An aspiring U.S. Air Force pilot returns for the second year of his training. But things take an unexpected turn when a couple of mysterious creatures arrive in his life.
UPDATE 7/3/18: THIS HAS BEEN CANCELLED BUT HAS POTENTIAL. SEND A PM IF YOU WANT TO CONTINUE WRITING IT YOURSELF.
Brian Fredrick Spilner.
It's not a name that many would think highly of, but to the army it means something. It is a name of someone who dreams of joining them in the air, patrolling and fighting enemies, protecting the proud and strong country of America.
Yet during my second period of working to achieve this, two interesting events happened that shook me. First a grayish-blue pegasus in a blue and yellow uniform appears on the Air Force base, then I find a half-bird, half-lion mythical being in my garage, along with three little ponies. The world just got stranger.
Rated T for slight suggestive references and mild language.
"The weather looks rather unstable today, with rain developing into the afternoon..."
I groaned and took another spoonful of my oatmeal as I sat on my couch watching the weather news. Not ten minutes after waking up and the day wasn't looking too good. For most people the climate of the area they lived in wasn't a huge concern, but for me it was. Living in a close-knit neighborhood but working so far away meant that I had to be spot on with my timing. Thankfully that wasn't a problem as I had been trained for many years to behave with this level of self-discipline all my life – as a member of the military.
"The world spins you around, around, arou-rou-rou-round..." I sang softly to myself, giving a friendly wave to an old lady watering her vibrant flower beds. She was pretty docile and kind, and lived across the street, alone. Like me.
I strolled down the street to an old parking lot and hopped into Whiz – the nickname for my car: a Subaru WRX STi. She'd been a figure of my dreams since childhood, and my hard work had paid off after years of saving. It took mere weeks after purchase to fall in love and start tweaking her to turn her into a unique, personalized gem.
Starting up the 2.5 liter boxer engine and driving off, I glanced at the trees lining the roadsides. Their leaves were just about fully regenerated, indicating that it was now mid-spring. This meant that the Air Force flight team would be recruiting their most experienced and talented members in the next stage of the training course before starting a three-month course that would take them to the next height of aerial combat and reconnaissance. I had been part of this trainee team for a whole year now, and it had been a pretty hectic and interesting time. The frenzy of the air force base, however, had been too much for me to handle. So I moved out back to the city and rented a small house in a quiet, peaceful senior neighbourhood.
"Highway 38 up ahead, turn right onto it," my GPS voiced out to me.
"Yes, sir!" I replied, a brief yet significant reminder of how the military still flowed through my instinctual nerves. Easing out onto the highway, I found a clear lane and hit the throttle to the floor, sending Whiz surging forward at blazing speed. Even after many months of driving the adrenaline her big turbo delivered was unmistakable. I gave a slight whoop of joy as I glided past unsuspecting "civilian" cars. Slowing down as I approached traffic, Whiz's engine data logger and my phone started beeping, and I checked both messages.
"Assembly begins in forty five minutes sharp!" read my screen.
"MAX. BOOST: 25 PSI" the data logger screen displayed.
I sighed and bit my lip in frustration. Not only would I potentially be late for my first air force team reunion, but my engine had just hit full boost during my crazy fast takeoff earlier on the highway. Having undergone such pressure meant that the engine needed more time to cool down and adjust to normal driving conditions. Thankfully the traffic would give the engine time to do that, but it also meant that time spent getting to my destination on time would be snatched away.
Painstakingly changing lanes whenever possible, I slowly my way to the emergency shoulder lane, and gunned it, speeding down a narrow gap, essentially, between the slow-moving cars and the metal barrier. By the time I finally cleared the jam, twenty minutes had passed since I received the text from my fellow teammate, Nick.
"How can there be so much traffic this early before sunrise?" I wondered to myself as I sped off the highway and down a narrow, empty lane. I had learned real fast last year that industrial side lanes and boulevards made for quick and efficient ways to get around traffic on the main roads. In the distance, I noticed the air force base marking a sharp outline against the orange flow that preceded the sunrise. My memories began to kick in, and suddenly important tips and details started popping up in my head from last year.
"We all depart and begin training at sunrise," a voice played in the back of my head. Somehow that made me push the gas harder, and Whiz's turbo started spooling up. I upshifted and sped towards the horizon, blowing a stop sign a couple blocks down. I glanced at the clock on the car's head unit screen. Fifteen minutes to assembly. The gap had tightened, and so had my grip on the steering wheel as I flew down more streets, swerving and weaving through early riser commuters.
"The cops are so going to get me for this," I muttered, pulling a drift through a left turn to avoid losing excess speed. The race-grade Pirelli tires fought for grip as I spun the wheel in an attempt to throw Whiz sideways slightly. A few slight streaks of smoke purged from the rear tires and I jerked the car back into line to avoid turning too much – and possibly crashing.
Further down the road lay a toll booth-like gate with armed guards in camo clothing beside it, and stopped to greet them.
"Good morning, sir," I began. "Permission to enter?"
"Do you have proof of your registration as part of this air force base?" the man asked, a rather interrogation-like edge to his voice.
I held up my military certificate and pilot license, and he nodded.
"You may enter," he replied, raising the gate.
As soon as the barrier was lifted I sped off to the nearest parking space amongst many other military war vehicles, gathered my papers and documents, then shut off the engine. While lifting my equipment out of the trunk I caught sight of a group of men heading inside the main building through double doors. Guess that's where I should be headed, I thought. I lifted up my gear and strolled towards the doors.
Upon entering the building, I checked my phone. It had been forty minutes since the text was sent. Time to speed things up.
I accelerated into a brisk fast walk, taking note of all the bulletin boards and framed art and photos that adorned the halls. Many of the awards and historical pieces from last year were still around. At the end of the hall was a conference room, and my eyes just caught sight of a man in a uniform just like mine entering. I only hoped he was part of my team.
Just as the clock struck six-thirty, I entered the room with my documents in one hand and my duffel bag slung over my shoulder.
"Listen up!" a voice boomed from the far end. Sitting down just in time, I recognized it immediately – Shane. He was the leader of our trainee team and had been serving within the military for a decade now, so his words were absolutely no joke.
"Today we all return to the serious business of flying. As we all know there are eleven members per team, and five pilots. However, one of our recruits, Selena, has stepped down due to a prolonged family emergency. As such we have yet to find a replacement for her."
Almost instantly Steve, one of the other team members, raised his hand slightly. Shane paused and turned, directing his eyes directly at him.
"You wish to speak, Steve?"
Steve cleared his throat in a low voice, so as not to sound superior. "Is it true that we won't be able to function properly as a complete team without all eleven members?"
Silence struck, and for a moment I thought Shane got owned by forgetting all about that very obvious aspect of teamwork. But he actually had been gathering his thoughts and delivered a very firm and well-rounded response.
"Yes, our team is not complete, Steve. But we will continue today's session while my substitute hunt continues. If I can get a substitute via location transfer by the end of the week, then all will be well. If not, then we will have to postpone our scheduled training events until a major program structural rearrangement can be constructed."
It was difficult not to hold back an exasperated sigh. As young men and women we were all eagerly looking forward to going through the pilot phases and returning to the air. Shane could sense this and immediately continued talking with a positive streak.
"We shall now depart, with a quick exercise routine to warm those bodies up. Then we'll take to the skies and begin the first routine of independent flying. Your instructors will still be with you, but this time it is the pilot who will be in the hot seat."
Faces lit up, and I could've sworn I saw Shane smile. He hardly ever wore an upside-down frown – he always looked concerned or serious. Almost always.
"Everyone out and file towards the running track, now!" his voice boomed like a stadium announcer.
"Yes sir!" we all responded and headed out of the room one by one in a smooth line.
The training track was located in a small area of land about the same size of a baseball field, and consisted of a simple oval with several lines. Each runner had to conform to his or her specific line, yet still be able to run smoothly and swiftly without bumping into other runners and complete a lap under a certain time.
I had taken this course before, but it had been a while since I'd moved swiftly. Owning Whiz had taken its toll on my muscles, though I still hit the gym occasionally.
"To the starting line for the first warm-up lap!" Shane barked, and we – four of us pilots – stepped in line, fully dressed in our running outfits. I'd chosen a outlier-type color – light pink. I balled my hands into fists and braced my legs for a long stretch and rapid flexing.
"GO!" Shane bellowed with a strong whistle blow, and we all took off. Being one of the slow ones, I took my time off the line, slowly picking up my pace, until I was at running speed. Even so, it was not enough. By the time I caught up to the other team members, the lap was over. I was sweaty and panting like a greyhound, which caused more than a few snickers from the others.
"I will have the last laugh," I muttered under my breath as we all took a short walk to cool down before refreshing ourselves for the next lap. We all lined up, and Shane raised his hand, before throwing it down and blowing his whistle simultaneously. All of us took off at speed, but I took my time, with a little more speed than before. As the other team members neared the turning point, I picked up more speed from my jogging trot and broke into a full-long run, nearing the second last runner. As all of us came around to the home stretch, I kept increasing my speed, soon placing myself in fourth place. Yet after the lap was over, Shane gave us all a stinging reminder.
"This isn't the Olympics guys. No winners or losers. In fact I'd bet y'all that the slowest of you will be the best aerial performers. Now let's get our butts back out on that track for one final lap before we lift off."
Shane blew the whistle and we all ran, but this time I decided to go at my own pace; a running speed which I felt comfortable with, rather than trying to be perfectly in line with or beat the others. Surprisingly I ended up in fourth place, beating my lap record from the previous rookie attempt last year by a good two and-a-quarter seconds.
With all three warm-up laps complete, I headed off to cool my hot head and surging legs down along with the other pilots. More of the military routine began to revive itself within my head, and I had little trouble remembering routines and important actions to take. After the brief cool-down session, the clock struck seven-fifteen. We all had checked our breathing and heart rates, and were preparing to outfit ourselves for a good two-to-four session up in the clouds.
"You okay about all this?" Steve inquired.
"I...I'm good, really," I replied, slipping on my flight suit and triple-checking all my pockets and adequate information. Opening my portfolio I pulled out any important information that I'd need and slid them into my pockets. Then I zipped my duffel bag shut, held my verification paper in one hand and my helmet in the other, and together Steve and I joined the other two pilots waiting at the launch pad.
The door slid upwards to reveal an open paved area. At the other end lay a fence with a large gate, and beyond it, the open-concept hangar where each aircraft was waiting.
Shane then appeared, having made all pre-flight arrangements and alignments. One by one, each one of us handed over our paper slips, which were then checked very thoroughly by him. For a moment he wore a face of possible suspicion, but all of us passed successfully. Having completed our first pre-flight check, all four of us proceeded across the open area along a lane formed by two bright yellow lines, eager to begin what we had truly come for – flying aircraft.
The gate was already open, and so we proceeded through, where Shane and the other five team members were already waiting.
"How did you get around so fast?" I wondered, trying to hide my bewildered look from Shane's ever-watchful gaze.
"Listen up everyone!" he bellowed in his unmistakable announcer voice. "Each one of you will be assigned to a specific aircraft. That aircraft is yours. By that I mean that you – and only you – will fly it throughout the rest of this training program. If you choose to accept the career of serving in the military, then you may keep the jet for usage as part of your assigned military duties."
We all fell silent and thought through what Shane had just said for a second, before he continued, in a slightly softer but equally instructive tone.
"Now each one of you will go through the pre-flight checks with your pre-assigned instructor, before heading off into the skies for a review flying session. Just as last year, but with swapped seats. Everyone understood?"
"Yes sir!" we all replied simultaneously and loudly.
"Excellent," said Shane, a pleased yet concerned look on his face. "See y'all in three hours."
One by one, each of the instructors approached us and introduced themselves. I was paired up with a kind-faced man by the name of Rafael. As he and I walked down the taxi airstrip in front of each plane, I gave a quick inquiry.
"How long have you been involved with aircraft within the military?"
"Twenty-five years so far in total, but ten within the aircraft department," Rafael replied expressively, a blissful smile over his face. "Prior to my involvement with aircraft I used to work as a manager of vehicular organization. But planes had been the figure of my dreams since I was a kid, and so I strove harder to achieve my true dream, and finally landed myself mastering high-speed aviation. Now I teach it."
We arrived at my pre-assigned fighter jet: a Eurofighter Typhoon.
"Awesome", I breathed, staring up at its huge long pointy nose and wide, swept-back wings. I'd ridden in a fighter jet before, but that was an F-16, which was nowhere near the beauty and power of this beast.
"Come on," Rafael growled, pulling me away from the front of the aircraft and towards the wings. We began the pre-flight check as I had been shown before, but with far greater detail, as this was a different aircraft with more behind its design and features. Whereas the checks on the F-16 last year took around forty to sixty minutes, examining and checking every nook and cranny on the Eurofighter took Rafael and I a lot longer. By the time a group of assistants arrived to provide a boarding ladder for both of us, eighty-five minutes had passed. My brain was worn out from all the details of the plane's internals, though my body was more than capable of hoisting itself up the ladder after Rafael. I carefully climbed into the cockpit, making sure not to knock or bump any switches or buttons. There were a ton of them, even more than the F-16.
"Kill the fright," Rafael responded, already somehow sensing my feelings. "It'll all make sense in a moment once you read the flight manual, which shouldn't take too long. We still have until about noon before the flying session begins."
I settled down in my seat and fastened all the safety straps and properly linked up the wires and connections from my helmet and suit to the aircraft, while Rafael flashed the OK signal to the ground crew, indicating that we both were good to go and they could remove the boarding ladder.
As the other trainee pilots got their pre-flight checks under way, I wasted no time ripping deep into the flight manual, understanding every bit of the Eurofighter's dials, gauges, switches, and most importantly, the DUI and HUD. I was just about to go through the Helmet Mounted Symbology System details when...
"Attention all pilots and instructors, this is your air traffic controller speaking..."
"Damn it!" I cursed under my breath. Taking note of what was said over the radio, I continued reading quickly, skimming over the info and tossing all the basic commands into a spare corner of the already full rooms of the quick-retrieval memory storage bank in my head.
One by one, each pilot and their corresponding instructor were directed by the air traffic controller to begin taxiing towards the runway. I, being the third to last aircraft, stayed put until told to move.
"You'll only need about fifty to sixty percent of the book," Rafael reminded me. "The other half is in what I'll be showing and directing you to."
"Got it," I replied confirmatively, sliding the book back into its protective case. I did a final recap of the main controls and instrument panel features, slid my helmet over my head, and strapped it on securely. Then I checked the radio, plane data receiver, and oxygen lines, ensuring they were all working properly. Finally, I sat back in the seat, and patiently waited for my turn.
"Instructor Rafael and trainee pilot Brian, it is time to begin your taxi onto the runway. Please begin departure."
The chocks were lifted. I took a deep breath, flipped all the adequate switches, and engaged the throttle slightly to get the plane moving. Adjusting the nose wheel tilt lever ever so slightly, I positioned the fighter jet in the right direction, towards the direction all the other fighter jets had gone.
"Just remember what you practiced last year," Rafael reiterated. "It's all in your head. You keep your head balanced, everything else will fall, lock, and click into place."
I sighed again and scanned the control panel another time, before stopping at the end of the taxi runway. Leaving the engine to idle at a low consumption rate, I watched one fighter jet fire up its engines and speed down the main runway before taking off. Then it happened. "Pilot No. 6246, you are clear for takeoff, please proceed."
Hearing the command loud and clear in my head, I took hold of the tiller once again, turning the aircraft into position by the start of the takeoff airstrip.
"Smoothly engage the throttle, and push it to around eighty percent, enough for takeoff," Rafael instructed me. "Then gently pull back that stick with the right buttons selected to raise the nose and climb high. And above all, keep your cool."
"Promise," I responded, though my voice was still a bit shaky. I hadn't flown in over four months. Could I still do this in a different aircraft?
Stiffening my nerves and taking a few breaths to ready my body for the gravitational forces, I opened up the engine valves, readied the afterburners, brought up the engine fan revs, and smoothly pushed the throttle.
The jet began to move forward rather smoothly, like a cruising car, before suddenly rocketing forward at blinding speed. I gripped the stick and kept pushing the throttle, forcing more air and fuel into the engine to force it to go faster. Finally, I opened the afterburners and gently pulled the stick as the end of the runway loomed into view. The jet tilted upward, and I kept the throttle wide open and the flaps out to keep it climbing. We began a pretty steep 75-degree ascent into the sky, my gut wrenching at the unbelievable power of the G-forces.
"You did it!!" Rafael cheered. "You actually did it!!"
All I could do was smile as we continued our climb towards the clouds.
Once we reached a height of around 25,000 feet, I slowed the engine thrust so that we began to glide, though still travelling over six hundred kilometers an hour.
"You're good now," Rafael called from the back, and I heard his voice clearly through the radio intercom.
"Now pay close attention to those displays and what they tell you," he said, guiding me through the basics of the Eurofighter's control system and armament layout, which was more command-controlled than those on the F-16. As we cruised, I learnt of each missile's possible placement and which control buttons were used to launch them.
Having covered the weapons, Rafael returned the flight's focus back to the controls, wasting zero time and effort in teaching me the ins and outs of the FCS (that's Flight Control System, peeps.)
"Just a bit more forward..."
"To the left..."
"Now extend the canards for better maneuvering..."
"Brilliant!"
In a span of a mere hour, we'd covered basic maneuverability of the aircraft. With an extra leg of practice, I could climb, dive, and bank fairly well. Then came in a call from Shane at the base. Shockingly, his voice was focused yet informal.
"How's it hanging, Mr. Spilner?"
"Going well, sir," I replied. "Banking smoothly over the northern area of the state as we speak."
"Spun yet?"
"Spun?" I was bewildered. "As in a—"
"—Barrel roll," Rafael finished, cutting into the call. I shut him out and continued listening to Shane, keeping a sharp eye on the horizon and the ground below all the while.
"Not yet, sir," I replied, shaking my head slightly. Then I gave a slight vocal sneer. "But...I can try..."
"Do as ordered, Mr. Spilner!" Shane's harshness returned instantly, and I bit back a giggle.
"Will do, sir," I said. After giving me a few more bits of information on the flight's priorities, he ended the call. Having finished that, I flipped my intercom back to Rafael.
"So...wanna give it a shot?"
I groaned. Now Rafael was in on Shane's inquiry, and had pulled part of the joke from me!
"Yeah," I blurted. What else was there to do?
So Rafael guided me on the basics of a roll and how to control the elevators, rudder, and ailerons to tweak my flight level accordingly.
"Go time, go time..." Rafael whispered, albeit teasingly, as I climbed slightly.
"Let's take this nice and slow first," I spoke over the intercom. I gripped the stick, readied the other controls, and visually grabbed a point in the sky. Then, without thinking too deeply, I applied a tad bit more throttle, slid the stick to the right, and adjusted the elevators with my feet. The nose dropped through the horizon and the jet started to rotate. As we began to turn right side up, I smoothly "slid" the elevators back into position for level flight. We continued on for a while until the time came to return to base. But Rafael had one thing left in store for me.
"Demonstrate your skills, Mr. Spilner," he told me in a serious voice.
I gave a slow sigh and nodded. "Yes sir."
Remembering the FCS, I pulled the control stick gently, and climbed really high, watching the altimeter closely and maintaining a constant, but relatively low speed. Once we were at around 35,000 feet, I then pulled very hard, causing the jet to tip backward on itself. For a moment, it felt like we'd just end up dropping straight down on our undersides. Quickly I pushed the elevators up to counteract this adequately, and soon we began to dive down... upside down.
Rafael didn't responded verbally over the intercom but I could hear the fear in his breath. I dove down, heading straight for the ground at nearly four hundred kilometers an hour, before rolling the jet the right way around, adjusting the throttle lever, and gently pulling back on the stick, taking full advantage of the Eurofighter's amazingly precise FCS. It was like slamming the Brembo brakes on Whiz – the jet just seemed to slow down as the ground got ever nearer.
Having positioned the aircraft parallel to the ground, I decided to just fly with all the nerve and knowledge known, without pause for intensive mental recall or revision. Building a bit of speed I flew a bit low, then decreased my speed slightly as I gained a bit more height, banking a bit right and left, though not constantly or repetitively.
"Now you're flying like a pilot!" Rafael commented as we approached the base, my throttle adjustments all the more accurate. I gently lifted the tail up, cut the engine power, and we gently touched down on the runway.
Guiding the fighter jet back down the return runway towards the "parking spot" where I had departed from a few hours earlier, I noticed that I was the third one to return. I cut the engine completely, equalized the pressure properly, pulled a small lever, and raised the canopy. Feeling a flood of relief wash over me, I shut off the oxygen valve, and undid the clasps on my helmet, before taking it off and disconnecting the oxygen line.
We reconnected with Shane, and climbed down the boarding ladder. My legs almost collapsed with relief as my feet touched the hard tarmac.
"Not so bad after all, was it?" Rafael teased.
I gave a shaky laugh, breathing in and out repeatedly to ease the pressure my lungs had been put through. We entered his office and sat down for a quick coffee break while we waited for all the pilots to reconvene and meet up with Shane in the main hall, from where we'd walked down the yellow path to the planes earlier.
"You seem a bit slow, to be honest," Rafael noted to me, looking over a portion of the data gathered from the flight session.
I took a big swig of my latte. "Yeah, I'm not as good as the others. But I feel I'm improving."
"I can see that, compared to last year," he replied, giving a half eyebrow cock.
I almost rolled my eyes, recalling my eccentric, almost childish levels of enthusiasm upon entering the cockpit last April. We shared a quick joke, right before the unmistakable clip-clop of the other pilots' boots broke the silence outside.
Rafael gestured to the door with his head. I slurped down the last of the latte and strode up to join the lineup.
"Well done, pilots," Shane said with a warm smile, congratulating us on our successful flights. "I hope you all learned some new aspects of high-speed aviation and had a well-oiled session with each of your instructors. Currently your flight data is being processed, and each one of you will receive a printed copy of a concise summary for future references on how to fly better in future sessions."
We all thanked him and headed back to the locker room – well, the other three pilots did. Instead of returning directly, I wanted to explore the other areas of the base. After quickly checking to see where Shane was headed to, I headed down a side hall and exited the building through a side door, and made my way over to one of the hangars where most of the fighter jets were being loaded into to be "retired" for the day's session.
My intention was simply to see what was happening and observe how the process was actually carried out. As I rounded the corner, I gave a friendly greeting to the staff. Being in my flight uniform they respected me for my position, even though this wasn't the place for a pilot to be boarding aircraft – this was for maintenance staff. Pilots only entered this area if any inquiries needed to be made about the aircraft they flew. Still, I wasn't shunned or anything.
While standing by one hangar, I gave a cautious eye to the way one Eurofighter Typhoon was being carefully loaded inside. The process was rather slow yet intriguing.
Having observed the process, I stood by the entrance, gazing up at the jet in all its magnificence. I wasn't sure if it was the exact same one I'd flown earlier, but it was a sight to behold nonetheless. No one else was in the hangar – just two maintenance staff on the far end. As I turned to leave my ears picked up the faint sound of a yawn, followed by a sudden metallic crash and a few clop-like sounds, like someone in heavy boots walking on tiling.
A tool chest – most likely belonging to the servicemen – had jolted out of line. Two wrenches and a service manual lying on top of it had been knocked off and fallen to the floor. Both men instantly walked over, having heard the sound. I quickly backed up and hid behind a tall shelving unit and listened.
Oddly enough, the men simply chatted together briefly as to the cause of the sound, yet simply just set the manual back on top of the chest, placed the wrenches inside, locked it up, and left.
Once they were out of sight, I tiptoed out of my hiding place and casually walked over. There had to be a sound reason for the chest's sudden jolt. It couldn't have been the men who yawned, or I would've heard it a lot louder; leading me to conclude that it must've come from a smaller individual who was out of sight. Somewhere...
I peered behind the tool chest and behind the shelving unit that I'd just hidden beside. Nothing. Then I heard another sound – a slight shake, like someone shivering in fright. I turned to the right and traced the sound deeper into the hangar, then focused my attention on a specific spot where another faint sound came out again, before falling silent for a couple seconds. What my eyes saw took my breath away.
Tucked in a barely visible spot between another shelving unit and one of the hangar's large main support beams, lay a helpless little creature.
My mind was spinning. I myself was in an inappropriate place, and I didn't have a single clue as to what to do. Should I just leave and get the heck out of here before I was caught and taken to task by Shane, or try to free the trapped creature – whose identity I still didn't know. All my life since I entered the military had been to follow orders and abandon all shady areas of doubt or misunderstanding. It was all point A to point B. Then I looked up at the jet and let my mind's memory scope expand. I reflected back onto my younger days, running through the house with a tiny little toy F-15 Eagle in my hand and almost prodding my mom in the stomach because I had been too wrapped up in my imaginary adventure of saving the world and spinning through the wide open sky. Then a figure appeared in my thoughtful vision: Cinderella. I had watched it with my sister once, and the famous phrase rang clear as the glass slipper of the princess herself:
"Have courage, and be kind."
I spun around, knelt down on the cold floor, and pulled a heavy crate off the lowest shelf. Instinctively, the little creature cowered even further back into the corner as I held out my hand through the gap.
"Come out," I whispered softly. "Come out and be free."
The little creature carefully eased itself out of its hiding place, and I slowly backed up from the shelving unit. As it crawled over the shelf and onto the hangar floor, I got a better look, and became even more bewildered as to what I had just rescued.
She stood around three and a half feet tall, with adorable big eyes, a smooth cream white mane, and a blue-and-white one-piece uniform covering her teal blue body. Her proportions reminded me of a small horse, only with a more cartoon-like head. What was she?
"I wonder if you are actually from a cartoon," I wondered, my lip twisting in confusion. Yet at the same time I tried not to smile. Even in the beat-up state that she currently laid in, the little horse was just so cute. And small horses are...
"Ponies," I said out loud accidentally, the cards finally matching up in my head. The little pony turned and gazed right back at me, before looking all around.
"Ow, my wings hurt from that crash," she said.
"Y-you talk?! And you have wings?" I said suddenly, gulping back a frightful yelp. Gripping myself in time, I leaned forward inquisitively. "What's your name, little one?"
The little pony nodded. "Name's Fleetfoot, and I'm a pegasus. Where am I?"
I shook my head, more cards matching up. "Definitely a long way from home, that's for sure. Look, right now, we're in a hangar – a place where we both shouldn't be. Let's get out of here before someone spots either one of us. I'll explain more and we can talk on the way."
Fleetfoot attempted to walk forward but stumbled and hit the ground in pain, and I winced.
"I think you may have sprained your front left leg," I told her, bending down. "Come, I'll carry you."
Fleetfoot climbed up onto my chest and rested her hurt leg on my shoulder. I crossed my arms to support her rear legs and hindquarters. Boy, she was heavier than I thought!
After a quick check, I walked out towards the hangar entrance, and peeked around. No one to be seen – except the maintenance staff in the next few hangars performing some routine checks on the other aircraft, and some airport vehicles in the distance.
With a hefty but adorable pony in my arms, I turned around the corner and headed back the way I came. But instead of walking towards the main air force building, I crept around the outside of the buildings to avoid detection. It wasn't myself that I was afraid of being seen; it was Fleetfoot – the one who should not be here under the ever-watchful eyes of the military.
Tiptoeing around another corner, I trudged alongside an old fence, until I reached a parking lot with a familiar entrance to the right. On the left lay many cars, including Whiz.
I made my way over to the Subaru and pulled on the door handle, only to realize I left the keys in my army duffel back in the locker area. I walked around to the back of the Subaru and gently lowered Fleetfoot to the ground, and urged her under the Subaru's rear bumper.
"Stay here, Fleetfoot," I ordered. "I'll be back soon."
I ran to the building, shoved the doors open, and ran down the halls to the locker room. No one was around – not even Shane. I grabbed my helmet and slid it into the bag. Then I opened a small side compartment, pulled out my car keys, and zipped the whole bag shut. I was about to take off down the hall when a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I leapt forward slightly and spun around, only to come face to face with Steve, who'd been my best friend last year in the physical training camp.
"Dude," I exhaled. "You could've killed me with that jumpscare."
Steve let out a short chuckle before his face quickly grew serious again. "Where have you been in the past hour? Shane needs us to regroup to go over the results of our flights!"
"I thought that data takes days to process!" I protested, a dagger of regret stabbing me hard in the gut.
Steve shook his head. "Most of the time. He gave out an announcement shortly before you went missing that the session would take place today, and not tomorrow. Now come on, we've got mere seconds before it starts!"
The knot in my stabbed gut was so big I almost collapsed onto a spare chair as Steve and I sat down for the lengthy session. Shane discussed flight speed, aerial maneuvers, and more for an estimated forty minutes, before proceeding onto flight plans and tips on what would be covered in the next program session. Fighting off the pain of the regretful decision I'd made to check out the hangars, I narrowed my focus onto all of what Shane explained, as well as the message behind his physical postures and tonation, trying not to think of the poor little pegasus hidden behind my car. A million cameras and sensors were everywhere on the base. If someone discovered her... I didn't even want to think of where they'd take her or what they'd do to her.
As we all made our notes, I proceeded to leave, but was stopped by Shane.
"Yes, sir?" I replied, trying not to sound sheepish.
"You seem like a great student," he complimented. "Just... your timing is a teeny bit close to lateness for comfort. Might wanna tune that knob a little."
"Thanks. I will try my best to align my time, sir," I replied confidently, and took off down the hall to the locker room.
I was so eager to get back to Whiz I almost tripped in the parking lot. Running to the rear, I knelt down and gently reached out.
"You okay, Fleetfoot?" I asked, alarmed by the sympathy in my voice.
"All good..." Fleetfoot paused for a moment, and I knew what she was trying to figure out.
"Brian," I replied with a smile.
"Brian," Fleetfoot repeated, nodding slightly and crawling out with her good front leg. I unlocked the rear doors, and she climbed in. I tossed my duffel in the trunk, shut it, hopped into the driver's seat, and drove off towards the exit. I had a long, odd day ahead of me.
As soon as I passed through the Air Force base gates, I sped back up the narrow dusty lane towards the main road, where I began to pick up the pace. Fleetfoot then called up from the back seat.
"What was that place where you found me?"
"That was a hangar, where a jet was being kept."
"What's a jet?" she inquired.
I sighed, but continued talking, and explained to her all about aircraft, how a jet fighter works, and what they are used for, and how they are stored when not in use.
"Why were you there, by the way? And what is that place at large?"
"It's an air force base," I explained. "It's where pilots meet up, or like me, are trained to become the best fliers in the sky. As members of the military, we serve our country and defend it from enemies."
"So you're a pilot in training?" Fleetfoot asked, her eyes growing wide. "And you fly one of those?"
"Yes, I do. There are a few types. I flew an F-16 last year, and currently I fly a Eurofighter Typhoon. Weird names, I know."
"You-rouh-fighter?" Fleetfoot mouthed.
I instantly picked up on what she was hinting at. "Don't you have a group to defend and protect your homeland?"
"Yes, we do. They're called the Royal Guard."
"Interesting. Your uniform seems to have a unique style to it. Are you part of a team?"
"I am part of a team – Equestria's most elite flying squadron, the Wonderbolts. We perform over Cloudsdale and Ponyville regularly, though we will step up our game and assist in the defense of our land. The leader of my team is Spitfire."
My mind flashed back to Shane and his strict yet smoothly ordered behavior. "Like an ERT, I see. How is Spitfire? Like, her temper and attitude?"
"Spitfire's pretty strict and harsh-mouthed, but she's also attentive to whatever is said. One mistake can send her mane ablaze, especially if she'd given a severe warning beforehand."
I gave a slight shudder. Who knew such cute creatures could have such a temper behind their endearing faces? Gently sliding it aside, I pressed on.
"So you and your team of Wonderbolts, you... perform? As in aerial tricks?"
Fleetfoot nodded.
"Sounds great!" Unbeknownst to her, I had a crazy idea in the deep depths of my mind, but I decided to keep it there until later on, when I could analyze it and see if it would be reasonable or not.
"What is this that we're traveling in, actually?"
I smiled. Now it was my turn to describe the world I was in. "We're in Whiz, the nickname I give for my car. It's like a carriage, but with an engine that powers it instead of it being pulled."
"It sounds fairly loud."
"Nah, many cars are even louder than this," I bragged, recalling a Mustang down the street from my childhood home. My mother almost had a raging fit with its owner over the insane loudness of the straight-piped exhaust.
Not wanting to get into too many details, I continued down the highway in silence and proceeded towards home. While Fleetfoot dozed off in the backseat, a million thoughts rolled through my mind like a casino gambler sorting cards. What was Equestria actually like? Were there other ponies other than just pegasus ponies? Possibly other creatures? How different was Equestria compared to Earth? And most important of all, how did Fleetfoot end up here on Earth? Also, would I be able to care for her alongside my busy schedule?
"Have courage and be kind..." The saying rang in my head again as I turned onto my neighborhood street. As I reversed into a parking space in the old lot, Fleetfoot stirred, and I leaned over the edge of the seat.
"It's time to go, Fleetfoot. We're here now."
Fleetfoot limped out of the back seat, holding up her sprained leg. I got out my stuff from the trunk, looped the duffel strap over my shoulder, picked her heavy, muscular figure up, and walked down the narrow cracked sidewalk, making sure to lock up Whiz with the snazzy remote starter. Thankfully no one was around at the time as the late afternoon had just begun and many people had yet to arrive home from work. I unlocked the front door of my semi-detached two-storey and stepped in. My home was fairly simple, with vibrantly colored walls to boost moods and a nice beige rug with flowery patterns. Living room furniture consisted of just one worn-down sofa, a small TV on a stand, and a small bookshelf. I could've added more, but most of my money had gone towards the upkeep and maintenance of Whiz.
"Whoa," Fleetfoot breathed, as I set her down on the couch and flipped a few light switches.
"Yep," I sighed. "This is home."
"Looks fairly small, but pretty quaint overall. Everything's so...organized and neat."
I headed upstairs to put away my work duffel, and returned shortly afterwards with a small red duffel with a white cross on it. Setting it down on the couch, I set off to the kitchen and returned with a small container of warm water, Fleetfoot watching all the while in awe and curiosity. With some gentle, cautious effort, I removed her flying suit and gently rinsed her hurt leg in the water. As I dried the leg with a cloth, I noticed a small slit in her skin.
"Hang on," I said in a low voice. "You've got a nasty cut here. Must clean that immediately."
Incredibly, Fleetfoot stayed calm as I cleaned the cut with alcohol-based antiseptic wash liquid and then took out a pair of scissors. Very carefully, I trimmed the fur surrounding the wound, then applied a protective patch over it. Finally, I spun a thirty-inch gauze wrap around it, securing it in place with a few safety pins.
"Now," I said, deepening my tone, "couple rules you need to follow now that I'm taking care of you."
Fleetfoot turned and shot me a 'seriously?' look.
I nodded slowly. "First off, no going outside until after dark. You mustn't be seen until further notice."
She gave a sad pout that was so adorable I had to tighten my chest to avoid letting my eyes droop in sympathy.
"I know, being cooped up sucks, but you'll get used to it. Second of all, don't walk on your sprained leg. It needs several weeks to recover fully before it can support weight. And lastly, anything you do or make, clean up and ensure absolutely nothing is left out of place or untidy. Understood?"
Fleetfoot nodded. "Understood, Brian."
"Good. Now I'll prepare a good dinner for us, and then you can rest while I run a few late errands."
It was harder preparing dinner than I thought. I decided to go for a Southeast Asian meatless noodle stir-fry and just cook it up, but as I slid the vegetables into the hot pan, I kept looking over my shoulder at Fleetfoot. She just looked so cute and helpless, in a world in which she had no connection with, much less a complete understanding of.
As I waited for the water for the noodles to boil, I sat down by the small dining table and just stared at the living room at large, reflecting on my life and what had changed over the course of just two decades. I'd left high school, earned a physical certificate, and signed up for a aviation course in the military. My parents hadn't exactly spoiled me but many of my personal items they'd paid for. I had a job once as a postman but quit it during the winter after a bad run-in with some wicked crooks, barely escaping being considered an accomplice to a drug and home mortgage scheme they were running. Now I was running off the last of savings I'd accumulated over my whole working period.
Where would I head now? How would I support Fleetfoot, let alone myself and the big costs that Whiz kept demanding of me?
The clatter of the pot interrupted my thoughts. I raced over and pulled the lid off, then dunked in the noodles, gently stirring it to help break them apart. Fleetfoot sighed and laid her head down on one of the couch's soft pillows.
When the meal was ready, I spread some onto a large plate for Fleetfoot, and poured a good-sized portion into a bowl for myself.
"Come," I gestured from the dining table, pouring apple juice into two large glasses. "Let's eat."
Fleetfoot limped over on three legs and climbed up onto the chair. I sat across from her and we ate in silence, listening to the crickets in the backyard and the whooshes as the cars on the nearby major street zoomed by.
"Pretty delicious food!" Fleetfoot admitted, savoring every mouthful. "The juice too!"
I chuckled, realizing I hadn't told her about the fact that I didn't add meat like that type of dish usually would ask for in the recipe. "It sure is. If I can find time, I'll try to bake a cake or some muffins."
Almost instantly, her eyes lit up with excitement, and I smiled. Slowly and carefully, I helped her to the bathroom, where she washed out her mouth and face. Then we proceeded back to the living room, where she laid back down on the couch. I went upstairs and got my old blanket and draped it over her. Then I dressed up, checked a couple papers in my portfolio, and headed out the door, locking it behind me.
I hopped back into Whiz, started up the engine, and set off down the road. Previously I had considered taking another, higher-paying job, but that would take more time and effort, and it might not fit into my aviation schedule. My job as a mailman had brought in a fair amount of income, and I'd built up good experience doing it. There were a few risks, and after a while I began to lose interest in the routine – it was just boring. But the fact that I now had someone under my wing pushed me. I had to get it back. Not for me, not for Whiz, but for Fleetfoot.
I sped up to the employment office. Thankfully it was still open. I entered and recognized John, my old boss, and Samantha, my old interviewer.
"What brings you here this evening, Brian?" Samantha inquired.
"I'd like to have my old postman job back," I declared, opening up my portfolio and pulling out my revised resume.
John gave it a quick overlook, and then glanced at my (also updated) cover letter. "You've been pretty loyal to me and all, but there's been a minor influx of teenagers who've been sending in resumes like fanmail. I'll get back to you within about forty-eight hours, alright?"
"Sounds good," I replied, trying not to expose my increased worry.
I sat back in the chair while Samantha asked me a few additional questions on how I'd handled life, and where I was headed for the future. Maybe I didn't have a crush, but I liked Sam. She was a rather inquisitive, cute, and all-round friendly girl. It was always a pleasure talking with her, even if it was only about my career and job-oriented education levels.
"Thanks a lot for the interview," she said with her merry little smile.
"You're most welcome, Sam," I replied, returning the grin. I closed up my portfolio and headed for the door."
"Wait!" Samantha called, and I whipped around to attention.
"Yes?"
"Uh... would you like to... join me for dinner tomorrow?"
"Um, no thanks," I said casually, using every ounce of facial muscle power to hold back a blush. "I've got some matters at home I need to take care of."
Samantha's face hung in disappointment, but I caught sight of it before she could wipe it off. Before either one of us could say anything more, I turned back around and headed through the door, waving her goodbye through the glass door pane before running to the car.
I then drove to a nearby bank, and checked my mortgage status. 80% had been paid off already by all the due dates for installments, which showed that my payments were in good standing. I checked my balances and forwarded a small support cheque to my sister before leaving. My final stop was a hardware store, where I bought some lubrication oil for the various hinges around the house, along with some motor oil for Whiz and a toothbrush and grooming comb for Fleetfoot. I really wanted a professional alarm system to increase security but that would have to wait another two months or so.
I returned home well after sundown to find Fleetfoot fast asleep on the couch. Tomorrow came more training exercises, but hopefully no major flying. It would be the perfect time to socialize with my new pony friend.
I awoke well before Fleetfoot did. It was only when I began preparing a hearty breakfast of eggs and toast did she get awoken by all the noise.
"Good morning," I said, pausing my cooking and sitting on the couch next to her. "Did you sleep well?"
"Just as peacefully as at the Wonderbolt headquarters," she replied happily, shuffling into my lap. I stroked her soft white mane, and we shared an affectionate hug.
Over breakfast, we discussed our plans for the day. I would be heading back to the Air Force base for more training and get into the prelude of more advanced techniques, before returning in the afternoon to meet up with John and confirm my return to my old job. In the meantime, Fleetfoot would ride out the time – but with what exactly? I couldn't just flip on the TV and let her stare at a screen for six to eight hours. There had to be something more productive I could give her to do to occupy the time.
As I forked the last of the eggs into my mouth, my eyes widened as a solution occurred to me. While Fleetfoot brushed her teeth, I quickly washed the dishes and raced upstairs to my bedroom, returning sometime later with my laptop and a bunch of cables. I dragged a large upside-down box in front of the sofa and set all my stuff down.
"What's this?" Fleetfoot inquired, re-entering the living room.
"It's my computer," I replied proudly. "It obtains, converts, and displays information. It'd take too long to explain all the details on how it works though."
"Perfectly mine, sir," she replied, and I leaned back a bit in shock. A pony – a cute, fast-flying pony, had just called me "sir".
Just as a soldier does to his/her general or team leader...
"Now, I have three simulation games I'd like you to try – Strike Fighters 2, Flaming Cliffs 3, and DCS World 2.0. They will give you a sense of what the world above is like when I fly."
"So, they provide a sense of flying without actually flying?" Fleetfoot said with curiosity. "Even the Wonderbolts Academy didn't even have that type of training."
I smiled and loaded up Strike Fighters 2. "It's pretty easy to replicate the real thing in this world, Fleety."
Fleetfoot turned and gave me a tiny endearing smile – the kind that clearly had some loving intent behind it. "Sounds nice," she whispered. I connected my laptop to the TV and reset the whole game, so she'd start from the very beginning and not have to struggle with all the high scores and levels I'd racked up over the months before. Fleetfoot sat upright on the couch and studied the game's layout.
"So...how do I control it?"
"With this." I said, holding up a wired joystick. I plugged it into the laptop and set it down beside her. For a good half-hour, we played the game together, and I showed Fleetfoot the basic controls, how to fly the aircraft, and the various ways to maneuver the aircraft.
Just as we were about to advance to the next level in which taking out enemy targets would be explored, I glanced at the clock. I had only an hour before the first part of my pilot training session would start.
"Damn it, time strikes again," I muttered under my breath.
"What's wrong, Brian?" Fleetfoot slowed her flying speed and went into a glide, before looking over at me with an adorable inquisitive look. Even in my brief moment of distress, her sweet face was like fire to butter.
"Nothing, just gotta leave right away otherwise I will be late, and—"
"—No late policy!" Fleetfoot finished.
"Exactly," I said, getting up from the couch. "I should be back by the afternoon."
I ran upstairs to my room and got dressed. I simply stuffed my flight suit into my duffel, figuring I could simply change into it later when I got to the Air Force base. Double-checking that I had everything with me, I skipped down the stairs and headed for the door.
Before leaving, I pulled a sheet of paper from my notepad and wrote a number on it.
"Here's my cell number," I said, handing the paper to Fleetfoot. "In case of anything dangerous or emergencies, you can call me with that." I pointed to the landline desk phone by the kitchen counter."
"Ok, and Brian?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks for sheltering and supporting me. You've been so kind."
If Samantha (a cute brunette) was gorgeous, then Fleetfoot was hotter than lava. I couldn't help it – I blushed. "Y-you're welcome, Fleety. See you soon."
I dashed out the door and ran down the block, duffel over my shoulder, to the old parking lot. I hopped into Whiz and sped away, leaving a noisy rumble in my wake.
Forty minutes later I arrived at the Air Force base, with my suit and other arsenal ready for the next training session.
Our team's first task was covering the art of ejection seats. Back when I first learned about jet fighters as a kid they seemed pretty straightforward: you opened the canopy mid-flight, pulled a lever, and then released a big parachute. Now in real life, however, it looked more complicated.
And it was. There were certain ejection pressures that had to be set for certain heights at which an emergency would occur, and the action had to be performed very quickly. Now my team and I had done this before, but that was just the basics. Now the in-depth stuff took place – the two types of chutes activated, and at which time.
"And... now!" Shane's voice boomed over the intercom, and I instantly yanked the chute release pull without thinking twice. The curved sheet of synthetic fabric ballooned over me as the ground below came into view, larger and larger by the second. Yet my falling speed was slowing by the minute. I braced myself for a hard impact, but amazingly I floated down gently onto a rocky grass-filled slope. Upon landing I bent my knees and used my hands to steady myself. My shoulders and back hurt badly from the G-forces, but at least I'd made it to the safety of the ground alive.
As the sound of truck engines in the distance signaled the arrival of the pick-up assistant crew, I walked about slowly to ease the tension in my body, all the while reflecting over the seriousness of this section of training. At first it seemed rather frightening and pretty painful, but having ejected from a smaller plane that was deliberately tampered with to produce a "flight problem", it became all the more significant to me why the ejection training routine was so vital.
As the afternoon rolled in, I turned up the volume in Whiz's touch screen headunit, playing a radio playlist of some tropical house to soothe my head and body from all the vigorous mental and physical routines that I'd been put through in a span of a good seven hours. But in the back of my head, I knew I was one step closer to making my childhood dreams come true – fighting the bad guys and flying through the skies at high speed.
I really wanted to just lay down in a tropical-themed spa somewhere, chill out, and then have a pizza. But that would have to wait. My job return remained number one priority now. As I passed the road that led down to home, my cell phone rang. I pulled over and picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Brian." Josh's voice came out shallow but had a hint of relief in it, as if he'd been just won a epic battle. "Glad to have people like you around. Many of these teens and young adults could barely follow any instructions, and three even got fired recently. There's still room, and I've admitted you back into the office at your local location. The only thing is that a part of your new job will be delivering mail out of town for two days of the week in the morning. Currently we have one senior member who does it, but he's hinted at retiring – twice already. Can you do it?"
"Uh..." was all that came out of my mouth. All of my pilot training sessions began half an hour after the crack of dawn and didn't end until three o'clock. Before I could assemble the words in my head and push them out through my lips, John interjected.
"Come meet me at four-thirty," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "We'll talk job ranking and hours and more, alright, Brian?"
"Sounds good," I replied with a smile. "Thank you, Mr. John."
I took off back onto the road, spun the car around, and headed down the side road. But instead of parking in the old lot, I decided to park it in the safety of my garage.
Only one problem. My garage was a mess. Inside I had stored a lot of my old stuff – childhood toys, Whiz's old parts, tools, and some home improvement equipment. I hadn't used them in months. Gazing up at the sky briefly (a technique I often used to help me think deeply), an idea sprung up in my head.
"Hi Fleetfoot!" I called upon entering, but she didn't answer. I kicked off my shoes and stepped into the living room. There she was on the sofa, playing the simulator games just as I'd left her many hours ago. Only this time, she was playing at a much higher level and also a different simulator.
My brain was stumped. How did she get through all those difficult levels so fast? Pegasi must have much more complicated and well-engineered brains than I'd originally thought.
I walked over and sat down. "Hey," I whispered, and she twitched in response.
"Oh... hi, Brian," said Fleetfoot, rather awkwardly. "Welcome home. These games are quite interesting! I've gone through one already, and this one seems to be even better!"
"Good to know," I replied quickly. "Say... do you mind pausing for a moment?" I really need to clean up the garage so I can put my car in."
"Aw!" Fleetfoot's pout was beyond cute, and I lowered my shoulders and smiled. "All right, just finish up this stage, ok?"
"Okay!" she responded quickly, returning to maneuvering the F-15 through some thick clouds with her joystick.
I had about half an hour before I had to be at the post office to talk with John, so I figured I might as well bide some time while I waited for Fleetfoot to finish playing. Besides, it'd give me some time to plan further ahead. I slapped some cheese and pastrami between slices of raisin bread and poured a glass of juice, then sat down at the table.
Fleetfoot kept her eyes locked on the screen, paying close attention to every detail and adjusting her movement as needed. The accuracy of her hoof on the joystick was almost impeccable. Watching her play made me even more convinced of the "crazy" plan I had in mind – to make her replace Selena on the team of pilots. Of course she wouldn't pilot the jet, but she would be part of the aerial routines and guide the other pilots on courses, and other aviation stuff like that.
Fleetfoot finished the level, I finished eating, and we headed outside to the garage.
"Oh," Fleetfoot muttered as I heaved up the garage door. Inside were stacks of paint cans, tools strewn over a woodworking bench, a pile of tangled cables, paint roller trays all over the floor, a vacuum, and balls upon balls of dust and dirt.
I took a rag and wiped down the vacuum, plugged it in, and sucked up all the dust off the floor, while Fleetfoot got to work on the scattered items. She wiped down paint cans and placed them back on the shelves, rinsed out the paint roller trays and stacked them neatly – even using the power of flight to hover and place all the tools neatly in place on a rack.
"For someone who lives by himself, you sure have a lot of stuff," Fleetfoot noted as we took turns using rags to clean up the last of the dirt.
I sighed, feeling a pang of guilt – but it was true. I did have too much stuff, and I needed to sort it out. Many were given as gifts or hand-downs from family and friends. But accumulating it to the point of needing to organize a whole garage was more than enough of a sign that some items had to go.
Having organized the garage, Fleetfoot and I closed and locked it up. Fleetfoot dashed back inside and I headed off to the post office.
I literally threw myself through the door right as the clock struck four-thirty one. John was patiently waiting for me, though his tapping fingers suggested otherwise.
"Good afternoon, Mr. John," I said respectfully as I sat down in the chair opposite to him in the office.
"It's quite a pleasure to have you back," he replied with a soft smile, shaking hands with me. "Now, how exactly can we work this schedule out? You're at flight camp from daybreak until three, right?"
"That is correct, sir," I responded with a nod.
"So, I can put you on the afternoon shift, from five to ten. Can you handle that?"
"Um..." I gave a slight pause. If I was on my own, I could easily hand this no problem. But I wasn't alone. I had Fleetfoot to take care of, which meant spending time with her and assisting in her acclimatization of this new world she'd fallen into. Just like a mother with her child.
What comes around, goes around.
At the same time, more hours meant more money, which Whiz's maintenance and Fleetfoot's care was screaming for.
"Could it be possible to work only up until nine instead?"
John leaned back in his chair and thought it over. "Well, there's often some last-hour work that has to be done, and many aren't up to the task. But I'll rearrange some of the workers to suit your needs."
"Thank you, thanks very much," I responded, pulling a grateful smile so wide it was almost childish. We continued talking for a short while about my previous work experience, salary raises, and packaging improvements, before I signed a couple documents and waved him goodbye.
As I hopped back in my Subaru and drove to the bank, I thought about the changes that had occurred in my life and how important Fleetfoot really was to me. She wasn't just a cute pegasus pony – she was an adorable bundle of joy and happiness that had elevated the caring and dedication side of me to another level.
I returned home just before sundown, turning into my driveway. With a smooth upwards push I heaved up the garage door and reversed Whiz neatly inside. She fitted perfectly, without bumping or knocking any of the shelving units. Speaking of which, I still had yet to get rid of those. Which probably meant doing some hustling. Except instead of crack, it'd be old paint cans, paint brushes, glue, and a couple tools. Turning the key in the lock, I stepped through the door and entered. Oddly enough, Fleetfoot wasn't sitting by the couch, although the game application had been closed. The laptop was still connected to the TV and both devices were still running.
"Fleetfoot? Fleety?" I softly called out, but there was no reply. Keeping my cool, I checked the kitchen and patio before heading upstairs. I checked my bedroom. Poster-filled, with the small old desk and bed in the corner as usual. Finally, I peeked into the other, unused bedroom – and there she was, sitting on a pillow reading a book with a blanket draped over her.
"Hey," I whispered, not wishing to disrupt the flow of whatever she was reading.
Fleetfoot immediately recognized my voice and looked up. "Welcome home, Brian. These stories are pretty interesting."
Stories? I thought. I'd been gone only for about an hour or so, and she'd gone through a pile? Damn.
"I have quite a couple I can recommend to you," I replied, opening the door a little wider. "But right now I need to prepare dinner. You'll be fine here, right?"
"I'm not a little filly," Fleetfoot snapped with a stern look.
"Haha," I chuckled. "I know you aren't. Enjoy the book, the story gets pretty epic towards the end."
With that, I skipped down the staircase and dashed into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, I discovered my feathered friend had lapped up some of my chip dip. Then as I heated up the leftover stir-fry in the microwave oven, I noticed the bag of Doritos was gone.
"Smart pegasus," I muttered. "But why would she eat chips? Not the healthiest snack on the menu if I'm honest..."
It did put a smile on my face to see that any mess on the tiled floor had been cleaned up and the empty chip bag had been thrown in the trash can. Heading up to my room, I grabbed a few documents and called Fleetfoot down for dinner.
"Just as satisfying as it was the day before," she admitted, wiping her mouth with a rag.
"Must agree," I said, savoring the final spoonful of the delightful Asian cuisine. "Say, would you mind sleeping in the other room?"
"Nah," Fleetfoot shook her head. "I like the couch better. Besides, it'd cost you a ton of bits to get another bed which you obviously don't have."
Bits? I wondered. Was that their currency of sorts back in Equestria? Either way, she had a solid point. The couch was sufficient, and I shouldn't risk breaking the bank. So I moved on to the bigger, more important question to ask her. One that would reshape the whole U.S. Army flight camp orientation and regulation board.
"Would you like to join me in flight training?"
Instantly Fleetfoot leaned back, and her lip turned down in doubt. "Um, I don't know, Brian... will they even accept me, even though I can very fast? You said I'm like an alien in this world, right? So how would they react seeing me amongst them?"
She had a point. But I had an idea.
"I'll get in touch with them and give their proposal. My lead instructor, Sean, is running out of options for a substitute for one pilot who had to make an emergency leave before this year's session started. That's why I was asking."
"Well, if Sean fails to find a replacement and rejects your proposal, then he'll be as stuck as a wagon in mud," Fleetfoot remarked, and we shared a laugh.
"He'll need information though. How about I give him a quick description of you and a picture?" I proposed.
Fleetfoot shook her head. "He needs to see me fly first."
I thought about it for a while, then let out a sly smile. "I don't think that should be too much of a problem. Tomorrow, I'll give him the basic proposal, then come with evidence on the second day."
"Sounds hoof-lickin' good to me," Fleetfoot replied, and we exchanged a fist-hoof bump.
We did a quick exercise routine, then headed off to bed. I shut off my laptop and the TV, disconnected the cable, and brought all the hardware back upstairs to my room while Fleetfoot settled down on the couch with my old blanket. Up in my room, while Fleetfoot slept, I organized some of my cluttered personal possessions, and got my postman suit ready for tomorrow's reappearance on the job.
The following morning, I got dressed in my casual clothes and packed up my flight gear. In the kitchen I quietly made breakfast, Fleetfoot still asleep on the couch, looking cute as ever. I quickly wrote down a note and headed out to the car, my mind still in long-term mode. I kept thinking about aspects of my home and my reacquired job that I really hadn't considered seriously before. Sharing living space and commodities heightened my awareness, and gave me more purpose why I was truly doing them. Stopping at a traffic light, I turned on Siri.
"Notes, please."
"Okay."
"Goals: Sort out items no longer needed, repaint garage, organize empty room for pegasus friend, separate books, clean room, vacuum house, set up plans to sell items, do laundry."
"anything else I can help you with?"
"Set an appointment for 3:30, and remind me half an hour early. Thanks Siri."
"You're welcome."
I continued on to the Air Force base, where I unloaded and headed into the training building. Today was another session of flying, where the instructions from our trainers would be minimal, and more focused on refining our basic flying techniques. I could roll fairly easily, and climbing and diving was a breeze. My main issue was staying on top of all the dials, numbers, and signals coming at me every hundredth of a second through the HMSS. On top of that, I had to constantly activate the infrared sensor to scan for "potential enemies" even though we were in a controlled area and not in Afghanistan. And a tiny section of my brain was still thinking about Fleetfoot.
"Just take 'em one at a time," Rafael's reassuring voice came over the intercom. I slowed my thinking frame rate, aligned my eyes with all the necessary information, and started to take in what I needed to learn and understand. After a good ninety minutes of flying, I'd got the basic arsenal down-packed. Later on in the third and final stage of the program I'd be sent out to an even bigger training ground in Iraq to actually practice using the jet's real weapons. At the end of the second session, I met Shane in the conference room.
"You asked for a short meeting, Mr. Spilner?" he said, fingertips together and arms atop the head desk. Fighting my shakiness, I strode forward with my bag, nodding as I sat down in the chair across from him.
"Yes, I did, sir," I replied politely, setting my bag down on the floor and facing him at a slight angle. I learned from an old friend at high school that this was a way to show keen interest without giving an intimidating impression.
"Is there any issues that you've noticed?" Shane inquired, tilting his head slightly.
I smiled and shook my head. "I, actually, have come on concern of our missing fifth pilot. I have gotten in touch with an old friend who is willing to take her place."
I unzipped a compartment on my duffel and held up a photo of Fleetfoot hovering in mid-air with a cute cheeky grin.
Shane froze, gazing in absolute shock. Before he could think of what to say, I took out a slip of paper and slid it across the desk to him.
"That's her information. I have yet to see her actually fly, though she says she can fly really fast."
"IS THIS SOME KIND OF JOKE?" Shane snapped, pushing my hand aside. His face was so close I could smell the Angus beef burger he'd eaten during our noon break.
"No, sir, I am not joking at all," I replied firmly, standing my ground. "Not in the slightest bit. She is real, she's a good flier, and she's...she's my best friend."
Shane backed into his chair and cocked an eyebrow. I gave a slow, serious nod, and he looked over the paper slip. For a full sixty seconds the room was so silent you could hear an ant crawl across the floor. Finally Shane spoke up.
"I know you mean well, Spilner," he replied, still sounding disappointed, "but this just doesn't look feasible."
"Good luck telling your bigger boss that you had a clear opportunity to complete a well-oiled team of five pilots and you backed out," I thought, but crushed it like a soda can in a garbage truck. "May I ask, when should you expect to have a substitute by?"
"By the end of tomorrow," he replied, shaking his head slightly. Surprisingly, Shane's complexion turned from one of shock and anger to one of concern and despair. "I know there are good committed aspiring pilots out there, and I'll find one. I... just hope it isn't too late."
I bit back an exasperated sigh. "Well, good luck to you then. I hereby request permission to leave, sir?"
"You may go, Mr. Spilner," Shane replied.
As I stuffed the papers back into my bag, I couldn't help but look back at my pilot squad leader and feel a tiny pang of pity. Here I'd presented him with a solution that had a streak of potential, and he'd turned it down in hopes of being able to find a "proper" replacement.
I sat silent in my Subaru on the long ride home, struggling to clear my mind of the disappointment I'd received. But there was still a bigger disappointment – to tell my friend the sad reality that her hopes were totally dashed. I turned into the driveway, cut the engine, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
Kicking off my shoes, I ran upstairs, where I found Fleetfoot in "her" bedroom reading as usual. I opened the door and sat down, a solemn look over my face.
"Did he...reject it?" she asked worriedly, already picking up on my body language.
"Yeah," was all that came out of my mouth, as I heaved a shallow sigh.
"I don't get what's up with these... humans being so resentful and mean to anything that's not normal for them," Fleetfoot snarled, her voice thick with fury.
"But maybe things are better this way," I replied calmly, trying to reconcile her raised flare. "At least you keep a low profile out of the public eye. I'll be preparing a quick snack for myself. Dinner's in the fridge, when you're hungry you can reheat it, okay?"
Fleetfoot just mumbled and continued reading her book as I slowly backed away from the door. My heart sank as if I'd dropped a couple pebbles into the bottom of it. As much as I had to respect the orders of my flight troop leader, I felt as if I'd let my best friend down by not properly standing up to Shane. But the wise words of my mom rang clear again: "Arguing leads to conflict and trust breaks."
I sat in silence at the small wooden dining table, thinking over how to get Fleetfoot to be happy again and to see the positive side to not being part of the Air Force flight training team. Then again, telling someone that not helping a team leader out would not sound morally correct at all.
I slid my empty plate into the kitchen sink, gave it a quick rinse, then dashed back upstairs to my room. In my iPhone's Notes app, I added "Be proper and positive at work" to the list and bolded the font. Then I changed into my work uniform and ran back down the steps, heading for the front door.
Upon arriving at the post office, I'd finally gotten Fleetfoot's sad and displeased face off my mind... temporarily. I was certain it'd return sooner or later. Straightening out my mail-man cap, I opened the back door and walked down the hallway, straight for John's office.
"Well, well, well," he began with his mock-gruff face. "How pleasant it is to have you back in the shuffling and sending league again."
"Here's your bag," he said, handing me a large flat-sided blue duffel.
"Thanks, Mr. John," I replied respectfully, taking the mail bag from him.
Getting back into the swing of the job's routine wasn't that hard – I took the occasional short shift in case a letter sorter had to leave work early, and I sorted stacks of mail and packages according to certain properties, then drove out to designated residential districts to deliver them.
"Hi, Ashley!" I called out, entering the mail sorting room with my bag slung over my wrist and a wide grin on my face.
"Oh, hi Brian! Glad to have you back!" she replied with an even prettier smile. Ashley was the head mail sorter, and always loved to have several workers around her, negotiating and coordinating to complete whatever tasks John assigned her and her colleagues. She loved working with me, particularly because she'd had a hard labor life prior in her working life. As she and I along with two other mail sorters began sorting all the mail and classifying them by certain criteria – such as ZIP code, city ward, and city – Ashley kept looking at me in an awkward way, and twice I could've sworn she was blushing.
"What the heck girl?" I muttered silently, rifling my fingers through a four-inch high stack of envelopes to make sure they were all properly sorted. "Are you trying to flirt but too shy to ask or what?"
It took all my self-control not to shake my head. I knew Ashley was friendly and all, but it seemed too excessive and unnecessary of her to act in such a way. So when we finished the sorting, I called her out.
"Hey Ashley?"
She turned and gave me an appealing look, like a dog waiting for its dish of food. "Yes?"
I bit back a sigh and smoothly let all the words out. "For the past thirty-five minutes of sorting mail, you've been constantly looking at me more than usual. Was there something important you needed to tell me but felt too shy to say so? Spill it. I won't judge."
Ashley's eyes fell, and I felt like I'd offended her. But she spoke anyway. "Um, it's nothing, really."
I gave a nod – a teeny, tiny nod. She'd gone for the usual runaway option, which, to be honest, was expected. I wouldn't be so soft about it later, though.
"Okay then," I replied, picking up a stack of mail and slipping it into my bag. Some of the other workers handed me a few more, and I organized them in the bag properly. With a friendly good-bye wave to Ashley, I stepped outside, where, to my surprise, John was waiting – in front of a white Ford Transit.
"This is your delivery van," he said, handing me a rather simple-looking key fob. "Be sure to return the key to my office after your delivery shift is finished. The packaging employees will be arriving shortly to stock the van. Have a safe drive, Brian."
"Thanks, Mr. John," I replied with a nod and smile, already unlocking the van's doors.
While I waited for the packages to arrive, I decided to check out the Transit's interior. The seats felt very comfortable, though not as good as the Bride seats in my Subaru. But the central digital display and the overall layout was very good – so good it made Whiz's interior look old and somewhat outdated.
I pushed the key into the ignition and started it up, taking note of all the dashboard details and the shifter location. After so many highway pulls and constant downshifts in my own car, it looked like I'd have a hard time adjusting to using an automatic transmission.
The shipping handlers arrived, pushing heavy-lift trolley carts stacked with packages. I got out and together they and I loaded up the van, making sure that small, light and fragile items were placed on top of bulkier, heavier packages. At last, all was ready, and I drove off... or at least attempted to. It took a second for me to remember there was no clutch pedal.
Mail delivery wasn't hard at all. Once I knew the routes and the neighborhoods to visit for each set of mail and packages, I noted all the house numbers and delivered each set of envelopes, bubble mail wraps, and packages to the designated addresses.
As I neared the last of my deliveries, my phone rang. It was my home phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Brian," came a bleak voice, and I knew it was Fleetfoot. "Just started sorting out the laundry, except I forgot which colors go where."
I was about to facepalm, but stopped myself halfway. I didn't ask her to do laundry, as I'd been worried she wouldn't know how to do it and would end up ruining my precious clothing. Yet here she was, asking for my advice on how to do it. "Make a couple piles – dark colors, light colors, white clothing. Keep the fragile and very flimsy clothing in a separate pile, as those I'll wash by hand, okay?"
"Okay, understood," Fleetfoot replied, trying to sound confident and confirmative.
"Thanks for helping out," I said with a smile. "Love ya. See you later tonight."
Hanging up, I gripped the wheel and sped out of the neighborhood back to the post office.
After my second shift, I hopped back into Whiz's ever-familiar black Bride racing seats, started up the rumbling boxer engine, and drove down the now dark streets back to the one neighborhood I knew the most.
Backing up into the driveway, I trudged outside, heaved up the big heavy metal door, and slowly reversed the car into the garage. With my day's work done, I locked Whiz, locked up the garage, and shuffled inside, my body aching from all the work. It had been a long afternoon and evening.
Fleetfoot had stopped reading and was now gently pushing a laundry basket down the stairs. I couldn't help but smile at her determination as the basket hit a bump and she'd have to quickly stabilize it to avoid it falling.
"Hello," she said with a smile upon noticing my presence.
"Let me help you with that," I replied, taking the laundry basket and heading into the laundry room. Fleetfoot then got the next pile of clothes ready while I readied the washing machine. Adding in the detergent and other washing agents, I noticed a bright yellow stripe sticking out from under the piles of my clothes.
"Even though it's likely washing machine safe, I'll wash this one separately by hand," I told her, holding up the Wonderbolts suit.
While the clothes washed up, I got to work making a quick evening snack for Fleetfoot and I.
We sat outside on the backyard patio, eating sliced peach, drinking cold orange juice and watching the moon and whatever stars we could spot.
"So what's it like in the daily life of a Wonderbolt?" I asked.
"Well," Fleetfoot began, "each one of us gets up at a prescribed time and gets started with the day much like you do. We make our bunk beds neatly, brush our teeth, perform a warm-up exercise routine, chat briefly, and then discuss with Spitfire about our flying plans."
My eyes widened slightly in surprise at the similarities, but I wanted more information. "So, do you just pick a flight route and cook up an aerial plan?"
Fleetfoot shook her head. "Not exactly. When Spitfire receives a message from the Royal Guards in Canterlot—"
"You mean, your capital city where the highest level of monarchy ruling is stationed?" I cut in.
"Yes," Fleetfoot replied, taking a big swig from her pink straw. "Once the message is received about where we as a team are to perform or to engage in defense, Spitfire holds a serious meeting and we formally discuss our flight plans, where we will form a defense strategy, or where we will perform, our speeds and angles, what formations to make at certain aerial focal points..."
"Almost exactly like we do here," I replied, chewing the last of my peaches. "Except we have much more powerful and accurate weaponry to tackle our enemies, of course."
As we continued to chat and share information about flight, military communication systems, the beauty of the moon, and Wonderbolt lifestyle, I thought back onto Shane's firm choice and wondered whether he'd really be that lucky to prove his point of finding a well-oriented and cooperative "human" pilot substitute.
I sat on the bed, thinking over my day and my plans to fix up the home I'd now realized I'd neglected – thanks to Fleetfoot. Without her, the house would likely become even more cluttered and untidy. As I reached for my phone to review and update my notes, the door opened, squeaking on its dry, somewhat rusty hinges.
Fleetfoot stepped in, a pile of clothes draped across her back. "Good morning Brian."
"Good morning Fleety my love," I replied, only to realize the significance of what I'd uttered a split second later. Fleetfoot just smiled at me and handed over my clothes.
"Thanks," I said, taking the pile of clothes from her and setting it down on my bed. "Your wings look a lot better than when I first found you. Think they'll be strong enough for a flapping?"
"Still a bit sore during wingbeats," she muttered. "But at least I can walk now without significant pain."
Good to know, I thought, giving her a little head scratch – which caused her to giggle. We shared a warm hug and headed downstairs for breakfast. Our discussion focused on house cleaning and organization plans, but then Fleetfoot brought forth an odd question.
"So, what's your team's routine for the flight training program today?"
I leaned back in my chair abruptly and my lip twisted slightly in doubt. I didn't anticipate the introduction of this topic. But considering last night's discussion, it was highly plausible. I took a slow, smooth breath and let it all out.
"Today's routine is to learn how to fly in teams, using all the prior knowledge and experience gained from our solo flights."
"I see. Such a shame about Shane's attitude, it'd look odd with only four pilots compared with all the other flight training teams in other bases," she replied with a sneer.
I laughed so hard I almost spat out my oatmeal: for a cute pegasus pony, Fleetfoot had some good humor.
"But, that's his loss," she added with an underlying submissive tone.
I scarfed down the rest of my oatmeal and quickly put the bowl in the sink. Glancing at my watch, I ran back upstairs to change. When I returned, Fleetfoot was lying on the couch, looking rather glum.
"Hey," I said, slinging my duffel over my shoulder. "Watcha say we go out this weekend together to a restaurant?"
Almost instantly her head shot up and her eyes glowed with excitement. "A night out with delicious food? Really?!"
I nodded seriously. "Really. Just you and me, together."
"Thank you so much, Brian!" she replied excitedly, running up and giving me a hug of gratitude. I was beaming with love so much I felt like crying.
"You're most welcome, sweetheart," I replied, giving her a behind-the-ear scratch that she loved. "See you soon."
I opened up the garage door, rolled Whiz out, shut the garage door, and drove off in earnest, feeling confident about my short-term goals.
"Been a while since I've seen you so refreshed," Steve joked. "Your eyes still look slightly baggy. Not much sleep I guess?"
"Yeah," I replied weakly. "Guess I took on a bit too much for my first day back on the mail job."
"You still doing that crappy paper hustle?" another of the pilots interjected.
"I'm actually very good at it, and it pays the bills, so why the heck not," I said with a streak of defense.
"Alright, everyone, in formation and listen up!" Shane's booming instructor voice was back, and I aligned myself properly as soon as he spoke.
"You all have been performing very well in this training course so far," he told us with a strict but pleased face. "Now you shall proceed to the next leg of your mission to become a serving pilot in the U.S. Air Force. Today we will tackle tandem flying, and then a short sequential flying session. You will be tested on flying maneuverability, the knowledge and experience which you have gained prior. Every aspect of it will be of great importance in the major transition. So hop to it, everyone! To your jets, now!"
We'd all each been given code names now for better identification: I was Spinner, Steve was Delta, and Viper and Ace were the other two pilots. This would be our first time flying without our copilots.
"You all know this is as serious as it can get, right boys?" I casually asked my fellow pilots as we walked towards the large main hangar. "I'm quite excited for this actually," Steve confessed. "Being able to fly independently, yet still be on par with a mate – this should be interesting. Well, except for one who'd normally bring up the rear and patrol, though that one's still missing."
I nodded slightly. Huh. So Shane had failed after all but kept silent about it since none of you decided to ask.
I took one last look at the entrance doors, a weird, random yet blurred thought running briefly through my mind. I tried to catch it, but it sped off with a flash.
I slowly slid into the seat, strapped on my helmet and oxygen mask, plugged in all the required connections, and flipped a few switches. My radio headset crackled with a hint of static, and the bubble canopy slowly lowered down around me, eventually closing with a firm metallic click. A man on the ground below gave me a quick thumbs-up, indicating it was clear for startup to begin.
"Here goes nothing," I whispered, reaching out to the instrument panel. As I started up the engine, my headset crackled again, this time louder.
"Spinner, this is Primary Flight Control," a voice spoke out, loud and clear. "Viper will now depart, followed by Delta, then Ace, then you. Do you copy?"
I groaned. Again, I'd be the last to leave. I didn't really like being last, but at the same time I didn't want to come off as being a boastful leader.
"Copy that, Sir. I hereby await your command."
One by one, each jet left the large hangar one by one, taxiing down the taxi runway, each aircraft a safe distance apart. At last it was my turn. "Spinner, you are clear to proceed. Over."
"Duty noted, Sir. Proceeding towards taxi runway. Over and out."
The chocks were pulled, causing the aircraft to start to move. I activated the throttle gently, moving the jet forward. Steering with caution, I guided it out of the hangar and down the taxi runway. Whilst I was stationary, I looked around through the canopy. One jet had already taken off, and was eagerly awaiting the arrival of his partner. To bide the time, I sat back and thought deeply over all that I'd learnt – the HMSS, the infrared sensor, the joystick's control buttons – everything. No sooner had my muscles relaxed did my headset crackle again.
"Spinner, the runway is now clear, proceed to prepare for takeoff."
"Roger that."
I slowly turned onto the start of the main runway, aligned myself, then got the green light.
"Spinner, you are clear for takeoff."
Gripping the throttle lever, I smoothly pulled it forward, sending the aircraft forward. I pulled even harder, activating the afterburners and rapidly increasing acceleration as the end of the runway got ever closer. Finally I reached maximum required speed, and gently pulled back on the stick, rising up as I did so. The aircraft continued to gain height. Then I got a rather unusual call in from the intercom.
"How's it going, Brian? Ready to roll?"
I looked over to my right. There, in all his enthusiasm and ego, was Delta, aka Steve, giving me a little wave.
"All clear to begin tandem flight," I responded through my headset, flashing him a thumbs-up. "Sky's clear."
"Then let's do this, baby!" Steve whooped, igniting his throttle.
I fired up the twin turbojets and took off after him, flying offset of his rear left quarter, much like a bird. The key here was to be able to copy each others' moves while still maintaining a safe distance apart.
"Clear for right-hand banking? Over." Steve called out.
I looked ahead and noticed a small hill range up ahead. "All clear, Stevo. Go for it."
He approached the hills until the sky could only just be seen, then made a somewhat sharp right turn, banking at a seventy-degree angle as he did so.
"Whoa!" I gasped as the flight path bars hit an angle of sixty degrees. "This is skeeeee-tchy."
We made a smooth circle, keeping in close proximity, before circling again, only more tightly.
"Up, Brian, up!" Steve ordered, and I pulled back hard on the stick. We climbed up to a good eighteen thousand feet, then began a smooth descent. As we neared our original altitude, Steve started to distance himself more, and I understood his plan before he could even relay it.
"Hey Brian, roll?"
"Roll!" I replied enthusiastically, judging the distance between him and me – and once we were far apart enough, I yanked the joystick sideways, sending the jet in a longitudal spin. Together we spun simultaneously twice, before parting horizontally and banking in opposite directions, before lining up and performing a low pass. Finally, we touched down and returned to base.
"That was an awesome run!" Steve whooped as we made our way across the air field back to the main building for our short reassembly meeting and lunch break.
"It was a great moment indeed," I replied, keeping my enthusiasm at bay.
"Good work on the maneuvers and synchronization," I added, giving him a rather sluggish high-five. "It'll really come in handy for our next flight."
With our first flight session complete, we all sat down for a lunch break. Many of us were quite excited to be performing all together, and there was a lot of interpersonal talk.
"You need to loosen up a bit in the air, man!" Steve remarked, giving me a friendly shoulder punch.
"It's not that simple," I shot back. "You may have some prior experience from who-knows-where, but I certainly don't, so cut off a thick slice of slack cheese, will ya?"
Steve rolled his eyes and gave a little groan. "I'm just saying you need a bit more guts when it comes to maneuvering. Being a pilot is about being daring and testing personal capabilities and limits, right?"
"True, but not especially risky ones," I replied, taking a mouthful of beans, roast chicken, and hot cooked rice.
Exactly twenty minutes later, Shane entered the room, and he had some very strict words for us all.
"Listen up!" he hollered with an ear-piercing whistle blow. "Most of you have performed very well in your first round of duo flight. I gave you all minimal restrictions, thus allowing you to test your knowledge and previously acquired flight skills. I hope many of you are grateful for giving you such free rein."
"However," he continued, in a much deeper and serious tone, "you all will now fly together, as a group of five – I mean, four pilots. No horseplay this time, is that understood?"
"Yes sir!" we all replied in a chorus.
"Good." Shane's smile was rather peculiar – half-evil, half-pleasant. In other words, a weird mix of the Joker and a proud dad. "I'll call out formation patterns and all of you follow in sync. Is that understood?"
"Yes sir!" we all repeated in sync again.
"All right then. You all got five minutes to finish up. The maintenance crew wants to see that table spotless, so keep it clean! See you all in the hangar at 12:00 sharp!" Shane concluded, and turned and walked out the door.
Not wasting a minute, Steve scarfed down the rest of his meal, dropped the foam tray into the trash bin, and ran back to the locker room as if he was being gunned down by snipers. I, on the other hand, took my time and finished every last bit of it. As usual I was the last one to finish eating, but I caught up with the others very quickly.
"I hope you all know the severity of this session," I told Steve, looking at him straight in the eyes. "You gotta open those ears and lock up your freestyle BS, understand?"
"Relax, I got this bro," he replied, tapping my shoulder. "You gotta chill out, man! Why the red ears?"
"Just stay obedient and focused," I muttered under my breath, taking out my flight suit.
By 11:55, we were all suited up and had started to proceed down the hall towards the sliding doors, which opened up into the hangar. Sure enough, Shane and a few other ground crew members were waiting.
"Alright, lieutenants, I hope you all are ready to begin the first four-jet squadron. This will be quite simple, as you all will fly in battle spread, then make a smooth banking curve, forming a echelon as you do so. Finally, a fluid four with a rise and descent. Best of luck and remember to keep those masks on at all times. Your lives depend on it."
I fought back a snicker; I couldn't believe he had to mention that. It was such an obvious rule.
Without a word, we headed over to our jets and made our preparations. Having gone through this process several times, I could do it much more quickly and efficiently. I had my helmet, oxygen mask, and radio all strapped on and connected in just three minutes – four times faster than when I first flew.
Before one of the pilots could even get up the last step of the boarding ladder, I'd flipped the canopy and the engines' pre-ignition stage switches.
One ground crew member took off running, indicating that one pilot was good to go. I then watched as one jet left. Judging by a notable ID code on the lower fuselage, it was Ace. What I saw below me, though, took my breath away.
It was my ground crew member, and he was flashing me an "OK" sign. My eyes widened.
You mean... I get to go next? I'm the second one to leave?!
As if to confirm my initial shock of doubt, my ground crew member nodded, and I flashed him a thumbs-up. Right at the same time, my headset crackled loudly.
"Spinner, this is Primary Flight Control, you are clear to proceed towards the taxiing runway, over."
"Roger that."
The chocks were pulled, and once again, I began my slow but smooth journey down the runway, observing the sky above occasionally to take mental screenshots. I did this so that I'd be able to get a better sense of our positioning as a formation flying team. Soon, I was in position at the start of the main runway, awaiting instructions.
"Spinner, you are clear for take off. Please proceed."
"Roger that, sir."
I aligned myself with the middle of the runway and gunned the throttle, igniting the afterburners two-thirds of the way. The end of the runway soon came into view... and the jet started to rise. I gave the stick a gentle pull, and rose ever higher. Banking east and moderating my speed, I soon caught up to Ace.
"Ace, this is Spinner, are you ready?"
"Ready when the others are, Spinner."
I glanced down and checked my altitude. Both of us were at around eight thousand feet, so there wasn't too much worry about breaking the "sky barrier" – the strict limit of how high we could fly. Looking around, the aura of blue skies and faint wisps of clouds greeted me. Suddenly, I heard more jet engine noise. Gazing around, I caught sight of two other jets behind me, rising up to the same altitude.
"Ace, this is Spinner, Viper and Delta have arrived. Are you ready?"
"Let's do this, Spinner. I'll call out Delta, you take care of Viper."
"Roger that, Ace."
We parted, and I came up in front of Viper, switching my radio signal.
"Viper, this is Spinner, are you ready?"
"Whenever you are, Spinner."
"Good, get beside me on the left so we're even as fork and spoon." I ordered, before switching signals. "Ace, you and Delta are ready?"
"Viper and I are even."
"Great," I replied, trying not to sound sarcastic. "Now come up and align yourselves with me and Viper."
I took a glance behind me on my right, and sure enough, Ace and Delta were steadily approaching. I grinned as they came nose-to-nose with Viper and I. At last we were all neatly lined up.
"Everyone ready?" Shane's voice came over all our headsets loud and clear.
"We're ready, sir," I replied. We all flashed each other a thumbs-up and climbed in succession to nine thousand five hundred feet, then leveled out.
"Dive, then make a smooth banking arc, alright?" I called out to the others.
We flashed each other thumbs up, ready to begin our synchronized formation flight. But as we began a smooth descent down to seven thousand feet, Ace made an emergency call.
"Alert, this is Ace, there is an unidentified object approaching us from behind. Closure speed is 600 knots."
"Have you got any identification details, Ace?" I called out quickly.
"None yet, but with the minimum cross-referencing of my radar, it's very tiny. Possibly a foreign UAV."
To both of our surprises, a foreign radio call came in to both of us.
"Pilots of the Air Force, this is Lieutenant Fleetfoot, requesting permission to join the squadron. Over."
My eyes almost blew out of their sockets and my hands started to shake. I couldn't believe it: Fleetfoot had tracked down the Air Force base and was determined to display her capabilities. And how in the heck did she manage to achieve radio contact?
"I say we report back to base and have them investigate her. What you say, Spinner?"
"Let her in, Ace. If she has the power to fly from so far off and approach us, yet request permission, then she's not a foe. The enemy never requests permission from his targets. But do report to Shane what's occurring."
"As you wish, Spinner. But you're calling the shots if anything goes wrong – and with whatever Shane throws at us after this session is over."
"Challenge accepted," I replied with a huff.
Ace took the lead, and talked with Fleetfoot over where to position herself and what formation technique we were to apply. With our fifth member now in line, all five of us began our descent down to seven thousand feet. Then we started to bank and fly synchronously in a smooth arc, followed by a sequential echelon. I looked back and smiled. Fleetfoot wasn't flashing no attention-seeking BS – in fact, she was even more in sync than Delta. As we began to descend in a fluid four formation, I radioed Shane.
"Flight Control, this is Spinner, we have added a fifth member to the squadron, requesting flyby for identification purposes, over."
"Spinner, this is Shane, who is it? Did you identify it before reporting?"
"No report, sir, it has given out radio contact and does not have any enemy attributes."
"You all are clear to engage," Shane replied. I could hear the disappointment in his voice, but I knew this was my only chance to get him to appreciate Fleetfoot's aerial capabilities.
I relayed the plan of action to Ace, Delta, and Viper, and we all dove down and made a sharp banking. Aligning straight in a fingertip motion, we made a low pass over the runway in clear sight of the control towers at a steady 400 knots.
"Aerial synchronized formation flight complete, requesting permission to land," I radioed to ATC.
"Spinner, you and your team must now distance themselves and take turns to land with a distance of a kilometer between each aircraft. Over and out."
Ace was the first to land, followed by Viper, then I, and finally Delta. Fleetfoot didn't land on the runway; instead, she made a sharp right and flew straight towards the hangar. That's when I noticed something rather peculiar: there was a thin trail of smoke coming out from behind her, just like our jets!
As I landed on the runway and turned in towards the arrival pad, my brain kept grinding away at itself, trying to find an answer, but nothing seemed logical. So I did the next best thing: accept it as an unexplained natural cause.
At the back of the line-up of jets, I cut the engine, equalized the pressure, and opened the canopy, before looking over at the ground below. Shane was standing there, looking baffled but also cross.
I sighed, taking off my oxygen mask and helmet and slowly descending the boarding ladder.
"You are in water beyond boiling hot now, Spilner."
Shane was onto me as soon as I crossed the yellow waiting line, not waiting a moment for me to even speak.
"Why did you let the bogey in on your squadron without proper identification?" he snapped.
I gulped and let out a short sigh. "Because it didn't come across as a threat. I haven't heard of an enemy who'd attempt to make radio contact requesting for permission to join a flight team. And... I actually know her."
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Fleetfoot – a blue and yellow figure standing by the hangar doors. Before Shane or I could say or do anything in response, she came running over, and looked at Shane straight in the eye, causing him to lean back in surprise.
"You were..." he began.
"Yes sir," Fleetfoot replied. "I was the bogey. And Brian here," she added, putting a supportive hoof around my leg, "is my caretaker."
For once, Shane was left starstruck. Forcing myself not to smile, I looked down at Fleetfoot.
"How on earth did you get into contact with us?"
Fleetfoot simply unzipped her flight suit and pulled the head-cover part of it back to reveal a radio headset over her ears and a small transmitter on the back of her neck. "With these."
"How'd you find those?"
"In your room," she replied with a smug smile. "Batteries were dead, so I replaced them, and used your laptop to find a median range of the pilots' operating frequency. Entering the flight zone, I kept tweaking the transmitter until I could pick up a signal. Then I took off and chased down a group of fighter jets I saw attempting to perform together."
Shane turned to her, and I noticed his face changed. He didn't look angry, but more confused and slightly fascinated.
"A pegasus... on the Air Force base... this is just too much. C'mon, we must talk."
Rather forcefully, he led me and Fleetfoot towards the hangar and into the meeting room beside the locker room beyond. I stood while Fleetfoot sat on her haunches on a chair.
"So you deliberately refused to inform me first when Fleeter—"
"Fleetfoot, sir," the pegasus corrected.
"Fleetfoot," Shane continued, a streak of lividness in his voice, "entered the airspace?"
"Yes, sir," I replied. "I feared she'd be ordered to be shot down otherwise. I let her approach, then once I recognized it was her, I proceeded, figuring I could inform and reconcile after the flight session."
Shane's eyes shifted over to the blue-and-yellow clothed pegasus, who was looking rather innocent and adorable sitting on the chair like a dog, her eyes sad and pitful.
I kept a straight face as Shane's eyes softened, and he turned back to me. "This is your last chance. Any more violations and your wings are stripped. You got that?"
"Yes, sir," I replied firmly.
"Good." His gaze shifted again to Fleetfoot. "You may not have the armament, but you showed a lot of guts and respect to avoid conflict. I saw that low pass – you were more on point than Steve. To be honest, it still amazes me how such a small pegasus as you can fly so fast. You may not be able to become a complete member of the air force, but you surely can be an amazing assistant in training pilots. Mind coming in tomorrow at dusk to discuss further plans?"
"I don't see why not, sir," Fleetfoot replied with a salute. "And thank you for being kind and respectful."
"You're most welcome, Fleetfoot." Shane's face changed again – he looked serious, but satisfied. "All that needs to be said has been said for now. You both are dismissed."
We walked down the hall back to the locker room to change and get ready for the day, but as soon as we entered, Ace, Delta, and Viper were all immediately upon us, words tumbling from their mouths like a spilled bucket of berries.
"Oh my gosh, she looks so cute!"
"What's your name, cutie?"
"Were you really the bogey all along?"
"Damn, you can really fly fast!"
"HIT THE BRAKES!" I bellowed, holding out my hand. "One at a time. Yes indeed, everyone – this is the bogey. Her name is Fleetfoot, and she's my best friend. Not a pet, in case you might speculate. She is now part of our team, and I say this from Shane's mouth, not my own." It was as if I'd taken control of time and space itself and hit the pause button. Everyone just froze in place, totally stunned by what I had just said. So, Steve shattered the silence.
"Can we ask a few questions, Fleetfoot?"
"Fire away, my fellow fliers," Fleetfoot replied with a proud smile.
So the pilots asked her various things – where she was from, her flying capabilities, and how she managed to achieve radio contact. I acted as a moderator, making sure that nothing got out of hand.
Eventually my phone in my duffel bag buzzed, indicating it was 3:00. I swore. "Fleetfoot! We gotta get going now!"
Her face fell slightly in disappointment, and I could see all the other pilots trying to hold back their "cuteness" emotions. It was rather funny to see them get all soft on the inside over the presence of a winged pony in a blue and yellow suit.
"I must be going now everyone," she said, shaking her head. "However, I can't leave without thanking you all for your cooperation in our formation flight and for being so kind... albeit enthusiastic. Now get down on your knees and give me what I'm sure you all wanted to do the instant your eyes laid upon me – a hug."
"Awww, thanks!" Steve said sympathetically, gently wrapping his arms around Fleetfoot. Viper's was more casual, but Ace clutched Fleetfoot and cuddled her like she was his child. I felt rather uneasy at this excessive gesture, finding it rather obscene and inappropriate. Luckily, Fleetfoot didn't seem to mind. She even gave him a kiss on the cheek, which resulted in a slight blush. Finally Fleetfoot slide back onto the floor and we walked out of the building together and across the parking lot towards my car.
"Why did you kiss him?" I retorted as we made our way back home through busy traffic.
That shut me up like a slap. She was right though. Even while my inner emotions felt that Ace's actions were wrong, love shouldn't be something to be held back or denied. With the way she looked and acted, it made complete sense why my fellow pilots would take a liking to her.
As I neared our neighbourhood street, my phone buzzed again, signalling my second notification for my arrival at the post office. I let out a long, distressed sigh.
“Unfortunately, it looks like I’m going to end up being late to work this time. I could just let you out here with my house keys and just zoom off to the post office, but I can’t risk you being seen. At least, not yet.”
“How about I simply enter through the patio door at the back of the house?” Fleetfoot proposed. “I’ll be in and out and back inside again before anyone has a chance to even turn their heads.”
I sat back in my seat at a red light and pondered over it. “That’s a pretty good idea, Fleety. Are you sure you’ll be able to fly fast enough?” “Flying is part of my blood,” Fleetfoot boasted, already clambering over to the car door and readying herself.
Gently easing the car into first gear right at the sight of a green light, I unlocked the passenger door, and Fleetfoot pushed it open – whilst I was still driving slowly. Before I could think twice about it, she jumped out and flew up into the air with a loud whoosh. I shut the door and sped off to the post office, hoping she’d stay obvious for as little time as possible.
Work wasn’t as hard as I anticipated it’d be. Mostly the pain came from being worn out from my routine at the Air Force base and driving so swiftly all the way home. This time around, my task was merely sorting out letters and packages – no delivering. It wasn’t surprising though, considering how much mail came in this time and that it was already quite late in the afternoon.
“Your mind gets kinda frazzled after so many hours scanning over letters and numbers, doesn’t it?” I told Ashley as we settled down for a quick meal of muffins and drink before the final leg of our shifts.
“At first you find yourself comfortable with it, but over time your eyes get a little fuzzy feeling in the back,” she replied, taking a sip from her Thermos.
“Almost like a nano-sized jokester is tickling your eye nerves with a feather,” I added, causing her to chuckle – and almost spit out her coffee.
“Good one, Brian. Good one.”
We finished up our muffins and drinks before heading back into the sorting room and tackling the next container of mail. Often these late ones were the most important due to their origins – they came from overseas and so had to be handled with an extra streak of care and dedication in sorting. More than once I came upon a small package or letter from a pen pal to another, or sometimes a lone kid to their parents. Of course, I never opened the envelope, but I could tell by the handwriting styles.
“Makes you ponder over the lives that some of these people must be living, far, far away from us here in America,” Ashley whispered.
“Absolutely,” I replied in a low voice.
We emptied the last of the boxes of unsorted mail, standing back and admiring our well-formed organizing job. With every letter and package in their right place, it was time to depart. While Ashley stuck around for a little longer to clean up some of the floor mess, I hopped in my Subaru and headed straight back home as the sky turned dark. I still had plenty of work to do – vacuum the house, file a zillion transactions, and make an organized list and plans on what I’d sell and how I’d sell it.
“It’s been a while,” I muttered, booting up my laptop and logging in. I stayed up until almost midnight trying to plug in all the data and create a checklist, selling plan, budgeting plan, and signs. My final decision was to set up a garage sale and make a Facebook post on it to attract more attention.
By midnight everything was complete and the papers were ready to be printed. I set my old Lexmark to an automation cycle and hit the pillow just past midnight, completely exhausted.
My eyes fluttered open some six hours later with the sound of a soft breeze blowing through the window I’d left open. I stretched awake, performed a brief morning prayer, and skipped down the steps to the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Fleetfoot greeted me, standing upright and holding a container of milk between her front hooves. I cringed, fearing that it’d slip and smash on the ground in her attempt to hold it. But amazingly, she made it across the kitchen floor and set the carton down on the table.
“You’re such a courageous Pegasus, aren’t you?” I teased, picking her up and giving her a warm hug. She was quite large and heavy, but it wasn’t much of a strain on my military-grade arms. And then Fleetfoot did something unexpected: she turned and gave me a little kiss. It wasn’t a quick peck, but more of a smooth, caressing one… one that clearly signified love and affection.
“Fleety, dear, do you actually have a cr-”
Fleetfoot raised her hoof and planted it firmly over my lips before I could let out another word. Her hooves were fairly soft, but had a hard streak to them nonetheless, and my lips stung from the impact.
For a moment, we looked into each other’s eyes, letting the comfort of our warm bodies and the tranquility of the silence enhance the spirit of love that was now flowing between us. Finally Fleetfoot single-handedly broke the silence with four heart-shaking words.
“I love you, Brian.”
“I love you too, Fleetfoot,” I replied, feeling a little awkward returning the favor twice over as I gave her a kiss. For a moment, my mind flashed back to Ashley, who I presumed would be irked had she seen the moment.
I poured some milk into bowls, Fleetfoot fetched the cereal and fruit, and we ate a good-sized breakfast. Today was Friday, which meant that I had a day off from the Air Force program, but still had work in the afternoon. In this 72-hour time span I hoped to set up a good yard sale, which would last throughout the weekend until Monday.
“So, what shall we do today?” Fleetfoot asked me.
“We’re going to sort through all of my stuff and decide what has to stay and what has to go,” I declared. “You pointed out earlier in the week that my garage had too much stuff in it, remember?”
Fleetfoot nodded in agreement.
“It’s time we did something about it.”
“So you’re going to sell some stuff?”
“Yes, starting today. First though we need to sort so we don’t accidentally end up selling stuff we want to keep. Mind helping me out?”
“Sure. I’ll do the best I can.”
We began in the basement, where I kept three boxes of my old memories. My mom had originally wanted to give it all away, but my superglue-like heart wouldn’t let it go. So, I kept them in a couple boxes until over time they were finally forgotten… until today.
“Is this all your stuff?” Fleetfoot asked as I lifted item after item out of one box.
“Yes,” I sighed regretfully. “Many of these are of pretty strong significance.”
I held up a small jersey shirt and shorts. “I wore these to my soccer game at the age of five. It was a great day of triumph and pride for both my father and I.”
Rumaging through the second box, I pulled out a black and blue one-piece rubbery garment while she gazed, bewildered as to what it was.
“This is my old wetsuit from when I was a young teenager. My mom gave it to me as a birthday gift. Fond memories of diving in it with swimming classes with my father.”
I went on showcasing about five more items before placing them all back into the boxes, which we then promptly carried back upstairs, where I found a few more unused items and placed them into a pile in the living room. For over three hours straight, Fleetfoot and I discussed, debated, and argued over what stuff to keep and what to sell. Some items were badly damaged, so we had to throw them away.
“You seem to have plenty of toys,” she complimented as we sifted through a pile of colourful plastic and shiny metal.
“I sure did,” I said with a chuckle. “Too many, in fact.”
We decided to sell all the remaining toys, except for three: my old Rubik’s cube, a pink yoyo, and an unfinished logic puzzle book. I washed and dried some of the clothes, then folded them into neat stacks. By eleven a.m. we were ready to go. Fleetfoot and I took out some old tables from the garage and wiped them clean, then set them at the end of the driveway. We taped up our price and item signs, and Fleetfoot posted promotion signs all over town. I brought out the toys and clothes, while she took out some of my old tools that I didn’t need anymore, along with two of my four socket wrench kits and my old workbench. Sure enough, at the peak of noon, the customers arrived.
“These shirts look good!”
“How much you charge?”
“Any more of these wrenches?”
“I want that workbench!”
To avoid commotion, Fleetfoot stayed out of sight inside the house while I did all the selling. The value wasn’t top-notch but impressive nonetheless. In four hours I’d raised over $500, and there was still more left over. While waiting for the last of my customers before heading off to work, I re-entered the garage and carefully selected all the tools I didn’t need to do service work on my Subaru, and added them to the sale tables. Finally, one last man came, and my tables were soon completely empty. In total, I’d made $850 – more than what I’d expected.
“We did it!” I exclaimed, running inside waving the thick wad of cash in my hand.
“Congratulations!” Fleetfoot exclaimed, running up and hugging my leg tightly. “You did it.”
“And not without your help, Fleety,” I replied. Even after lifting so much stuff throughout the day, I somehow still found the strength to lift my love up, hold her in my arms, and give her a big cuddle and an affectionate kiss, complete with a little whisper.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I’d be lost in the journey of life without you.”
“Just gotta earn the other half,” she joked, and I quickly realized what she was hinting at.
“Well then,” I said, gently releasing her on the soft carpet, “I’d better get going.”
Skipping back up the stairs, I darted into my room, threw on my work clothes, slipped on my shoes, and ran out the door.
Work at the post office was sorting as usual, only this time I drove the mail van to a different neighbourhood. Here the houses were pretty large – so large they made my tiny one-garage two-story look like a Native American teepee. Many had three garages or more, and some even had more than one front door. I felt like a street mongrel at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. What felt odd was that the mailboxes were classic small ones, complete with address number tags and flags. It did look bizarre for such large, high-class homes to be using such old-school methods of storing mail. Nonetheless, the huge houses looked incredibly captivating, with their smooth tall porch columns, well-formed bricks, elegant smooth driveways, and large, well-kept yards.
It really was a reminder of the vastness of the difference between the poor and the rich – and how working hard would pay off. If I wanted to maintain a good upkeep of my home, my beloved car, and my best friend, I’d have to get a better job than just sorting envelopes and delivering wrapped and labeled boxes.
Mail work wasn’t that hard, though it required a good amount of speed, coordination, and attention to detail – especially when sorting. Over the years I’d become very good at it, upholding a position of being one of the most valuable employees of my hometown’s postal service.
However, I felt that it was time to return to the world of education and find a better job. Engineering was another field that I found interesting as a tween, but I chose to pursue my childhood dream of flying and defending the honor of my country – in addition to purchasing my dream car. Now it’d look like such a choice was going to cost me. I’d have plenty enough money after returning from deployment for my first air force recruitment, but for the time being I had to increase my net income.
After returning to the post office in the late afternoon, I checked my iPhone. 7:30 p.m. Closing time was near, and there still lay a box of mail and a couple packages on the floor. I felt exhausted from so much walking, but I had to sort them out. Carefully cutting open the box, I took out the mail handful by handful and sorted them as quickly and efficiently as possible, before moving onto the packages and placing them properly. In the span of around thirty minutes, I’d sorted almost two hundred envelopes and twenty packages. With the last of my energy, I waved goodbye to Jason and the janitor, pushed the back door open, and clambered into Whiz. Waiting at a red light, I cranked up the volume on an R&B radio station to keep myself awake. A painful-sounding scratch from the transmission bolted me out of my slumber-filled trance, and I quickly corrected my second gear shift. Still, that bad miss would definitely cost me a single gear set or a main synchro gear.
I turned onto the main neighbourhood street, moaning about how I’d need to pull the whole tranny out at an auto dealer and investigate the tranny for any possible damages. My muttering was soon put to a firm stop as a dark square appeared amongst the houses’ driveways on the block. Had I forgotten to close the garage door? I eagerly drove on towards my house and entered the driveway… and my blood ran cold. Caught in the beams of the Subaru were three tiny creatures that looked very much like Fleetfoot, only smaller, along with what looked like a large bird of some sort. As I inched forwards into the garage, however, they backed up against the rear of the garage, clearly in fright. (No kidding, considering how loud my catback exhaust was) I shut off the engine.
“Relax,” I whispered, carefully stepping out of the car. Recalling the light switch’s position, I flicked it on, instantly getting a better look at who had entered my garage. I didn’t know exactly who they were, but I knew the name of one from evening chats with Fleetfloot: Scootaloo. Still, it was a shock to discover them just huddling here.
“Well, it looks like my mistake of leaving the garage door open wasn’t a bad idea after all,” I remarked, breaking the silence.
“What... are you?” Scootaloo asks, her eyes squinting in doubt.
I had to sit down: her cuteness was making my knees weaker than a matchstick, but I soon got my mouth moving fast. “I’m a human, and where you all are is a place called Earth. This is my home. You seem lost. How did you end up here? I know it’s one thing for a pegasus to end up on an Air Force base, but”
“A pegasus?! Who?” Scootaloo asked excitedly, running up to me. Before she could ask, I thrusted my arms out and hugged her. At this moment, the “large bird” stepped out from in front of my car, and I got a good look at her.
“Fleetfoot,” I replied, only boosting Scootaloo’s excitement even more. The other two fillies soon walked over.
“I’m Apple Bloom,” said a yellow one with a big red bow.
“And I’m Sweetie Belle,” said the other, who was a white unicorn with a striped pale pink mane.
I gave them a little stroke behind the ears, which they loved and responded with squees of delight. I then took hold of Sweetie Belle and sat her in my lap, while Apple Bloom rested her front hooves on my right knee. Almost on instinct I caressed their smooth soft manes and backs. I felt so happy, being surrounded with insanely adorable little children.
I then pointed to the large bird-like creature at the back of the garage. “And you are?”
“That’s Gabby,” Apple Bloom replied. “She’s one of our best friends.”
“And she’s a gryphon!” Sweetie Belle added in a voice that was so cute my heart felt like it was going to just melt away like butter on volcanic rocks.
I let go of Scootaloo and stood up – I couldn’t take the intensity of the cuteness that I was literally drowning in. “Come on you all, let’s go inside and talk things over.”
Shutting the car door and locking it, I led Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, Scootaloo, and Gabby outside onto the driveway. Thankfully many people were fast asleep, so the chance of all of us being seen was minimal. I pulled the garage door shut and ran around to the front door. Taking a cautious glance to ensure no prying eyes were snooping, I pulled my keys from my pocket, shoved them into the lock, and turned the knob, shoving the door open.
“Good evening Fleetfoot!” I called out, flipping a few light switches and quickly shutting the front door behind my new friends as soon as they’d entered. “Come down! I’ve got guests!”
“Guests?” her voice came from the bedroom upstairs. Shortly after, Fleetfoot came walking down the steps, her short but smooth white mane glowing in the ceiling lamp light.
Scootaloo just stood speechless while Gabby ran up and hugged her without thought.
“Hey!” I snapped, holding Gabby’s arm. “Not so forceful! We haven’t even done proper introductions yet!”
It took some time, but Gabby soon calmed down, and I could hold a stable conversation.
“Where are we, exactly?” Sweetie Belle asked.
“We’re in my home in a neighborhood in the country of America, on the planet called Earth. I guess Equestria is in a whole other realm, right?” “Most definitely,” Fleetfoot replied. “Whatever caused me to end up in a hangar with a big plane definitely had the capability of knocking out past memories. I can remember Equestria, but the memories of the events leading up to my worldly transfer have just vanished."
“What’s a plane?” Apple Bloom asked, tilting her head in confusion.
A tiny smile played across my lips, but I wiped it off and cleared my throat. “I’ll explain later, Apple Bloom. While I’m sure Celestia and Twilight are running around in mayhem trying to find a way to gain access to this world to bring you all home, I need to be the one to care for you all until such a time comes.”
The trio of fillies and the cute gray gryphon looked back at me with a gaze of worry and anticipation.
“And I’m positively sure that it will occur soon,” I added with a stern tone of confidence. “I promise not to ever give up on you all, and I also promise never to let you all down. It will be quite a topsy-turvy juggle, this life of mine, but I will strive to see it through. I consider you my responsibility and I love you all.”
“Thank you!” Apple Bloom and her friends chorused, and they all wrapped me in a big warm hug that brought me to tears. For the first time in forever, I felt like a father.
I felt tired – tired from work and tired from thinking so deeply at the same time. I wanted to just flop down on the couch and settle in with a quick book before snoozing away until the following sunrise. But my new friends had a right on me, that I would feed them, shelter them, and shower them with love. And I wasn’t going to let a couple bodily aches prevent me from acting to do so.
“Mind if you all come upstairs for a moment?” I kindly asked.
“Sure!” Gabby exclaimed, almost running past me as I started up the steps, causing me to lash out with my arm in a blocking move.
“Uh, Gabby, you do realize that he’s leading us, so we’re the followers,” Scootaloo pointed out.
“Oh. Sorry, Brian.” Gabby almost blushed, and I had to turn away to avoid letting out a squee. She was just too cute for a gryphon!
At the top, I headed towards the empty room where Fleetfoot would chill out, and pushed the door open.
“So, this will be your room,” I declared, flipping the light switch. “Fleetfoot will also be here, too. She used to use this room just to read, but it will now be a bedroom to share.”
“Whooooooo hoooooo! I’m gonna be sharing a room with a Wonderbolt!” Scootaloo yelled, jumping up and down like a bouncing ball in the hallway.
“You certainly will be,” Fleetfoot replied, giving the crazed filly a little hug.
While Fleetfoot, Apple Bloom, and the others checked out their new room, I pulled out my phone and made a quick shopping list. I grabbed a sewing tape measure and a hardware tape measure from my desk drawer, and returned to the room in an instant.
“May you stand up, please?” I kindly asked Apple Bloom. Slowly and carefully, she raised herself up on her hind legs, which I could tell wasn’t very comfortable. I measured her height, chest, shoulders, and waist, recording them down on my phone. Then I did the same for the others, before sitting down with a serious look.
“Now I’d like to ask of you all one thing,” I began, clearing my throat loudly to indicate that whatever would follow would not be a joke at all. “This world that you are in is a dangerous one, but it is also quite fun and enjoyable at the same time. So, I ask that each and every one of you listens to me carefully and follows as I request. I’m heading out now to do some quick shopping before we head off to bed. While I’m away, leave the front door alone. If you hear knocking, ignore it. The only number on the phone you can answer will be the one I’ve posted beside it, which I’m sure you’ve noticed on the kitchen counter. The backyard is yours to explore, just be advised that it is quite unkempt at the moment. Any questions?”
“What will we be sleeping on?” Scootaloo asked, raising her hoof like an obedient student.
I sighed sadly. “I don’t have beds, but I will try to get some mattresses if I can. Besides, if sleeping on the floor seems uncomfortable, you can share the couch downstairs.”
I got dressed, checked my wallet and my checklist, then headed for the door.
“Bye everyone, I’ll be back soon. Love you all!”
With $850 from the garage sale and $200 in savings, I had a little over a thousand to spend. Priorities were bedding, clothing, and food. In a mattress store, I bought two full-size mattresses on a killer sale price – just $220 each. I firmly strapped them to the top of the Subaru and drove down the road with them to my next stop – a thrift store – where I bought a mattress cover, blanket, three small pillows, and a little navy blue hoodie for Scootaloo. Finally, I pulled up at a small mall, where I bought more clothes for the little fillies – and for Gabby and Fleetfoot, too; as well as a special gift for each of them. Entering a supermarket, I picked up a couple foods from various cultures. Variety, I found in life, helped whenever dealing with newcomers.
As many stores along the road started to close, I headed home with a trunk full of goodies and two mattresses strapped to my car’s roof, and entered the driveway feeling… rather pleased. I still had around $200 left, more than enough for future purchases.
Entering the house, I kicked off my shoes and quickly washed my hands.
“Gabby?” I called, running up the stairs. “Gabby, you awake?”
I peered inside the bedroom to see the CMC reading on the floor with slightly dreary eyes, while Gabby was continuously talking about some theory she couldn’t understand. Most likely from the storyline of one of my books.
“Hello everyone, I’m back!” I announced in a low voice. “Gabby, can you help me out for a moment?”
“Oh yes, sure!” she replied quickly, full of enthusiasm.
We scooted down the steps and back outside, where Gabby got a better view of my Subaru, and immediately began asking questions like a 4-year old kid.
“What is this, exactly? Does it have a noisemaker? Ooh, what’s this?”
“Sorry, Gabby,” I said, holding her eager arm, “but this isn’t the right time to be fussing over a car. I can give more introductions later. Right now, we need to get these inside and upstairs to your bedroom.”
“Those?” Gabby asked, pointing at the two white mattresses on the roof.
“Yes,” I replied. “Let’s work together to bring all this stuff inside.”
So Gabby undid all the straps and untied the rope while I lifted and slid the first mattress off the roof. We each held an end and brought it inside and up the steps, before entering the bedroom.
“Thank you, thank you!” Scootaloo ran up and hugged me before I could even set the mattress down.
“You’re most welcome,” I replied, ruffling the fur behind her ears. “And that’s just the beginning. Lots still to come. But right now, we need to get to bed. I’m quite tired, to be honest.”
Gabby and I went back to my car to get the second mattress, and together we laid it down in the bedroom next to the first. Finally, I returned to the car and got out all of the rest of the stuff I’d purchased – food, gifts, and clothes. While my friends slept, I set down all the bags, put all perishable items into the fridge, stored away the food in the kitchen cupboards and drawers, and hid the gifts and clothes in a large box beside the couch. I took the mattress covers, bedspreads, and blankets upstairs, placed them inside the bedroom entrance, and flopped onto my own bed completely exhausted.
At 10 a.m., well after the sun rose, I blinked and sat up, my head still teetering and tottering from slumber. I walked into the bathroom and performed a good manly hygiene routine – washing my hands and face before applying moisturizing cream and giving a good deodorant spray to my underarms, which had sweated considerably throughout the hassle of yesterday. But the best was about to come.
With my face and body feeling, looking, (and smelling) clean, I opened the door to my friends’ bedroom and flicked the light switch. They all looked just as worn out as I’d been, though I was surprised to find that they’d already taken out the blankets and had slept soundly under them. To awaken them in a non-shocking way, I pulled out my phone and played a tropical house song. In less than a minute, they were all stirring. Music has its ways, you know.
“Rise and shine everybody, it’s a beautiful brand new day, thanks to God,” I announced happily with a smile on my face. Knowing the concepts of spirituality might be different back home for them, I lowered my voice on that last note to avoid confusion or bewilderment.
“Brian!” Apple Bloom exclaimed, running over. Before she could hug my leg, I knelt and grasped her soft furry body. Bringing her close, I cuddled and kissed her, just like my mother did to me when I was a toddler.
“Good morning, Brian,” Fleetfoot said, pushing back the blanket and walking off the mattress. “How far did your sleep go?”
“Very deep if I’m honest,” I replied, trying not to laugh at her ignorance of a shocking innuendo she unknowingly pulled off. I turned to Gabby. “You hungry? Let’s go prepare some food together.”
In the kitchen, I decided to prepare something different with the food I’d bought. I took out my toaster and cleaned it out, then popped in a pair of bagel halves. Gabby had already figured out where everything was and was already pouring some milk into bowls, while Apple Bloom and her friends sat patiently at the table. As I peered over at them, I noticed that all of them had distinctive markings on their hindquarters, all of which looked the same except for a unique symbol in the centre.
“You all seem closely related to one another,” I noted, popping up the toasted bagel slices and smearing butter on them. “Are you members of a club or something?”
“Yes, we are…THE CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS!” they all chorused together, including Gabby. My eyes lit up in astonishment. “Aha! So that’s what those marks on your hindquarters are called, and you’ve obviously been on a quest to obtain them. Let me guess… a cutie mark is a symbolism of your life’s goals and purpose?”
“Exactly!” Sweetie Belle declared with a nod.
“I can only imagine how amazing that graduation moment must’ve been,” I joked, adding some strawberry jam to the bagel slices and pouring some juice into a glass. Fleetfoot decided to make some instant oatmeal with my microwave, and we all settled down to eat.
“Haven’t eaten this before, and it’s awesome!” Scootaloo exclaimed, clearly enjoying her bowl of cornflakes.
“Absolutely delicious cereal this is,” Gabby said with a delightful smile.
I sat back and smiled at the wonderful friends I’d been blessed with, them being so friendly and kind and loving compared to the other people that I’d had to deal with throughout my life.
“There’s still plenty of cool stuff that I want to show you all,” I stated, sipping the last of the juice from my glass. “But first though, let’s quickly prepare the bedroom.”
“You mean… you got us gifts?!” Apple Bloom gasped, starting to connect a couple mental puzzle pieces.
I simply winked with a smile, slid the dishes into the sink, and turned on the water. “Come on, let’s take care of your bedroom.”
As a treat, I carried Apple Bloom on my shoulders and Sweetie Belle in my arms, while Scootaloo and Fleetfoot, along with Gabby, trotted along behind.
In the bedroom, I unpackaged the mattress covers and bedspreads, and showed Gabby and Fleetfoot how to pull them on, while the Cutie Mark Crusaders watched inquisitively. With the mattresses ready, the three of us lifted the blankets and draped them neatly over the mattresses.
“Rarity would be proud,” Sweetie Belle whispered. I caught wind of it, but remained silent.
With the mattresses looking prim and neat, I scrunched up all the packaging and tossed it into the trash bin, then headed downstairs for the grand reveal of all the stuff I’d bought. Fleetfoot, Gabby, Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo all sat down together on the couch while I opened the large old box and started carefully picking through the clothes. I opened one shopping bag and pulled out a white short-sleeved blouse and a navy blue jumper.
“So I decided that since you’re going to be living in a world of humans for quite some time,” I began, “you might as well wear clothes like them. I got this one for you, Apple Bloom. Give it a try.”
“Thanks!” she replied with a smile, holding the outfit in her hooves. I then pulled out an electric blue hoodie with the Tampa Bay lightning logo adorning the front, and handed it to Scootaloo, who clutched it with an overjoyed look all over her happy little face.
“Oh, it looks so amazing thank you!!” Gabby exclaimed and gripped me in a tight hug the instant I mentioned the words “for you” after holding up a camo green sweater and a pair of jeans. I also gave her a pair of black work socks.
I gave a cute blue and pink short-sleeved summer dress to Sweetie Belle, along with a dainty little flower-adorned summer hat. For Fleetfoot, I bought a plain orange shirt with a blue long sleeved athletic sports jersey and shorts.
While my friends ran off to try on their new outfits, I got out the special gifts and placed them on the floor, with one-minute paper name tags. I’d given Gabby an envelope portfolio for her saddlebag, a four-wheeled scooter for Scootaloo, and a microphone for Sweetie Belle, complete with a stand and mount.
I bit back a squeal as they all trotted into the living room wearing their new outfits – which made them look adorable! The cuteness before my eyes was almost overpowering. So too, on the other end as they gazed in awe at the gifts that lay before them.
“It is with great pleasure and thanks that I present to you these wonderful gifts for you to enjoy,” I simply said, before being wrapped in a blanket of hugs and shouts of thank-yous.
The day had already got off to a great start, with a quick celebration of gifts and whatnot. Yesterday evening I had pondered over my job and how my financial belt was tightening more and more. The option of selling my Subaru looked all the more promising, though all it needed was a quick transmission inspection.
Which I planned to do right here in my garage. But dismantling a Subaru engine is not an easy task, and I'd only done part of it once before with one of my old friends back when the car was stock. Would I remember all the steps and removal order?
Feeling uneasy, I hastily returned to my room and opened the closet. At the back was a box full of old books, some almost a decade old. I let out a big sigh – so big, in fact, my four-legged friends heard it.
"You okay, Brian?" Scootaloo called out.
"I... I'm fine," I replied. "Just...it's..."
I bit my lip, unable to say any more. I wanted to just brush it off and tell them that I was fine, but in truth I wasn't. I was about to dismantle my car's somewhat delicate engine single-handedly, and was unsure of all the necessary steps to doing so. In the box I was hoping to find some of my old repair manuals that my high school friend gave me, but so far, my search was in vain.
"You seem quite worried," Apple Bloom added, entering the room. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Well..." I began, pulling the box out to the edge of the bed and sitting down. "Come up, all of you."
With the Cutie Mark Crusaders by my side, I took out several books and placed them on the floor in a stack, then another, until the box was almost empty. Sure enough, right at the bottom of the pile, was a short stack of Subaru repair manuals and EJ-series engine and transmission guides.
"Found it!" I exclaimed, pulling out the stack and briefly flipping through them.
"Hey, this looks like your car!" Sweetie Belle noted, pointing to the front cover of one of the books. "Are you reading up on something important?"
I nodded. "Indeed, Sweetie. In fact, I think I'm going to need your help. All of your help."
Picking up the stack of five books, I threw on a sweatshirt and headed to the garage. "Hey Fleety! Gabby! Come on down, I need ya please."
Slipping on a pair of sneakers, I unlocked the front door and stepped out. Quickly checking for any passersby or prying eyes, I gestured to Apple Bloom and the others to follow me. Before I could even attempt to set down my set of books, Scootaloo was already trying to unsuccessfully open the garage door.
"Sorry Scootaloo," I sighed, shaking my head. "Too heavy for you."
Using both hands, I heaved up the door and stepped inside.
"Looks quite organized," Gabby commented, flipping a light switch.
She was right. Ever since my yard sale, I'd managed to turn a tangled wreck into a neat masterpiece. All my tools and items were neatly arranged and the floor was almost spotless, apart from a couple super-stubborn oil and fluid stains that were embedded into the concrete.
I pulled a pair of keys from my pocket and unlocked the Subaru's driver door.
"Lift it by the edge", I told Scootaloo, pointing to the front edge of the hood. I reached down and pulled a lever. Scootaloo slipped the edge of her hooves under the edge and flapped her wings furiously, rising into the air and thus raising the hood. For a moment we were all star-struck with awe at how high she could actually fly. But then it all came to a crashing halt.
"I, I..." Scootaloo panted, her head sweating buckets. Without warning, her little orange figure dropped. I ran around and caught her while Gabby held up the hood.
"You okay?" I asked worriedly. She felt – and looked – like an adorable toddler in my arms.
"Y-yeah," Scootaloo panted, still exhausted from her flying ordeal. It became pretty clear to me that she wasn't fully capable of flight, and I wondered if it hurt her inside.
Gabby dragged over step stools and we all gathered around the engine bay. I took the transmission rebuild manual off the shelf and began reading through it extensively. I looked over every diagram and guideline list.
"By the looks of it, there shouldn't be any significant damage," I concluded. "Let's take it out for a quick spin just to be sure there's no actual grinding."
"I'll come!" Scootaloo requested.
"Me too!" Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle chimed in.
I sighed and smiled. "We all will."
Gabby took the front seat, and the Cutie Mark Crusaders sat back in the rear. With everyone buckled in, I turned the key and we set off.
I headed for the main neighborhood street to put the transmission through its paces. First, I cruised smoothly at low revs in second gear, then glided a little faster in third along the main freeway.
"How busy is it at this time, usually?" Gabby asked, peeking out from under the hood of her sweater to avoid being spotted.
"Usually starts to pick up at around this time," I replied with a sigh, stopping at the umpteenth red light. Usually driving manual in traffic can be stressful on the transmission, but so far there were no grinds or squeals.
Feeling confident, I decided to take the long way home via the highway and give my friends the ride of their life. There was just one thing I forgot.
I tweaked the tune and merged onto the highway. Finding a long open lane, I grabbed third gear and floored it hard, throwing it into fourth without slowing down.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"
The ear-piercing screams from the back seat were so loud they threatened to shatter the glass. I quickly rolled down the front windows to change the pressure and resonant frequency. Gabby was half-screaming, half-giggling. Looking ahead, the traffic that looked so far off seemed to almost be right in front of me!
"Woah woah, slow it, baby, slow!" I whispered, easing off the throttle as the bumper of the car in front of me seemed to zoom into view. There was not enough time...
Thinking fast, I swerved into the left lane, causing another driver to slam on her brakes as I narrowly avoided hitting her headlight. A slight sound came from the transmission being at such a high gear at low speeds, so I readjusted my speed and shifted back to second. Finally, I was in line with all the other cars in what had now become a jam.
"Uuuuuhhhhh, exactly the thing I was trying to avoid." I glanced over at Apple Bloom and her friends in the rearview. "You guys okay?"
"Uh... yeah, that was pretty scary," Apple Bloom replied, a little cross at me.
"But it was quite fun!" Sweetie Belle added.
"Quite... fast, and pretty alarming," Scootaloo concluded.
I shook my head. "I'm sorry, kids. I shouldn't have scared you like that. Perhaps next time when I install new performance parts and get a better race tune I may be able to get you up to speed properly."
Fifty agonizing minutes later, the traffic finally loosened and the highway opened out. We were finally free. I smoothly eased back on the throttle and turned off the highway, heading down the now less-congested freeways. Not a single grind or jitter came from the transmission.
The sun was well on its way to the horizon by the time I pulled into my neighborhood. A quick wave of realization washed over me. Had anyone seen Gabby or the CMC? With how thousands of drivers were slumped down in their seats, bored as heck with the highway jam, someone was bound to see them. Nonetheless, I would have to put up with it if it came in the best way possible.