with you on this assignment. I hope that we’ll be able to repeat it in the near, however undisclosed future. Unfortunately, as the captain of the Wonderbolts I have many other responsibilities, and one of them demands I leave you now. I… I can’t stay with you for the rest of the afternoon, even though I’d love to participate in other activities you have planned for today.”

Instead of getting droopy, Wind Whisper turned excited. “Oh, when there’s no lead pony, the squad breaks up and the pegasi are put into other squads. It’s called reassigning, right? Can we get reassigned to Miss Cloudchaser?”

Chestnut snickered and leaned with a whisper, “Don’t tell anyone, but Wind thinks she’s pretty.”

“Huh? What are you saying there, Nutsie?”

“Uhm, nothing, just asking if Miss Captain Spitfire will take a picture with us.”

“Oh! Good idea!” the oblivious colt replied and trotted back to the edge of the passage. “Maybe here? With the cuckoos in the background?”

Chestnut eagerly joined in. “Can we do the big wings thing? You know, we spread our wings to the sides to look cool and also because we’ll be really responsible from now on, like it said in the museum. Wind, you stand here.” She spotted the colt’s bandages and his disheartened muzzle. “Or, you know what’s even better? We’ll do one wing each. You spread one, I do the other, and Miss Captain does both and we stay underneath.”

“Like that?” Spitfire asked, taking her place between the children.

“Yeah! And Glavia… do whatever you like, I guess,” she said and proudly protruded her right wing to the side. “Because, you know, big wings mean big responsibility.”

“Or a big ball of wool,” Spitfire chuckled and waved to a mare holding a camera. “Hey, excuse me, could we get—yeah, thanks. Alright, Wonderbits! Take positions!”

Back at the tables, Doctor Hugs smiled at the scene. The faith he had put in a pony’s good nature once again turned out well-placed, and rewarded him with uplifting feelings exchanged all around. That was his job—making the world a better place by showing others they could be so much more.

If his hunch was right, then both Chestnut and Wind Whisper learned a valuable lesson from Spitfire. The captain herself seemed more cheerful as well, without a doubt the result of having her drawn out from her regular social role and making her a caretaker for the little ones. It may have helped that they were her fans. The Red Cuckoo only contributed further to this welcoming feel. There was the captain’s favorite music playing in the background, she was found a place at the tables despite the crowded conditions, and she was given a complimentary treat.

He looked at the two cupcakes Victory Sash put before him. Be that by bad luck or cunning design, they were conjoined on the edges and would have to be pulled apart to be shared.

In an epiphanic moment he realized it was all coming along too easily.

“Here you are, Mr. Hugs,” the waitress said. “I’ll bring the ice cream in a minute. Oh, and sorry about the cupcakes. In this last batch we had them too close and that happened. I would normally prepare another, but since Miss Spitfire is in a hurry…”

“Yes, I understand now,” he replied under his breath. “A minute of your time, Vicky! I’ve been thinking about your excellent choice of music for today. I understand the eighties aren’t in your usual repertoire? I remember you told me once me that since your target customer base are young ponies, you strive to keep up with the modern music,” he said, to which the mare didn’t reply, but gave him a perplexed stare. “Of course I am a big fan of those tunes myself, and I believe our Wonderbolt in charge is also content with the choice. Look at her hoof. She’s been tapping the rhythm since she came in.”

“We were, uhm, we were just experimenting with the wider choice of café ambiance music, that’s all. I-I’m glad it is up to your liking. We want our guests to feel taken care for.”

“Quite so indeed, yes. I salute your quick-thinking one the matter of the seating in particular. You obviously didn’t want to have one of your guest sit on the ground… or use one of a dozen pillows you’ve got stashed under the counter for emergencies like that?”

“I-I’m afraid I don’t know what do you mean by that, Mr. Hugs.”

“Nothing, nothing,” he assured. “It just shows your care for your customers. Still, this cupcake-for-two I’m seeing here, however a good deal, made me wondering. Was Fizzy around here today, by any chance?”

“No,” the mare quickly replied. “She wasn’t around here today, why?”

Doctor Hugs leveled her with a knowing stare.

“Darn it,” she murmured and held her silver plate high to hide a blooming blush which made her cheeks go through a sunset. “Uhm, excuse me. There are other guests waiting for their orders. Excuse me.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Doctor Hugs tried to catch Spitfire’s eye. With a big grin on her face, she allowed the children to arrange her wings into a properly photogenic spread. When she spotted that the stallion was watching her, she gave him a nod, and he replied in kind.

The mare with the camera held it high. “Say: Wonderbit!”

“Wonder-beeeet!”

“Wo-bolt!”

Chapter 7 – Return to Base

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The night’s curtain fell upon the city.

A single cone of light was blasting from the projector, revealing the swirling particles of dust across the common room. The dust had gathered over the stacks of pillows and blankets amassed between a couch and a white sheet that served for a screen. Every pillow was distinctive in its own right—some were bought a long time ago when the funding from the government was more generous, others were donated by charitable ponies or happy parents who wanted to thank for making their family lives complete. A number was provided by Inks and Seats, a local shop of that exact assortment ran by an old stallion who was only as generous as his wife made him to be.

Doctor Hugs peeked over the couch.

“Of course... who else but you?”

After further hours of goofing around with the Wonderbolts, the three orphans had decided to stay up late and recount the events of today to Fizzy who, upon finding herself squeezed between them, had no choice but to hear it all. She had assured she would tuck them up by ten, but at some point she gave in to the much deserved slumber and ended up with Wind Whisper clenching onto her leg. Chestnut, wrapped in the mare’s hoodie splayed out on the couch to have her belly for a pillow. On the only bit of space not occupied by limbs, between Fizzy and the back of the couch, rested a popcorn bowl. Inside, the balled up Glavia was wheezing softly, but the sounds were drowned out by the monotonous buzzing of the projector.

Wincing, Doctor Hugs added bathing the buttery griffon to the list for tomorrow.

“Am I late for the party?” came a whisper from across the room.

“Captain,” the stallion replied at a hushed tone, too tired to get even a little startled. “I didn’t expect to see you here at such a late hour.”

“One of the perks of being in charge. I don’t have to do my shut-eye when the rest does,” she said. “So, how was projection?”

Doctor Hugs patted the machine. “This old thing didn’t burn out, so that’s one win in my book. One of the training montages had Soarin and Rapidfire as mere recruits. The kids loved it, and those were just a few short scenes with added narration. Just think what it’d be like if we were doing longer scenes, like entire books.“

“I doubt an adult would sit through such a projection, let alone a kid. Aren’t they too lively for that?”

“Snacks kept them occupied. We’ve borrowed a popcorn cart from a local funfair for the occasion.” He helped himself to a kernel from a half-full bowl. “Want some?”

“Nah. I just dropped by to make sure everything went well after I left,” she said. “Sorry I couldn’t come back sooner, too. The debriefing took longer than I’d expected.”

Doctor Hugs shook his head and went back to stacking the bowls. “There’s nothing to apologize for. Both your Wonderbolts and Wonderbits stayed in high spirits for the rest of the day, so it’s safe to say this operation was a success, if you’ll forgive the parlance. The kids were also less loud than usual. More mature even, I’d say. They took turns dogging Glavia’s every step, talked a lot about responsibility.” He threw her an amused glance. “You obviously have a flair for working with children.”

“Funny you should say that,” Spitfire quietly remarked and strolled over. “There’s a flight camp for young pegasi from Cloudsdale called Junior Speedsters. They once asked me to come by and show the kids some tricks and flight techniques. I kind of… shouted at them at first because I thought it would be best to treat them as my recruits. That they’d learn the most that way.”

“Mhm. But children aren’t just small adults, are they?”

“Exactly. Long story short, I had a friend who helped me out so it wasn’t a complete failure. But still, the word about my poor pedagogical skills got out. I got a complimentary thank-you note, but the following year they politely asked if I could recommend someone else. So, I’ve been sending Soarin ever since.”

The stallion covered the ponies with a blanket, but in case of Glavia he settled for a crocheted doily he swiped from the table.

“I think I’ve been avoiding kids ever since too,” Spitfire continued, “and I was doing well, actually. But today you guilt-tripped me into going, and guess what? It wasn’t all terrible. I’ve actually had fun, I mean…. in a way, I felt like I’ve finally made up for what I did wrong in the past. Thanks for the opportunity—I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.”

“You’re very welcome,” he whispered. “Part of my job is to make others the best they can be, so thanks for taking that opportunity, too.”

“No problem.” Spitfire smiled back and peeked over the couch. “Oh! Is that your assistant? Does she live here as well?”

“Yeah,” Doctor Hugs chuckled. “Pretty much. Wait, you’re asking if she’s an orphan! No, no. She’s my niece, actually. She’s a student at the CCA and she’s fulfilling her internships quota by lending a hoof around here. Sometimes it means taking the night shift, if you will.”

“No wonder she fell asleep. With so many kids and attractions it must have been a darn exhausting day for you and your team.”

“You have no idea. But seeing everyone tucked up like this is definitely worth it.”

Spitfire nodded. “Yes. It definitely is.” She broke away from the couch. “Well, anyway, I should go now. But if you’d like me to—uhm, if the Wonderbolts may be of any assistance in the future, we’ll be glad to participate, myself included from now on. Just say a word.”

“Tea?”

“Excuse me?”

Doctor Hugs rubbed his temples. “Apologies, I misspoke. I said ‘tea’ and made it sound like an invitation for a cup of tea later this week with some pleasant music, say, the eighties playing in the background, where I should have said ‘we’re also very pleased that you joined us today, have a good night.” He shrugged. “Terribly sorry. Those two are easy to confuse, aren’t they?”

Spitfire raised her eyebrows at him. “You are a bold one.”

“Oh, not at all. Like you said, the day—this past week, actually—has been pretty exhausting, and I’m afraid I’ve reached the point where I’m subconsciously telling myself it’s a fair game to be bold. Besides, should you decline my invitation, there’s a good chance I’ll wake up tomorrow and not regret a thing, putting the blame on my current disability to think clearly. Or something like that. Better yet, I’ll blame Fizzy for planting the idea of going out with someone in my head.”

“Hmm. I thought the usual line was about coffee, not tea.”

“It’s been following me since morning, to be honest. I intended to get my cup at the Cuckoo. I kind of got it, but then Soft Spot decided she doesn’t actually like coffee, so we swapped,” he said. “They make the second or third best coffee in Canterlot, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t really work as a pick-me-up for me,” he added. “So, what do you say?”

Spitfire looked away and took another step towards the exit.

“Well, you’ve already made me give up a free hour in my busy schedule today”—she looked back with coquettish sparks flaring in her eyes—“which means you pretty much owe me one of yours.”

The stallion’s upper lip twitched. “I promise to repay you threefold.”

“Friday?”

“Friday it is. I’ll contact your office with further details, captain.”

“Please,” she said with a frown, “I’ve been captaining all day.”

“Spitfire, then?”

“Very much so. Have a good night.”

“Good night,” he replied and watched the mare until she disappeared in the corridor.

When he turned around with a well-earned smug grin, he saw three pairs of eyes beholding him.

“And what are you looking at? Off to sleep, all of you!”

He hit the switch on the projector and turned it off.