After years of putting aside her strongest aspirations in favour of doing what she knows, Spitfire's dreams of being a musician resurface. Will she risk her career in favour of her desires?
What would it be like?
Spitfire has asked herself that question for years. From her upbringing to her graduation—and even her rise through the ranks of the Wonderbolts—a desire for change has always loomed in her heart, no matter how she might have suppressed it.
Now, with her strongest aspiration beginning to resurface, she's starting to remember why she wanted to make music in the first place: The world she lives in, the company she works for, the system she was born into, none of it is right, none of it should be the way it is. Could her music truly change that?
With a little help, Spitfire will come to realise that change is possible.
I cannot thank Ceffyl Dwr enough for the level of work he has put into pre-reading this story, offering suggestions, discussing and debating various details with me and generally helping me make this into something presentable. I'm immensely grateful.
Spitfire gazed out at the temperate midday sky, a moderate breeze blowing through the air as the sun refracted off of the suited wings of her newest recruits, who were currently flying loops of the obstacle course. Through her dark, translucent shades, she knew it was nigh impossible for any of her airborne recruits to tell where she was looking, much less what she was thinking. Spitfire was immensely grateful for that.
She held a clipboard in an unfolded wing, a pen in her muzzle. Before her was a performance sheet with each new recruit’s name, along with a load of boxes complete with corresponding star ratings, which would allow the captain to grade her new recruits on the many diverse elements that made up the art of stunt flying.
Spitfire had originally implemented the shades as a part of her training attire in an attempt to evoke fear from the new recruits, the idea being that she could be watching any of them at any time and they wouldn’t be able to tell unless they stopped and stared, which no one wanted to do. Because of that, ponies were less likely to slack off.
It was only over the last few months that Spitfire had realised the glasses carried a second use: Because of the first fact, no one thought to look at what she was doing while she was wearing them, meaning she could quite easily get away with what she was currently doing, should she manage to hide the guilty little grin on her muzzle.
She gazed and she gazed, but her attention wasn’t with the spritely mare zipping between three of the smallest hoops in fluid motions, nor the lithe thing that seemed to have a talent for tight loops, or even the large struggling stallion that appeared to be having trouble keeping up with his lead. In fact, her thoughts were somewhere else entirely, dancing between words, words she occasionally jotted down on a second page beneath the evaluation sheet, a page which had no business being on her clipboard.
Withholding a smirk of satisfaction, Spitfire admired her current hoofwork, reading over the little scrawls that populated the furtive sheet. It was a work in progress, but not bad for half an hour’s writing, especially considering how preoccupied she was, or at least, was meant to be. Through the haphazard lines and scribbles, the page read:
Give me a minute to explain my situation, bare weight on the scales no wonder the room's rotating, five bits for the bag don't give a fuck about inflation, it'll be zero to a hundred in a quick sec when I bill up the ting and blaze it.
Sit back, procrastinate: Keep waiting for salvation, thoughts branching off so fast it's like my mind's mutating, every venture meets success it's no wonder my ego's inflating, sacrilegious bars dipped in radiation, no tribulation when I’m hitting you with damnation.
If you hit me with a strike like a nailed in pin I'm still standing, your favourite rapper's scared to leave her house so I suppose I'll stand in, simple offer quit while you're ahead you might still be standing, every time I perform I'm met with applause it’s no wonder the ovation's standing.
They said to me state your name so I flipped it back on them like ‘who's asking?’, everyone wants to know when the album’s out voices left and right keep asking, you wanna know how I do what I do you're desperate I hear you asking, succubi in disguise I hide behind rhymes tempter or temptress just shed her last skin.
The beat she had in her mind was a strange and skippy thing. She imagined each of the first three lines being recited at a usual hip hop speed, and then the fourths being sprayed at almost double that. She wasn’t too sure about the last two stanzas though, the bars were messy and she imagined she’d have to take pauses to make the rhythm work on the level she desired.
Scowling at her sudden self-criticism, she began to parse each sentence, examining the syntax and counting the syllables, considering scrapping the entire page for a short time. That thought relented, but she couldn’t help noticing issues with some of the diction. She appreciated the inclusion of similes and metaphors, along with other elements of wordplay, but still had needling concerns, such as whether the pluralised ‘succubus’ made any sense.
She reread the sentence, then read the preceding lines, scowling all the while. If I change it, it’ll completely screw with my assonance, but if I don’t then it doesn’t make any sense. So lost was Spitfire in her train of thought that she barely noticed one of her recruits –the loop flier, she recognised– descending before her, lightly panting. The heaving of her chest suggested that she was hiding her true exhaustion.
Looking up from her sheet with a quizzical expression, she waited for the recruit to speak. She saluted, and Spitfire returned the gesture. “Captain.”
Spitfire slipped the pen onto the side of the clipboard with her mouth, angling it away from the recruit. “Yes,” she briefly glanced at the first sheet, “Skipper?”
Skipper took a shallow breath before continuing. “Me and a couple of the other recruits were wondering when we’d be rotating on these drills, ma’am.”
The question caught Spitfire off guard. “Rotating?” she echoed, head askance.
Skipper locked eyes with Spitfire’s tinted visage, or at least tried to. “Yes, ma’am, you told us earlier that we would be performing timed trials to build versatility, but, uhh…” she trailed off, her nerve dissipating, her eyes shifting as she tried to work out whether Spitfire was looking at her or past her..
“B-but… ah, well…” Spitfire imitated, irritation from her secret project bleeding into her disdain for a lack of assertion, “Spit it out!” she barked, “I’ve not got time to stand around guessing.”
The recruit instantly stood straighter than before, wings tucked. “You told us the drills would be fifteen minutes apiece, but it’s been over half an hour since we started. Were you going to allow us to swap soon?”
Spitfire’s eyes widened in surprise, now it was her turn to stutter. “W-well, the reason for that is…”
Skipper leaned in intently.
Shit. Come on, Spits, just bull your way out of it. “It was a test!” she exclaimed suddenly, then slowly started nodding, affirming the excuse in her mind. “Yes, a test to see if you’d take the initiative to do it yourself, and clearly you’ve not managed.” Spitfire adopted a scolding tone, an unsurprisingly easy feat. “If one of you had approached me about this sooner, I’d have been impressed, but the fact it took the six of you almost…” she checked her pocket watch, “forty minutes to say something is pretty damn poor.”
The mare glanced at the floor, dismayed by her response. Despite Spitfire’s constant hard demeanour in front of trainees, this wasn’t anyone’s fault but her own, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as the recruit brushed her hoof against the grass, pensively looking up at her. “Am I going to be reprimanded?” she whispered, eyes wide.
Spitfire threw a hoof to her forehead. It was instinct; she felt idiotic. Seriously, all of this because you’re not willing to come forward and admit your mistakes?Some teacher you are. She sighed, briefly looking away as she spoke her next words. “You’ll get off with a verbal warning this time, but in future, I expect you to be more observant of the situation and rely on your intuition. Both of those skills are really going to be important to you and the rest of the team in the future, you won’t be able to blindly rely on me or another CO for directions and instructions all the time.”
Spitfire couldn’t decide if the mare before her looked worried or relieved. When she spoke, it was with determination, but the spark that had punctuated her earlier aerial movements seemed to have wilted somewhat. “I won’t let you down again, ma’am.” she stated, eyebrows straight and face serious.
“Good, see that you don’t.” Spitfire nodded, swimming in her falsified righteousness as she eyed the pony before her. The recruit turned to leave with some gusto, and in doing so produced a small current of air in the vicinity, knocking Spitfire’s clipboard away from where it had been perched atop her primaries.
Cursing, the rookie sped towards the clipboard, picking it up in mid-air.
Spitfire’s throat tightened; her eyes shrank in worry.
“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to do that, let me just—“ suddenly, she paused, seemingly intent on examining the strange writing on the second page, the first resigned to billowing in the wind.
As soon as her eyes moved towards the second page of the clipboard, Spitfire had taken flight. With a burst of frantic energy, she violently snatched the object from the trainee and swivelled around to face her, face flushed and heart pumping. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Snooper?”
“Uh, it’s Skipper, ma’am—“
“Coulda fooled me!” Spitfire wheezed, aware that her wings were fluttering erratically as she held her reclaimed possession in her forehooves. “You do not touch a commanding officer’s possessions without explicit permission, especially a document containing sensitive information such as this one! Did I at any point ask you to fetch my clipboard, let alone look at it?” her eyes bore into Skipper, her hooves clutched the clipboard tight.
“Well, no, ma’am, I just wanted to help though, I—“
“Well you weren’t helping!” Spitfire’s voice cracked, and she soon realised just how high her pitch was. Taking a deep breath, she adjusted her voice. “You saw nothing, do you understand?”
The mare hesitated where she hovered.
“Well?” Spitfire pressed, “Do you?”
Her eyes wide, Skipper nodded. “No, captain, I swear I wasn’t looking at our performance appraisals, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Spitfire stopped in her tracks, her head cocked. “…Performance appraisals?”
“Yes, ma’am, performance appraisals. That is what those sheets are for, isn’t it?” she continued, clearly confused.
Spitfire exhaled a sigh of relief, hovering limply for a second with her hooves dangling. She hadn’t seen anything, it was fine. Straightening herself, she looked at the recruit one last time, her eyes a mite softer. “Go and tell the others to move around the course clockwise, each group is to do what the pony before them did, and hope to at least match their time.”
Spitfire turned to leave, but hesitated. “You’re not in any trouble. I’m sure you were only trying to help. You’ve been doing some good work out there, now stop slacking off and get back to it.” She risked a small smile, which was returned in earnest. A quick salute, and Skipper was gone.
Spitfire floated back down to earth, small wingbeats keeping her steady. When she landed, she eyed the sheet in front of her once more and felt a frown forming on her face.
The shower’s hiss ceased as Spitfire turned the nozzle, the rain speckled window of the shower a sea of scattered thoughts. She sighed as she ran a towel through her coat, then under her wings, absorbing the moisture that clung to her. Her clipboard sat in hoof’s reach the entire time, despite the shower being an extension of her private quarters.
Following the cessation of practice, she had promptly torn out the extra page and screwed it up, but soon after, she found herself stuffing the crumpled ball into her flight jacket. Despite her anger at earlier events, she wasn’t about to let her moment of creation go to waste. That thought elicited a second, deeper sigh. Every lyric she had ever written had done just that, gone to waste.
Spitfire had started writing in her youth, back when she had aspirations of being a musician, of painting her name across the biggest cities in the brightest lights, of having ponies flock to see her and being awed by her talent, wanting for more. She had achieved that goal, but not in the way she had wished to.
She didn’t consider herself ungrateful, she reminded herself once more as she scrubbed behind her ears with the towel. Her flying ability was a gift, and she loved to use it, but she couldn’t help but feel a distinct emptiness with her role in life. To her, artistic performance was a wonderful thing because it had not only the ability to amaze and astound, but to challenge perceptions and change lives. There was a difference between that and what she was currently doing, what she had been doing for years.
Spitfire was an athlete. She had the distinct tone on her wings and withers, the nimble figure, and the rank and commendations to prove it. She was an entertainer too, but that entertainment was surely fleeting. Rainbow Dash had been a strong reminder of that.
When the Wonderbolts performed, what impression did they leave besides a desire amongst young pegasi to be like them? In fact, how often did you even see a pegasus working in a non-flight related job? Spitfire once again wondered if her role was to do anything but perpetuate the cycle of ponies growing up believing that they can only achieve the things they were born to do, solely because of the appendages they were born with.
What made it even worse was that the Wonderbolts were such a selective and elite team. Of every filly that was lucky enough to join their ranks, there must have been another thousand or more that would kill for their place. Was Spitfire proud of her fliers? For their talent, maybe, but she failed to find a purpose for their existence besides flaunting said talent, making a few ponies gasp and exclaim for an hour or two, and at extortionate prices to boot.
She had once referred to her team as a glorified circus act. A few ciders had played their part in the forming of this statement, but Spitfire occasionally found herself returning to it, realising the truth of the words. Despite every flight routine, every practice drill and every show, Spitfire found herself enjoying the training side of her job more and more, and even that was beginning to lose its lustre.
Training felt a lot more personal, more real. When she instructed new recruits, she was shaping them, moulding them into exactly what they needed to be, having a tangible and lasting impact on their lives. Even then, the satisfaction of doing so eventually waned, as even with her ministrations, her meticulous work to ensure that each trainee was crafted into an elite flier, what purpose did they serve?
Equestria fought no wars. The time for an aerial guard had long passed, and most national threats were vanquished by the elements or the princesses—threats Spitfire and even her strongest fliers would be near powerless against. In a defence capacity, the Wonderbolts were obsolete, and now only served as a showgoer’s reprieve, a young pegasus’s needless aspiration, a shot at hollow fame. All of the members only three generations before her had already been forgotten.
Spitfire knew that music was different in a great many ways. Music was a chance for personal expression; music could influence others, it could change things. It wasn’t just a needless demonstration of talent, it was a chance for one to convey a mood, to impart their views unto the world, to push on a trend until it became the norm. The exhilaration that came with a powerful song was everlasting. Once it was saved and distributed, it would always exist somewhere, and the really good ones never fell out of circulation completely no matter how much time passed.
Spitfire had toyed with instruments as a filly, she even learnt to play a couple proficiently, but it was when she discovered rap music that she sensed a profound change in her opinions and sensibilities. She quickly lost interest in pursuing other types of music, the allure of the spoken word, mixed with a mesmerising beat, coalescing to produce such powerful and thought stimulating messages was mind boggling. This was poetry for the masses, something that any generation could get behind, a tool with which language could be utilised to create meaning, denounce fakery, fight opinions and express individuality.
Spitfire scrubbed down to her hooves and back up, reminiscing over her younger days when she had written songs on everything that her mind could conjure. At first she had mixed results, but over time her expressive voice truly developed. She punched out her feelings on royalty, her thoughts on class disparity, even her resentment of her parents’ choice to push her through flight school when she would rather be pursuing her dream. Everything she had an opinion on got a verse, a song, a line, or even a passing mention. Even when she first joined the Wonderbolts, she had dreams of eventually superseding her place there and going on to bigger things, to really changing lives and showing Equestria exactly who she was.
Spitfire frowned as she floated up, intent on reaching the difficult areas under her wings. She thought of her advancement through the ranks of the Wonderbolts, and the concurrent halt in her writing activity. Ruthless pragmatism kept her steady, she tried to be content in ignoring her desires and seeing the benefits of the cushy job she had landed.
It all felt too superficial. The money, the fame, the status, she hadn’t attained it through hard work or determination, but a skillset that was rigorously drilled into her. Spitfire had always had a natural ability for flying, one that shone when she was given the correct tutelage, but her musical skill was all self-taught, and the process had been difficult and laborious. When she was finally able to say that she possessed some lyrical skill, maybe even enough to make a bit of a name for herself, to get away from the regime and do something truly thrilling, she no longer had the time, nor the drive to do so. As such, she resigned herself to the Wonderbolts, swiftly becoming captain and putting all notions of a musical career out of her head. She knew that if she was to head down that path, there was no guarantee she would be met with success or even enjoyment, and she couldn’t stake her job nor her reputation on something so uncertain.
Spitfire’s face twisted in confusion as she mulled it over. I really don’t get why I’ve started writing again. Am I just trying to cling on to some weird sense of nostalgia, or is there something really there? She had been wrestling with the thought for months. The idea was so asinine, so childish, and yet she almost bounced with excitement at the thought of getting on stage, of hearing the cheers and the screams for encore, not just for some Celestia given gift, some innate sense of purpose, but for something that she truly believed she wanted, that she had worked and worked to achieve.
It was beginning to interfere with her work life, she knew. Any time she had but a hint of inspiration, she rushed off to find a pen or something to write on, became fully absorbed with the task of fleshing out her new creation, and forgot about even the simplest of things until she was done.
After a long period of consideration, wherein she weighed a plethora of possibilities and outcomes, Spitfire finally reached a conclusion. She had to get a second opinion on this. If she carried on as she was, her performance would begin to slip, but she couldn’t bear the thought of cutting out her artistic side completely either, now that she had rediscovered it. In her eyes it would be synonymous with being voluntarily lobotomised.
Spitfire threw the damp towel to the side, walking out into her bedroom, mostly dry. Who to ask was a simple question: She had only one musically inclined friend, and she was just the pony that would be able to understand what she was going through. They may not speak as much as they used to, but they essentially grew up together.
Slowly, a smile spread across Spitfire’s face. It had been a long time since she had thought of her, a mare who had done the exact opposite to Spitfire, despite being faced with similar pressure to conform and behave as expected. She knew that her old friend had had to make sacrifices to go after her goals, and briefly wondered if they had brought as many rewards as she assumed. Nonetheless, she would never find out by sitting around wondering.
She approached her desk, opening the top drawer and taking out a fresh piece of lined paper, then a pen. After deliberating over what to say for a minute or so, she began writing.
Dear Vinyl,
Hope you’re well! Crappy way to start a letter, huh? Seriously though, I hope you’re doing well. I’m not gonna mince words here, this isn’t really just a social thing… Remember when I was all crazy about the idea of becoming an artist and making my own music? I mean, of course you do, that was most of my life, but still. Ugh, I’m really bad at this.
Basically, even though I’ve been working with the ‘Bolts for ages now, that urge hasn’t gone away. If anything, it’s resurfaced worse than ever, and I just can’t work out why. Like, surely it was meant to be a phase? Apparently it isn’t, something about me really wants to do this.
Sorry if that sounded offensive, I don’t mean it like that. Obviously, making music isn’t just a phase, but I kinda thought it was for me, if that makes sense? Sorry, getting side-tracked here.
I really wanna try it out. I was thinking, I must have written like two hundred songs in my life now, and I’ve never even been in a studio, let alone on a stage. Closest I ever got to performing was jamming in your bedroom with you… Have I been missing out? I’m starting to wonder if my life could have been more fulfilling all along if I had just listened to my heart.
I need to talk to you about all of this soon, it’s been killing me. I know we haven’t seen each other in like six months, and it’s a bit shitty that the first thing I do when I contact you is spring this on you, but it’s really really eating at me, I feel like I’m gonna go nuts if I don’t do something about it.
I just need to know what it feels like. I’ve spent so long wanting to do it, so many daydreams and wasted opportunities, I just need a shot at it. I’m worried about work, I’m shit scared about the others finding out, but if I could just try it, just for a moment, I think I’d at least have an idea of what I want to do.
I’m gonna be thirty in a couple of years, Vinyl. It’s alright for you, you’ve got your career set up and it’ll last for a long time, but with a change like this, if I don’t make it soon I’ll be too old to try, I need to come to a decision, and I need your help to do it.
If you’ve got any free time in the next couple of weeks, please let me know, and I’ll come see you? Again, I’m really sorry to spring this on you, I wouldn’t have if I thought there was another way around it, or someone else I could go to, but I really don’t think anypony else could help like you.
I would ask you how life is, and throw in a load of small talk for good measure, but I figure you’ll tell me everything when we meet up, if you’re free, that is. Of course, if there is anything you need to tell me ahead of time, feel free to send it in your reply.
I love you, Vinyl. You’re the best friend a mare could ask for, I already know you’re gonna snap me out of this crap and wake me up, and I’m already so grateful for it.
Looking forward to seeing you,
Spits.
Spitfire’s eyes surveyed the letter once, twice, thrice more. Eventually, she decided that the rambling scribbles were about as true to her thoughts as she could get, and Vinyl would appreciate that more than a wooden letter full of niceties. She folded the paper and put it in an envelope, and then, hesitating, took a couple of sheets of lyric filled paper out of the drawers and enclosed them. Smiling, she went back to the letter.
P.S. Remember when I said I’d finish this one? Try not to laugh too hard.
Satisfied, she sealed the letter and wrote out an address on the envelope, placing it on her desk. She had half a mind to drop it off herself, but figured it might come across as obsessive.
There were two reasons she was taking the formality: One, Vinyl appeared to be becoming more and more busy and famous with each passing month, and she didn’t want to intrude during what might be an important time, and two, it was easier than approaching her outright with such a request.
Luckily, her letter wouldn’t get lost with the fan mail, because instead of a PO Box, Spitfire was sending the letter to Vinyl’s real address, unknown to most.
Spitfire didn’t know if she was more excited for Vinyl’s response or nervous about the course of action she was about to take. Putting the thought out of her mind as best she could, she attempted to pen another lyric, but found herself struggling to rhyme anything with real correlation. This wasn’t a new problem, she couldn’t be productive all the time. Screwing up the failed attempt in her hooves and throwing it, Spitfire left her room, her mane unstyled and bouncy, envelope in her mouth.
She didn’t make it more than five yards before her progress was impeded by Rainbow Dash, stood with a large grin on her muzzle. Spitfire suppressed a groan.
Spitfire was a big fan of Rainbow, she considered her to be an amazing flier and a good friend, and when she was on duty she was an extremely capable Wonderbolt. However, every now and then she could be extremely overbearing, usually evidenced by a look such as the one Spitfire was currently receiving. It would be a hefty task to get her to stop talking.
“Heya, Spits!” she started, as she always did.
“What’s up, Rainbow?” Spitfire smiled, slotting the envelope into her folded wing, where it protruded obviously. It was cordial, it was friendly, but she had made the same mistake as always, responding with an open question.
“Ehh, not much,” Rainbow dangled in the air, her wings keeping her aloft, “How about you?”
Hm, maybe she’s not in that mood after all. Spitfire withheld her sigh of relief, she wanted to be sure first. “Not much myself, just finishing up for the day and getting ready to head home.” With that, she made to take a couple of steps forwards and quickly found Rainbow tailing her, belly to the air as she glided along.
“Oh, really?” Her eyes narrowed, as if she thought she knew something. “Cause I just finished talking to Bulk Biceps, and he said that you looked really distracted at training today!” Rainbow started nudging her with the elbow of her forehoof. “Something on your mind? Huh, huh?”
“Nothing on my mind, Rainbow, just a little distracted earlier.”
“Huh. Never thought the illustrious Captain of the Wonderbolts would get distracted,” she mused jokingly, “Guess I was wrong! What was so important, anyway? Something to do with that letter you’re carrying?”
Spitfire’s eyes travelled to Rainbow. “N-no, nothing whatsoever. What’s it got to do with you, anyways?”
“Huh?” Rainbow laughed, “We’re friends, Spits. If you’ve got a problem, Rainbow Helping-Hoof Dash is here to solve it!”
Spitfire could feel her eyes struggling not to roll. “Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I need to tell you every little thing that crosses my mind.”
“Nah, of course not, we’d be here all day otherwise!” Rainbow chortled, seemingly innocent. “However,” she smirked, “If you needed someone to deliver that letter, I’d be happy to help.” She idly examined the back of her hoof as she flew. “I noticed that it’s addressed to Ponyville.”
Spitfire almost jumped at that. She quickly ruffled her wing, making the envelope fall deeper inside. “H-how did you see that?”
“Basic pegasus eyesight!” Rainbow winked. “You should know,” she continued sagaciously, “you were there for my sensory cognisance test, after all.” She paused for a moment in the air, apparently in thought. “Ya know, that’s definitely one of the weirder records I hold around here.”
How about a record for the snout deepest in other ponies’ business? Spitfire internally grumbled. “Well, I don’t need you to deliver it,” she said, a little flippantly. “In fact, forget you saw it at all?”
“Huh?” Rainbow seemed to mull this over for a few seconds. Gradually, a massive smile started to take over her face. Spitfire recognised that smile.
“No, Rainbow,” she said rather forcibly, “It’s not that, so wipe that stupid grin off your face.”
This only seemed to egg her on. “Hey, the harder you deny it, the more I’m gonna think you’re hiding something.” Another wink. “Anyways, I’m gonna go hit the hay, long day tomorrow. If I bump into your secret lover I’ll say hi.”
Spitfire smirked hard. “Well, you go do that, Rainbow. While you’re at it, I’ll just go and have a little chat with Princess Twilight, how’s that sound?”
Rainbow gasped, her tone quickly melting into shock. “You wouldn’t.”
Spitfire’s smile reached her eyes. “Hey, so long as you don’t start poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, you won’t have to worry about what I would or wouldn’t do.”
Rainbow gulped, flipping around so her belly faced the floor as she began to move ahead. “Point taken.”
“Fly safe, Rainbow Dash.”
“And you, Spits!”
Spitfire was caught between a grin and a grimace. As much as she hated to admit it, her back and fourths with Rainbow were never as bad as she made them out to be in her head, in fact she enjoyed them plenty most of the time. What had her on edge was how easily Rainbow had spotted the letter. If someone had picked up on just where that address was, questions would have been raised, and while it was a big jump to make a connection between Vinyl’s house and Spitfire’s intention to do, well, something, it was still possible, and Spitfire was sure that result wouldn’t have been good for her in the slightest.
When she left Wonderbolts HQ, she flew towards Canterlot for about five minutes as she usually would before circling around, riding an updraft to high altitude and travelling to Ponyville amongst the clouds. She would deposit the letter in the closest mailbox to the edge of town and leave, less chance of it getting lost that way, she supposed.
As she flew –the sight of a Ponyville evening marred by the density of the clouds– she imagined storming up to Vinyl’s house, bucking down the front door, dragging her into her home studio and making a hit for the ages. The idea brought her a warm comfort and a few laughs as she imagined Vinyl’s flailing, mixed with childish excitement, and she silently hoped that Vinyl would be receptive to her desire to finally create some music, and potentially have a few ideas of how she might go about it.
Spitfire was nervous; Spitfire was conflicted.
None of that stopped her from dropping the letter in a mailbox on the outskirts of Ponyville, nor the buzzing sense of satisfaction she felt from having done so.
She quickly took wing, looping through the clouds, smile-clad as she raced herself back home. It might be tomorrow, it might be the next day, it might be a week from now, but one of these days wasn’t only going to be a new day for her, another day of brushing her teeth, bossing her recruits around, and hiding her goals like they were something to be ashamed of. It was going to be a new life, a new goal, and a new challenge. At least, that’s what she hoped.
As Spitfire twisted through the soft clouds, she started to sing, slowly and with all the soul she could muster:
I told him I ain’t looking for a problem, so why’ve you gotta hurt me like that? Looking back now I coulda stopped him, coulda found all the things that you lacked.
I still don’t know why I didn’t drop him, didn’t worry ‘bout feelings or tact, it won’t change now because I’m locked in, gave him a chance and he pulled me right baaack.
I told him no more of the heartache, look to the sky if you’re after the blues, he asked me ‘how much more can your heart take?’ I said ‘well, that depends what you do’.
He went to take his leave at a fast pace, I told him ‘I’ve had enough and we’re through’, I think we broke up about half-eight, but we were back together by two-oo…
I told him I ain’t looking for an issue, so why’s it always hurt when I’m with you? I told him I ain’t looking for no heartache, so why d’ya always wanna make my heart break? I told him I ain’t looking for a break up, now there’s black lines running down my makeup, I told him I ain’t looking for a problem, but even though you left me I’ve still got them.
Vinyl Scratch squinted, taking in every inch of the apparatus before her with a fastidious concentration. She leaned her head to the side, inching it closer to individual segments before backing up again, inspecting each and every facet of her decks with meticulous proficiency.
Before her, an old school hardcore beat of her own concoction blasted; she had been trying to revive the genre for months, and was beginning to meet success. Still, she barely even acknowledged the tune blasting out at quarter volume – which on her speakers was still intensely loud – not even with an appreciative bop of the head. She was completely still from muzzle to hoof, save the swivelling of her hidden eyes.
Blinking, she used her magic to isolate a segment of the track by continually looping it. A fiddly and complex spell that would require a lot of concentration if she hadn’t cast it thousands of times already. Eliminating the vocal sample in the track from her mind – which at this point was stuck on a repeating ‘ah’ sound – she narrowed her eyes, picking up on each of the individual sounds.
After at least thirty seconds of appreciating the kicks, hi hats and synths that contributed to the main body of the track, Vinyl identified the issue. A second spell began to seep out of her horn, completely removed from the first. She moved one of the many sliders on her decks a few millimetres to the right, reducing the gain by 0.4 decibels on the kick drum only, before adding a touch more bass, reducing the treble and increasing the pitch on the hi hats.
Next, she expanded the loop to eight bars, listened for roughly four repetitions – the repeating vocal assuring her that it ‘knows what she wants, knows what she needs’ – before moving the pan twenty-five percent to the left for the vocals and the opposite for the instrumental. After a moment’s hesitation she tested twenty on each side, then shook her head in a stunted movement, returning it twenty-five.
She released her aura’s grip, used her hooves to spin back the record and started to listen through again. The first refining process was always the most trying, but by no means the most difficult. Despite the fact that Vinyl would find many errors upon her second glance at a raw piece of work, they didn’t require such a deft ear to correct as the finishing touches, which would come later.
Around a minute-twenty into the edited beat, she reached out with her magic and pinched down on the dual records once more, concentrating on the segue between the first hook and the breakdown. As she did so, Octavia trotted into the foyer, a bunch of envelopes in her mouth.
“Hello, Vinyl.”
Vinyl acknowledged her in no way, save her horn briefly glowing with a higher intensity. She remained focused on her work, now tapping out a drum beat on a digital keyboard, listening to the original, then her improvised one, then attempting to lace them together, before snarling and wiping the newer beat away.
Octavia walked up a little closer, her eyes scanning the machinery that all but dominated the corner of the room, before settling on the stolid mare that stood before them, all in Vinyl’s peripheral vision.
She set the letters down on a sideboard and smiled warmly. “How is your work coming along?”
Vinyl pressed down on a third section, her eyes not moving away from the controls. “Scalpel,” she murmured.
Octavia chuckled lightly. “Yes, Vinyl, it does appear that way sometimes. I honestly have no clue how you manage to be so proficient with that machine, yet cannot sew to save your life.”
Vinyl released her grasp on the records, having made four alterations to the sound before Octavia had finished talking. “Tsk. Let me know when sewing becomes useful to me, I’ll go to a workshop or something.”
Octavia’s eyebrow slanted. “The only reason it has yet to be of any use to you is that I currently fix all of your rave-tarnished garments. What if I were to stop suddenly?”
Vinyl turned, shrugging nonchalantly. “Then I’d learn to sew.”
Octavia sighed, rolling her eyes. “You are little fun whilst working, are you aware of that?”
“Oh, I’m aware.”
“I remember when we first met, you poured not only effort but enjoyment into your work, dangerous amounts at that. I could never have imagined that Vinyl Scratch going through such a stringent editorial process.”
Vinyl sighed, turning away from her decks. She tried not to sound frustrated, but she couldn’t deny the truth to Octavia’s words, despite wanting to. “I know what you’re getting at, Tavi, but it’s not me that’s changed, it’s the music. I’m trying to do something pretty ambitious here, revive an entire subgenre of music that’s barely seen action in the last twenty years single-hoofed. That means I can’t take as many liberties as usual. For this to work, it all has to be right, you know what I mean?”
Octavia furrowed her brow, studying Vinyl. “If that is the case, why do I not see any ambition? All you have done since I came home is frown, and I doubt that things were much different before I got here. Is this not enjoyable for you?”
“No, it is, it’s just—“ Vinyl ran a hoof through her mane, briefly glancing back at the decks. As much as she'd hate to openly admit it, the sight of her favourite machine with the disc still spinning inside almost made her shudder. “I’ve listened to this track at least a hundred times in the last five hours, it’s starting to drive me a little crazy.”
Octavia nodded. “Are you currently finalising it?”
Vinyl laughed airily. “I wish. Redrafting.” Fuck knows when I’ll actually finish it, she almost added, but bit her tongue. Vinyl was sure that Octavia would only criticise her if she realised how much work she was putting into a single piece. It almost felt unhealthy, channeling all of her energy into this new project.
Octavia scoffed. “Redrafting? And there is no absolutely no chance that you are taking this a little too seriously, Vinyl?”
Vinyl chewed her lip as she tried to find the right words, sliding the volume down a tad. She knew that was coming, and only hoped Octavia would be able to understand her point of view. “I don’t know… Maybe? It’s like, I dunno, a lot rides on this—I mean, considering my reputation, whatever I put out will sell, but this isn’t about that. I need this mix to do well enough that other important artists start to emulate the style again, or it’s just a pointless resurgence. I really want this to succeed, Tavi, so I’m putting a lot into it.”
“Oh here you go, off to start another musical revolution.” Octavia chortled, her eyes filled with mirth.
Vinyl’s ears flattened at the mockery, but she felt conviction rising in her chest all the same, in the form of a long festering aggravation. “You know I don’t like how similar music has become to fashion. It’s bullshit, Tavi. Trends are fine, and of course popular stuff is always gonna end up on top, but so many brilliant styles of music are being forgotten, sounds that never got the recognition they deserve are becoming obsolete, and all because music corporations are constantly pedalling formulaic shit that no one likes. The only reason anyone actually thinks they like it is that they’ve been subjected to it so many times.”
Octavia’s eyes widened a tad. Vinyl had made similar comments to her before, but she had never gone into a full tirade about it. “Well that seems like a bit of an unfair assessment, Vinyl. Have you considered that part of the reason such music is so popular is that a fair amount of ponies do in fact like it?”
Vinyl grit her teeth, inhaling rapidly. “Of course I know that some ponies like that stuff, but that doesn’t mean they all wanna! Think of it this way, if all you ever heard all the time was the same styles of music, how would you know any better? It’s like manipulation, Tavi, and it’s making ponies more and more fickle and superficial! It’s time to change that, level the playing field and remind people that it’s okay to like any type of music, to enjoy what they want, create what they wanna, not what some suit-managed magazine tells them to listen to.”
Vinyl took a breath in an effort to calm herself, feeling her lungs contract as she ordered her thoughts. “When I got into my style of music, it was new, fresh, and alternative. I still love electronic music, and I don’t mind that it’s more mainstream now, but what I don’t like is how freakin’ similar most of it is starting to sound. It’s like a bunch of diverse styles were just forgotten about in favour of the new. Honestly, I’m shocked I’ve managed to keep my spot in the music scene considering the divergence in most of my tracks.”
Octavia tapped a hoof to her chin, her eyes turned upwards. “I… Suppose it is not something I have had to consider in the past. In my own genre, I have often found that diversity is celebrated, but then, my genre does span back over centuries rather than decades, there are naturally some changes inherent. What you speak of does sound troubling, but I must wonder if you are taking every angle into account.”
Leveling her gaze, she flashed a caring smile at Vinyl, soothing her. “I cannot say that I have noticed it myself, but it is definitely something you should work to prevent if you feel you are capable of doing so. Change is wonderful and exciting, but if all of that change is centred on an axis designed to make record labels and popular musicians money, with no regard to the discarded innovations of previous artists, then that is terrible and deplorable change. Still, I do believe that you would do well to take other ponies’ tastes into consideration, some of your views are quite radical.”
The hint of a smile crept onto Vinyl’s muzzle, Octavia’s words often had that effect on her, and her perspective could be a real eye opener sometimes. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Tavi.” Her smile grew: Time to get the upper hoof again. “Like seriously, I couldn’t. Way too elegant for my common vernacular, never been able to get my head around Received Pronunciation.”
Sadly, Octavia brushed her off without effort. “Yes, yes, very funny.” she said, rolling her eyes, “Now, will you be fiddling with that track until you start pulling your mane out in frustration, or would you appreciate a short break and some lunch?”
Vinyl pushed an eyebrow up over the rim of her shades. “Lunch already?”
Octavia slowly nodded. “Yes, Vinyl? I left at half-past seven this morning, it is almost one now.”
Vinyl closed her eyes and lifted her shades, rubbing at them with a hoof before letting her shades fall back into place. Her eyes felt tired, and she was no longer sure whether it was from lack of sleep or staring at a console all day long. “Jeez, I didn’t realise how long I’d been at this. I thought I woke up earlier than that. Yeah, sure, I’m down for some lunch, thanks, Tavi.”
“I assume you would like the usual?”
“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Vinyl yawned, stretching out her limbs as she spoke.
Octavia shot Vinyl a look. “’If it isn’t too much trouble?’” she scoffed, “What exactly do you expect me to find troublesome about making two pieces of plain toast?” a few seconds passed, and Octavia’s eyes hardened.
Vinyl had seen the maternal glare many times before, and instantly averted her eyes, despite their cover. “Look, I know what you’re gonna say—“
Octavia’s tone was chiding, her eyebrows narrowed and her eyes sharp. “You are going to become malnourished and fatigued if you persist with this eating pattern. Honestly, Vinyl, you are up all hours of the day, yet you hardly eat anymore, and when you do, it is never anything with real sustenance. The worst thing is that when it is your turn to cook,” she trotted forwards and pointed a hoof at Vinyl, “you often prepare the most delicious and nutritious meals, yet your portions always go to waste!”
Vinyl withheld a frown, keeping diplomatic. Inside, she was embarrassed, but if she could play it off as nothing then she would. “I’ve not really been holding down my food all too well lately, that’s all. It’s not gonna be a permanent thing or anything, just until I’ve got this work out of the way, then things’ll go back to normal, okay?”
“The only reason you have been struggling to keep your food down,” Octavia asserted, “is that your routine has made you too used to little amounts of food. Tell me, how many times have you been so lost in your work that you unintentionally skipped a meal over the last few weeks?”
Vinyl was sure she could feel perspiration on her coat. She noticed that?I barely noticed that.
If Octavia noticed Vinyl’s discomfort, she didn’t show it, as she continued to berate her unimpeached. “I should not need to tell you how quickly unicorns get tired, especially when they use the amount of magic you do per day. If I were to miss a few meals, it would be of little consequence, but with you it is more serious, you are lucky not to be on the verge of fainting yet.”
Vinyl let loose a small groan, turning away from Octavia to hide her flushed cheeks. Inside, she felt embarrassed, not just for being scolded, but for having to be scolded in the first place. “You make me feel real silly sometimes, you know that?”
Octavia smirked. “If it means I am looking out for you it is a small price to pay. Now, I am going to go and make you something worth eating, and I will not hear a single word in protest.”
“Hold on,” Vinyl cut in, glancing at the sideboard, glad for a potential distraction, “shall we go through the mail first? You know we’ll forget otherwise.”
“Hm, I suppose we could.” Octavia trotted over to the sideboard and began spreading out the small stack of letters with a hoof, looking back, she smiled deviously. “You’re eating straight afterwards.”
Vinyl waved her away with a hoof, forcing a smile. She heard Octavia mumbling over a letter and walked over to hear her better.
“Hmm, we have a first warning from the water company,” Octavia muttered, her expression bitter, “and a third notice from the studio owners,” she added, her face falling further.
Vinyl gave her a friendly nudge. “How many times do I have to tell you, Tavi?” she laughed, “as long as it doesn’t say final notice you can basically ignore it, even when it does you don’t usually have to worry.” Instantly, Vinyl channeled her most conversant and learned voice. “Usually, these companies get sick of you not paying or responding and sell your debt. The debtor picks it up for a percentage of its value, and most often offers you a cheaper price to pay it off. If you can manage to avoid those fuckers for six years, Equestrian law takes care of the rest and the debt gets written off. Best part is, unless your debt is huge, these companies can’t be bothered with the rigmarole of dragging you through a tribunal, usually costs them more than they’re liable to gain.”
Octavia gave Vinyl a shaky nod, apparently still unsure. “Well, it is nice to see that you are so confident about all of this. I, on the other hoof, am not so used to avoiding my bills, and I cannot help but find the prospect a little worrisome...” She quickly put a hoof to her mouth, turning to Vinyl with penitent eyes. “Excuse me, that came out completely wrong. What I meant to say is that—“
“It’s not like it isn’t true,” Vinyl snorted, “I was raised that way after all. Besides,” she grinned, “why pay for something if no one’s forcing you to, huh?”
“Food for thought, even if it is quite morally ambiguous. Still, Vinyl, I would be much happier if we could do something about these bills sooner, rather than when the—” she trembled, eyeing her furniture, as well as the cello case sitting on the opposite side of the room, “debt collectors catch wind of them. I am well aware that you are sitting on a fair few bits right now, would it not be easier to settle these debts now? If anything, the letters are disheartening.”
“Need I remind you that I’m not the one who decided we needed a private manor in Hoofington?” Vinyl began, chest puffed as she began her deconstruction of Octavia’s complaints.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Their entire reservoir comes from a privately owned mountain range, of course the water bill’s gonna be expensive. Forget the fact that we’ve been renting it for nine months now and have yet to actually stay there. Combine that with the Canterlot penthouse, the recording studio you decided we absolutely had to rent, and the Manehatten apartment, and it’s no wonder our bills are running away with us. Personally I thank Celestia that we actually own this place.”
Octavia’s eyes narrowed. “We agreed to rent those properties together in the interest of practicality!”
“No, I conceded to your demands to rent other places because you weren’t comfortable sleeping in hotels. To be honest, it doesn’t make any difference to me, I’ll take a shabby two star motel any day of the week.”
Octavia’s voice began to rise in anger, although it remained terribly eloquent nonetheless. “If you would let me get a word in edgeways, I would happily remind you that whether I pushed the decision or not, you made no objections at the time, because we were both in work and sitting on a pile of bits! You know, it often feels as if you have a very selective memory, Vinyl Scratch.”
Vinyl bowed her head, caught off guard. “Alright, maybe I shouldn’t have put all the blame on you just now, but still! You can’t deny that you’re the one who wanted it most, so surely that makes you liable?”
“Oh, piss off.” Octavia grumbled. “If you felt so strongly, you would have bloody well said something then, so do not give me that nonsense. Besides, the only time I make demands of you is when I am looking after your health.”
Shit, I messed up. Vinyl mustered her most genuine voice, hoping to back out of the hole she had dug herself. “Alright, Tavi, fine. I’m sorry, okay? You’re right, it was a mutual decision.”
Octavia ignored her, going back to the letters. Vinyl barely withheld a growl. The silent treatment really did get to her, and right then she was more determined to get Octavia back on speaking terms with her than trying to one up her.
“Are you really not gonna talk to me?” Vinyl sulked, frowning deeply. “I’ll cover your share of the bills for a while if it cheers you up?” she offered, risking a smile, receiving nothing.
After more than a few seconds of silence, Octavia turned to Vinyl, appearing quite irritated. “Could you open this one please?”
Vinyl grinned, sauntering over and sparking her horn, causing a sudden and precise tear to form across the top of the envelope. If there was a way to Octavia’s heart, she considered, it was through doing menial tasks for her and staying very quiet until she had run out of steam.
Octavia removed the letter, unfolding it and slowly reading its contents. When a minute had passed and she still hadn’t said a word, Vinyl tapped her on the withers, and Octavia faced her with a joyous expression.
“I got the part!” she grinned, her eyes alight with happiness. “I honestly thought there was no chance of me getting it considering the notice, but look!” She all but shoved the paper into Vinyl’s face, to the point that she could barely make out the words. “Look-look-look-look!” she bounced around in place, smushing the letter against Vinyl’s face.
“Mff—Taviiiii! I kinda like breathing you know?!” Vinyl panted, pulling herself away. When she had taken a couple of short breaths she flashed a brilliant smile. “Heheh, this is great! You can pay the water bill!”
Catching the hint of a dirty look from the elated Octavia, Vinyl quickly humbled her expression. “Seriously, though, I’m really proud of you! That’s the Hoofington gig, isn’t it?”
“Who would have guessed that you pay attention?” Octavia winked, a motion that Vinyl found shockingly natural on her, considering how rarely she did it, “Yes, the position is in Hoofington: Three months in the town philharmonic, possibly four. It also means I will be staying in Hoofington two or three nights a week. It looks like that manor house will finally see some use, hmm?”
“Alright, alright, no need to sound so smug about it.” Vinyl’s grin slowly faded, and she made to turn away, but was stopped by Octavia’s outstretched hoof.
Octavia suddenly wore a face of concern. “What is it? Are you not happy about this?”
“Of course I am,” Vinyl weakly defended, “It’s just that—“ she briefly shook her head. “No, I am happy. It’s just gonna be weird being in an empty house again. You’ve not had a gig take you this far away in months, I got pretty used to having you around every day, you know?”
Octavia offered a mollifying smile. “I know, Vinyl, I was quite used to it too, and the change may be a little unpleasant to say the least. However, I will still be here most days of the week, the train ride is only three hours after all. Honestly, I worry that you would carry on neglecting yourself without me around to check up on you.”
“I’m not a child!” Vinyl pouted, her lower lip briefly protruding. Shaking the look off her face, she tried her best to play down how petulant she had just looked. “But still, between me refusing to churn out commercial crap and you renting out half of Equestria, I guess it’s a good thing you’ve found work. You’d better write every day though.”
Octavia raised an eyebrow, her mouth agape. “I am only going to be gone for two or three days a week, Vinyl—“
“I don’t care. Just a little letter each day, it’ll make me happy.”
Octavia’s face was bordering on incredulous. “Honestly, Vinyl—“
“Please, Tavi?”
Octavia’s confusion gave way to happiness. “Fine. But if I get so much as one sarcastic reply then you can forget about it.” She briefly regarded Vinyl’s cheeky grin and matched it with one of her own. “Alright, maybe I’ll let you off the first time.”
Vinyl grinned widely, feeling more than a little mollified. “You always do.” She made to flick some switches on her decks but Octavia’s voice made her stop abruptly.
“Vinyl?” Octavia sounded quite confused. “There is a letter here with the Wonderbolt seal on it.”
At this, Vinyl almost leapt, spinning on the spot and bounding towards the table. “Really?!”
Turning to her with a bewildered expression, Octavia nodded.
“That’ll be for me!” Vinyl threw both forehooves onto the table, opening the letter at once and splaying the contents over the table with her magic. Before her were three pieces of paper, one old and tattered, and the other two new and crisp. The one in the middle started with her name, so she read it first.
As her eyes traced the words on the paper, she felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her. As much as she loved Octavia, Spitfire was her oldest friend, and scarcely a week went by that she didn’t think of her at least once. Hearing from her now was like a small blessing, and as such Vinyl treated the letter with the reverence it deserved, devoting her full attention to it as her ecstatic grin settled into a satisfied smile.
When she had finished reading, she stood still for a few moments, letting everything she had read sink in fully. As she went to give the letter a second read, she heard Octavia audibly clear her throat.
“Is there something I should be aware of?”
Turning, Vinyl saw the concern on Octavia’s face and had to bite back a laugh, half joy and half amusement. “No, Tavi, this is an old friend! You’ve heard of Spitfire before, right?”
Octavia paled slightly at the name, but she retained her composure. “As in, the Captain of the Wonderbolts Spitfire, Spitfire? Yes, Vinyl, I am quite sure that every pony in a thousand mile radius has ‘heard of Spitfire before’, funnily enough.” A couple of seconds, and her head tilted. “You mean to say that you know her?”
Vinyl chortled heartily, slapping her chest with a hoof. “Know her? I basically grew up with her! Hell, from the ages of seven to twenty me and her were pretty much inseparable. Kinda fell out of contact when she joined the Wonderbolts though…” A moment’s pause, and Vinyl continued. “We still see each other occasionally, but it’s usually when her tours and mine match up, cause we’re both so damn busy these days.”
Vinyl rubbed her chin with a hoof. “Let’s see… Last time I saw her must have been in Manehatten, last year. More than half of the reserves team had shown up to celebrate one of them becoming a full Wonderbolt, Spits was there too. I’d had no sleep the night before so I let another DJ take over my set, thought I’d get a little catnap and go catch up after, but when I got back she was already gone. Apparently, in the space of half an hour a few of the reserves had managed to get in a fight with some locals, Spitfire left to take them back to their hotel and didn’t come back. Sucks really...” Vinyl frowned momentarily, then flashed a mighty grin. “But who cares, I’m seeing her soon!”
Octavia still looked fairly bemused, but she clearly couldn’t help laughing merrily at Vinyl’s excitement. “Well, I never would have assumed you to have such an unlikely friend. You say you grew up together?”
“Yup! Both grew up in the projects in South Detrot, we were only a few doors away. We basically lived together half the time, always in and out of each other’s rooms. Well, mine mainly, ‘cause I had all the music stuff.”
Octavia slowly nodded. “I see… She liked to watch you perform, I presume?”
“Heh, watch me? I had to be careful she wasn’t outdoing me half the time, Tavi. Funny you should mention that, actually, cause that’s basically what this letter’s about. Thinking about it, this isn’t exactly the kinda stuff you wanna go running your mouth about, so keep this between us, but Spits used to be a bit of a rap star back when we were fillies.”
Octavia said nothing, she simply stared in a mix of amazement and disbelief.
Vinyl closed her eyes, thinking back to her and Spitfire’s shared youth. When she spoke, it was with unmasked pride. “We’d go down to the youth centre together, I’d bring the beats and she’d be on the mic killing it every weekend. We’d practise together at mine for hours, then go out to the park and put on a show, all the colts and fillies would turn up and before you know it she’d be battling someone, that didn’t always end too pretty. It’s funny, I remember so many nights where we’d stay up all hours, drinking Dr. Pony, writing and producing tracks nonstop... half the time it’d be a contest to see who could do the most before crashing, we were pretty even.”
When Vinyl opened her eyes, she found Octavia’s muzzle agape. She reached out a hoof to shut it for her, but Octavia flinched away. “You must be joking. If this is meant to be a wind up, tell me now.”
“When do I ever joke with you about things like this?” Octavia raised an eyebrow; Vinyl started to wave a hoof in defense. “Don’t answer that. Point is that I’m being deadly serious. Rapping was Spitfire’s passion when she was younger. She could sing pretty well too, but her lyrical skill was insane. She used to love expressing herself with music, a lot of us did, come to think of it.”
Vinyl’s face grew more serious as she thought back to her childhood. “Thing is, a lot of the ponies in my area didn’t come from much, and most of them didn’t have much waiting for them in life either. Music was a way to express our frustration at the system that put us there, to shout above the rest of the noise and be heard, and to give us something to do that was safe, fun, and legal. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for Spitfire’s enthusiasm, I might not have got half the practice I did when I was young, and I probably would never have taken off in the industry. She was a real inspiration to me, and probably a few other ponies too.”
“I honestly find this so difficult to believe, but I have to indulge my curiosity… What happened?”
A small sigh and a bittersweet smile; Vinyl may have come to terms with it, but that didn’t make it easy to talk about. “The Wonderbolts happened. Spitfire had been going to flight school part time for a few years, and soon after her graduation a Wonderbolt headhunter scouted her out of nowhere. Apparently, he said she had ‘amazing flying skills’ and that ‘with some refinement she could be an excellent asset to the team’, or something like that. She decided to go into training and the rest is history, I guess. I was really happy for her then, even when the late night jamming sessions stopped, even when the visits stopped and she moved away. I guess I just assumed that she’d found her real calling in life and that was that.”
Gesturing toward the letter, she continued, eyes focused on the cursive slants rather than Octavia. “I mean, we still wrote to each other, and I’d talk to her about music, and at first she used to go on saying that this was her way to springboard to stardom, but eventually that talk stopped too, and she seemed to just forget about it. It was a real shame to lose such a talented musician, but hey, you can’t force someone to do something they don’t wanna do.”
Suddenly, Vinyl’s smile was huge again, and she once again glanced at the words in front of her. “But this letter… That might all be about to change!”
“Change how, exactly?”
“Spits wants to make music again.” Vinyl didn’t bother hiding the triumph on her face.
Octavia did a double take. “She said that?”
Vinyl held a hoof up, her smile beginning to feel sheepish. “Welllll, ostensibly, at least. Still, this is huge! And look, she sent me one of her old lyrics!” Vinyl’s eyes scanned the tattered sheet, and her shades almost shone from the excitement in them, her horn glowed as she levitated the paper before her, reading the old wingwritten words aloud:
Don’t believe in the fantasies, government controls how you act and speak, every thought you have, every interaction, trust me it’s all molded like plasticine, we’re creating clouds in their factories, then reigned on while they sit under canopies, every time another pony wakes up they’re distracted by another false flag travesty, trust me, it’s a tragedy, they take the piss till their bladder’s weak, and we’ll all be sitting in the same place stagnant wondering why we’re succumbing to atrophy, told the last guy who battled me, open your third eye and you’ll see, the industrial revolution’s coming not long now before we’re all half machine.
Can we come together and conspire please? Come take a page from my diary, write down your name it’ll remind you of your place beyond our perfect society, forget social norms forget piety, forget the word conform forget niceties, political correctness is just a means of stunting your conscious mind’s higher reach, to infect your mind they’ll write your speech, indoctrinated by the lies they teach, then you grow up thinking you’re best off in the system dominated by bureaucrats and high elites, if you believe that then your mind is weak, you’re likely mesmerised by this beat, you might be content as a sheep but believe me the ones who shear you daily don’t blindly lead.
You know what really does bother me? The shit that we blame on poverty, take a few commoners with no real differences and use hate to establish a false dichotomy, raise the rent on their properties, till the populace ain’t eating properly, slap a few marks on the flanks of the citizens give them aspirations tell them what they wanna be, better yet, tell them what they’ve gotta be, take it further, build a worldwide monopoly, and if a few dissidents challenge your authority we’ll label them as what’s wrong with the economy, I spit the truth there’s no stopping me, focused syllables forming controversy, take a step back no alternate facts the earth is flat and that’s ancient cosmology, question everyone there is no honesty, just bankers and aristocracy, listen to me speak I’ll set you free with dirty beats rhythms punchlines and prosody.
“Heh, this brings back memories,” Vinyl stated, having finished the last line. “I’ll tell you what, Tavi, Spits started writing this one—jeez, It must have been eleven years ago? I remember how much time she poured into it, kept rewriting the first couple of verses, but it never got finished.” Vinyl cracked a smile, reading the third verse –a new addition to the old page– once more. “Her thoughts clearly haven’t changed much since she was seventeen, huh?”
“Buh?” Octavia flinched, shaking her head. “Excuse me, I was lost in thought. It is all a lot to take in, after all. I never would have imagined that the Wonderbolts Captain harboured such, erm, outlandish views…” Octavia tilted her head, a glint in her eye. “Was she always like this?”
“She affectionately referred to herself as ‘disillusioned’ a lot of the time.” Vinyl mused, the ghost of a laugh still finding its way between her words. “But yeah, a lot of us were ‘like this’, to varying degrees, at least. The general disdain for wealthy ponies and those in positions of power was basically unanimous, but not everyone went in for all of this existential, conspiratorial stuff.”
Octavia raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the edge of her muzzle. “Did you?”
“Asking that implies that I ever stopped thinking that way.” Stealing a glance over her shoulder, Vinyl quickly lowered her tone. “I just don’t talk about it where other ponies might hear me.” Relaxing her body, she continued. “Me and Spits were pretty similar in a lot of ways, Tavi, almost like sisters really.” Vinyl’s expression became wistful. “At least, we were all that time ago…” A moment, and Vinyl jumped up with a smile. “Still! If she was able to finish that song, she can’t have changed that much, right?”
Octavia’s smile became bittersweet. “I would hope not, Vinyl, but from what you have told me it sounds as if you have not had a proper conversation in a long while. I do not mean to put a damper on your mood, but perhaps you would be best to exercise caution when you do see her? The last thing you wish to do is walk into this meeting with false expec—Vinyl, why do you have that stupid grin on your face?”
Vinyl was currently staring off into space, her thoughts running away with her. Hearing Octavia’s voice, she gave an empty nod. “Yeah… Yeah, Tavi, I hear ya…”
“What has your attention all of a sudden?” Octavia trotted closer to Vinyl, standing in her line of vision. “An imbecile would be able to recognise that you stopped paying attention to me before I even began speaking.”
“Well, it’s just…” Vinyl smirked harder. She was sure that this had to be it. “Listen, Tavi. You know how I was saying how Spits wants to make music again?”
“Yes, Vinyl, I do recall that.” Octavia responded, a little irritably.
“And how I was also saying that all of the popular music these days is turning into commercial crap, and that something needs to change that pronto?”
Octavia’s brow furrowed. “Honestly, Vinyl, do you believe me to be a goldfish? Yes, I remember.”
Vinyl started bouncing in place, her tail flouncing around in excitement. “Then make the connection, Tavi! Use that prestigious education your parents paid out the wazoo for!”
“Hmm…” Octavia rubbed her chin with a hoof. “So, Spitfire wishes to make music, but presumably would have an issue with doing so publicly. You wish to shake things up in the industry…”
“Come on Tavi, come on Tavi, come on Tavi, come on Taviiii…”
“I know that you wish to make music with her—”
“Yes! Ten points!” Vinyl exploded, jumping towards the ceiling in joy.
Octavia frowned, watching the display. “But I am unsure how you plan to convince her to do so. Is it even a good idea?”
Vinyl returned to earth, as did her expectations. “Shit, good point. I don’t wanna push her into anything, she’s my friend.”
“You said yourself that she at least expressed an interest in pursuing a musical venture, but that does not mean that you should convince her to proceed unless you believe that it is in her best interests. Do not use Spitfire as a tool to strike back against musical culture if it will potentially have negative repercussions for her, no matter how much you may want to. In other words,” Octavia looked at Vinyl sternly, “If she says no, listen to her. No cajoling your friend, am I clear?”
Vinyl gave her best attempt at puppy dog eyes; nothing happened. Fucking shades. Meanwhile, Octavia stood expectantly. “...Yes, Octavia,” she querulously whined.
Octavia let loose a chuckle. “It astounds me that you still think using my full name will make up for your clear lack of sincerity.”
Vinyl smiled cheekily. “It astounds me that it still works.”
“Oh, shush!” Octavia laughed. “You are lucky that I find your behaviour charming in the slightest, or I would have told you where to go by now! Anyways, you really should write back to her… Maybe you could arrange for her to visit while I’m in Hoofington? As much as I would like to meet Spitfire, and as interesting as the prospect of seeing you both work together might be…” Octavia shook her head, “I am sure you would rather catch up with your friend without my interference.”
“I’m gonna get to it now! You’re sure you wouldn’t mind her coming here?”
“Well, she is still a reputable pony, even if she is akin to your ilk.” Octavia teased. “Of course I would not mind. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”
“I dunno about reputable, we used to roll with a gang.” Vinyl admitted.
“Are you trying to make me reconsider? Yes, Vinyl, it is fine, and I would like to meet her in future also. Just do me a favour, and refrain from speaking about gang activity in my presence. It is not something I wish to dwell on, and I would rather keep your activities to my imagination.”
“Hey, Spits and I never did anything that bad! I mean, there might have been some small quantities of illegal substances passing around in our area, maybe a little contraband, but we never handled any of it! Hell, the worst we ever did was help to sell stolen—”
“Keep talking, and I am going to start covering my ears. I do not wish to be an accessory to your past crimes.”
“Here I am talking about the good old times, and you don’t have the common decency to listen!” Vinyl huffed, loud and exaggerated. “You’re such a square sometimes.”
“And you are a bloody degenerate, but I like you that way.” Octavia winked. “Now, are you going to write your letter?” Octavia asked, head turned as she walked away.
“Yes, mother, I am. And hey! If you’re going to the kitchen, can you make me a big assed lunch? I’ve suddenly found an appetite.”
Octavia seemed to withhold a spark of happiness, but quickly failed. “Now, that, I can certainly do! One hearty meal coming right up!”
“Thanks, Tavi!” Vinyl smiled, sparking her horn, using it to levitate over a fresh piece of paper and a pen, softly muttering to herself. “Now… Let’s see about making you a star, Spits.”
The last few days had been a blur of stagnancy. Spitfire vaguely remembered working, travelling, speaking, and even making an attempt to listen to others speak, but she couldn’t discern exactly when any of it had transpired, let alone how she had been present for any of it.
Her mind had been a hive of activity. At first, it was nervous anticipation, wondering when Vinyl might get back in contact with her. After a week had passed with no response, she began to worry that another letter might not be coming at all.
The implications of that fact were in the forefront of her head, tuning out the monotony of her day to day life until it became a translucent haze. She would hold a dialogue with other ponies, check boxes, mark sheets, write templated letters and send them off—half the time she wondered if she was actually inhabiting her body, or just spectating. She felt like she could leave herself on autopilot for a month, even a year, come back and nothing would have changed. This was it, it seemed. Day in, day out, she was destined to live her life just as she had been for countless years up until now, and nothing was there to help her break the mould.
She hadn’t been writing either. The day after penning her letter to Vinyl, a flurry of manic activity had helped her produce enough lyrics to fill an EP, but the high had quickly worn off when her friend neglected to respond.
It took a lot of focus and a good measure of conscious effort to tear her gaze from the bedroom window, which she had been staring at for reasons that currently escaped her. It seemed pointless; it was so dark outside that she couldn’t see anything, yet she stared anyway.
Grunting, she shifted her attention to the bowl of cereal in front of her, devoid of milk. She chose not to question the fact she had decided to eat breakfast at night, nothing made sense lately.Her eyes widened as she realised just what had caused the rather habitual staring she had slipped into. The mailbox on the other side of the window, which was in clear view during the day.
Was she becoming obsessed? She had tried making the excuses to herself, reasoning that Vinyl was probably exceptionally busy, or that perhaps her letter had in fact been lost? Maybe her reply had been lost… Was that reaching? Or, worst of all, maybe her reply had been sent to HQ’s mail department, rather than her directly? There was always the possibility of her mail being screened, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time command had issued a random check.
Gritting her teeth, Spitfire dismissed that idea; Vinyl wasn’t stupid enough to do that. She knew she had to face facts: Either her friend was too busy to deal with her shit or she just didn’t want to. Hell, Spitfire wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t want to. It was all a little tragic really, wasn’t it?
Maybe Spitfire should have just grown up by now, maybe she was chasing an impossible dream. She fiddled with her cereal, picking at it with a spoon as she lamented her lack of autonomy, her inability to just fuck it all off and do what she wanted. She crushed the flakes of bran under her spoon, attributing each piece to a conflicting voice in her mind, one telling her to do one thing, and a million telling her to do others. She wasn’t sure why, but the thought of those infernal cunts being quelled for a few moments brought her a tranquility that had been lacking for a long while.
First it was elation, then confusion, and now despondency. The music was supposed to matter, it was meant to mean something... It was meant to be her purpose, wasn’t it? Spitfire had no clue what her purpose was, just as she had no clue why she was practically pummelling a bowl of dry cereal with her hoof, the spoon abandoned. Sighing, she took her hoof out of the bowl, taking it to the sink to clean off.
The bowl lost in the sink, she found herself gliding through the air, the door left open as she left her home behind, breathing in the night sky—the smell of which was mixed with a tangy musk. Two full days since her last shower, her smell was beginning to grow pungent. What did it matter? She was the only one up here who could smell herself, and she hardly noticed.
Gliding in a tight loop around her home – the occasional intermittent flap maintaining her velocity – she pondered those same thoughts she’d been having for days now. The flight brought no clarity.
She landed soon after taking off, feeling no less internally incongruous but a tad more dizzy.
Kicking her door shut behind her, she trotted straight through the kitchen to her bedroom, not bothering to so much as glance at the bowl of discarded thoughts, nor the window that held her future.
Spitfire didn’t often feel hungover. Part of the reason for that was that she didn’t drink very often, the rest was her reasonably high tolerance for alcohol.
This morning she had a hangover, of that she was sure. The reason why eluded her. She was sure she hadn’t had anything to drink the night previous, yet the queasy feeling in her stomach and pulsating head were difficult to mistake.
Stifling a groan, she slipped out of bed, finding she hadn’t bothered to even get under the covers. That, or she had kicked them off during the night, it was hard to say.
She didn’t bother making it. She hadn’t for almost a week now, and who did she have to impress? Standards such as cleanliness and hygiene were pretty inconsequential when you’re not bothered either way, right? Limping over to a full length mirror she took in her image. Her mane was knotted and disfigured, it was starting to look a little greasy too.
Sighing, she opted to take a shower. She wouldn’t have bothered if it wasn’t for the freaking intervention work would try to stage if they saw her in her catatonic state. Still, there was always a chance it would wash away that familiar nauseous feeling too, even if she wasn’t particularly bothered by it.
She turned the nozzle to find that the water came out scalding hot, shocking her awake as she leapt back, an act of self-preservation to remind herself that she was in fact alive. Making a mental note to reduce the pressure in the boiler, she allowed the shower a moment to cool before stepping under again, letting the lull of her indifference envelop her once more.
She was past debating whether this was an overreaction. It took a lot of willpower for her to not sit in her bed and fester, which almost hurt as the concept was so alien to her. Somehow, the notion of slipping back into sleep almost felt endearing now, wasting away her day would be a welcome escape from work on three fronts.
Work by functioning as a pony, work by interacting with other ponies, and work by actually working. Still, what was she gonna do, quit and become a vagrant because her oldest friend had rejected her and she couldn’t play out a foal’s dream? Bewail the fact that she had to go and work for the same bureaucracy that had made her life so difficult as a filly? That had made lives for others she had known terrible also? Complain that she was the acting face of an organisation she truly didn’t believe in?
No, she was gonna clean her damn coat, wash her damn mane and go to work. No matter how fragile she might have been feeling she wasn’t going to ignore her obligations, and if she had to force herself to put on a brave face and deal with things then she would.
The minutes trickled by as she scrubbed her body, working suds into her fur before wiping them away like many forgotten desires. Eventually, she deemed herself clean, and that was enough.
Her mane and tail were a similar process, she afforded them no extra care and as such was out and drip drying within minutes, foregoing the towel that idly hung before her. It was a warm spring day, she’d dry on her way to work.
Spitfire walked into the kitchen, grabbing a pair of crumpets and throwing them in the toaster. When they were ready she poured them out onto her unfolded wing, depositing them on the worktop to be buttered, barely feeling the heat. She took a knife in her mouth and buttered them both, devouring one before grabbing the other in her hoof and taking wing. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten more than a few bites of something.
She bolted out of the door, not bothering to lock it behind her. She didn’t spare a glance at the mailbox this morning; she figured her day would be somehow different if she didn’t look. Not feeling any profound change, she flew away from her Canterlot home before barreling off of the mountain, dropping her crumpet in the process.
She could have caught it. She saw it careening towards the distant ground even when it was a mere speck with the growing distance between her and it, and even then she could have thundered down to its rescue, but she didn’t have the energy. Shaking droplets of water out of her mane, she tore her eyes away from the remaining half of her breakfast as it landed on the cobbles of outer Canterlot, buttered side down.
Shrugging in midair, she realigned herself and took off.
Spitfire’s flight to work was uneventful. There was no singing, and even her usually speedy movements were languid and dull. The scenery rolled over as if it were being generated just for her dismissal, and the sun’s rising eye only served to remind her that it was in fact daytime.
The mountainous region before her along with the cloudstone structures built around it summoned dread from deep within her, she hoped she could get through the day without having to deal with anything too egregious. Knowing her luck, there would be an accident in training and she’d have to fill out a shit ton of forms, or the directorate would decree that she and her team help shovel snow in Yakyakistan or some shit.
Usually, the thought of travelling somewhere so outlandish, even for her, and doing something of at least some real significance would be enough to excite her, to put a curve to her muzzle. The fact that the idea brought about none of that almost made her shudder, or maybe it was that she was still damp.
Tucking her body into a neat nosedive she plummeted, levelling herself out at the right moment and skidding to a stop two thirds along the runway. She’d get to her office and check her itinerary, delegate whatever she could and spend the rest of the day sleeping if she could help it. Well, not really sleeping, more like still restlessness, but it’d do.
Doing her best to respond to nods and waves from colleagues, she hopped into the main building, careful to avoid the crowd of ponies lining up to punch the clock in machine. One perk to her job was not having to clock in, her hours were already pre-set.
Spitfire moved along the corridor and up the stairs, dodging the receptionist as well as the admin staff. She grabbed a mediocre coffee from a nearby machine as she went, tucking it under her wing. Soon enough she reached her door, opening it and stepping inside, taking a breath of relief as a physical barrier was erected between her and any nearby ponies.
Now, Spitfire only hoped things would stay that way. Traipsing over to her desk, she tried to piece together her schedule from the river of spilt papers, as well as the performance appraisals that had become her favourite coaster. Spitfire knew that some of the cadets on that sheet were showing some pretty low scores, and couldn’t help but feel that her recent behaviour might have played a part in their slow development. Besides, the idea of having to axe any of those ponies hurt right now, probably more than it should have. Shaking the papers and squinting past the semi-recent coffee stains, she was able to see that they didn’t need to be sent off for filing for another three days, a small victory.
Still, she could do with a little less clutter on her desk. Spitfire was a firm believer that a messy workstation was in fact a productive one, but right now she just wanted somewhere to plant her rear hooves without knocking paper everywhere. Her eyes half lidded, she began collecting up forms and letters, giving each a cursory glance so as to know which stack they belonged in. If she could help it, it’d be the most work she did all day.
Something on the far side of the table of the table caught her eye; reading the new addition to her stack made her growl, she had a pigeonhole for these things. Squinting her red, tired eyes, she began to read the contents:
Captain Spitfire,
It has been brought to our attention that a cadet under your tutelage was recently arrested in Manehatten for possession of a class A substance. On the 8th April, police reports suggest that a Cloud Gazer was apprehended whilst in possession of just over half a gram of cocaine. Gazer attempted to flush said cocaine, and was found with her hoof in the toilet, the bag still floating inside.
In light of this, a drugs test is mandatory. Please contact Cloud Gazer and have her prepare a sample for analysis.
Yours faithfully,
Major Typhoon - Wonderbolt screening
Funny how such a short letter could serve to further ruin a mood. It took Spitfire a few moments to realise she was biting back tears. What was wrong with her? She didn’t even know this recruit by name, it should have barely bothered her, yet the prospect of allowing her to be screened made her feel terrible, like she’d failed her in some way.
Should she have known who she was? Should she have been a good role model, and given the mare some advice on exercising caution before she went and got caught with a baggy? Should she really be the one to send her off to get fired?
No, if she got attached to all of her recruits, she wouldn’t be able to do her job properly. Then what was the issue? If anything, Spitfire should have been glad, if she was a part in taking this cadet’s dreams away from her, at least she’d be in the same boat as her.
Spitfire scrunched her eyes shut at the thought but a few tears still managed to squeeze their way through. She felt them rolling down her face but didn’t bother to wipe any, letting them get caught in her fur. If she couldn’t change lives like she wanted to, she could at least enrich them for the select few, but now she was having to look at taking that privilege away from a pony?
It was bullshit anyway. Why should Cloud Gazer’s use of a party drug be cause to kick her out of the training programme? If she was here, she showed promise, and if there was a drug problem in one of her cadets she would have noticed by now. Surely she would have, even with how things had been recently she wasn’t that inattentive. As far as Spitfire was concerned, this was likely either a one time or a pretty infrequent thing and the poor mare had just been unlucky enough to be caught.
No doubt the police had a fucking field day when they arrested a Wonderbolt, they must all get pretty excited over that. Red tape and regulations kicking honest ponies when they’re down, but it’s fine for Wave Chill to have a crippling gambling addiction because it’s legal, no one bats an eyelid at that. Maybe she was allowing emotion to cloud her judgment, maybe professionalism dictated that she should be angry at the cadet for potentially screwing up her career, as well as for her bad sporting practice and work ethic. But if that was the case, why could she only feel a burning anger towards the high and mighty directors that wanted to kick her to the curb?
Struggling to get a hold of herself, Spitfire walked over to the over side of her desk, taking her coffee off of the dreaded performance appraisals and eyeing them with interest for the first time in weeks. She instantly found Cloud Gazer’s name and picture near the top of the list, accented by some pretty impressive scores, not far off what Vapour Trail had managed during her tryouts.
Looking at the picture, she recognised her as one of the recruits she had been overseeing last week, the one that managed to maneuver in and out of the smallest hoops like lightning. Was she seriously expected to kick her off? Spitfire reread the scores and comments a couple of times before standing straight, resolute. This mare wasn’t going anywhere, not if she could help it.
She was sick of ponies being kicked while they were down, and she wasn’t going to let one of her recruits get their hopes built up just for them all to be stolen away over a misdemeanour. Well, maybe it was more than a misdemeanour, but right then Spitfire felt willing to make a judgment call. Taking a pen in her muzzle, she grabbed a piece of lined paper and began writing out a reply.
Major Typhoon,
Cadet has requested that her sample be taken in the presence of a medical professional. Please dispatch a fully trained medic at first opportunity.
Yours faithfully,
Captain Spitfire - Canterlot division
Smirking, Spitfire set the letter down. Urine tests were standard procedure in Wonderbolt screening, and any traces of cocaine would pass through the cadet’s system well before a professional arrived. Most Wonderbolts didn’t realise they were within their right to ask for a trained professional to be present, and considering the lack of urgency she was certain one wouldn’t arrive before Cloud Gazer’s system was clear.
Thinking about it, she laughed a little. While she had that little slice of power, that little bit of say, she could look out for her recruits, make sure they didn’t get discharged over nothing. She’d make sure this letter got sent at low priority, and would be sure to have a long conversation with the mare in question, explaining what she had done and why, as well as drilling into her that they would not and could not have a repeat of this indiscretion.
It was the best thing Spitfire had done all week, and it almost put new life in her. She didn’t feel brilliant, but she felt accomplished; she was proud of her actions, looking out for someone like her. Of course, she could shrug it off as pragmatism, choosing to work to keep a recruit on because they were a competent flier, but inside she knew it was more.
Laughing to herself, she left her office, intent on finding the recruit in question if she could. It wasn’t long until she bumped into a colleague, Misty Fly.
“Whoa, Captain,” she gasped, taking in Spitfire’s messy, unstyled mane and tired eyes, “You look like shit—er, no offence. Is everything alright?”
“Couldn’t be better,” Spitfire laughed, the feeling surprisingly genuine as she took wing. She chose to leave the building through an open window, leaving Misty Fly gawking behind her. The sun felt glorious against her coat, her energy tumultuous and all over the place, she struggled to decide what to do. On one hoof, she figured she should go and find her miscreant in distress, on the other, this feeling was exciting, and she had half a mind to do fifty laps of the training ground just for fun.
She went for a compromise, flying small loops around the surrounding area – truly stretching her wing muscles for the first time that morning – all the while searching for Cloud Gazer. It didn’t take long to spot her, diligently flying through one of the obstacle courses without supervision.
Instantly, Spitfire felt more confident in her choice. As she flied over to her, the mare quickly dropped before Spitfire, saluting. “Captain.”
Spitfire waved a hoof, dismissing the salute. “None of that,” she started, lifting herself higher and signalling for Cloud Gazer to follow. “Come fly with me, I wanna talk,” sensing the recruit’s instant alarm, she quickly added: “Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble, I promise.”
Silently, Cloud Gazer tagged along as they flew towards the outskirts of HQ, and eventually beyond them. Spitfire figured that the recruit’s silence was likely her trying to ascertain what Spitfire knew, rather than fear. When they reached a large, fluffy cloud, Spitfire dived into it, laying flat and waving the recruit over with a hoof, who hesitantly followed.
When she was sat next to her, Spitfire pushed a hole through the cloud with her hoof, exposing HQ, which they had their backs to. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘out of sight, out of mind’, cadet?”
Cloud Gazer slowly nodded, her face fearful. “I have ma’am, yes.”
“And I’m guessing you’ve also heard the one that goes ‘it’s only illegal if you’re caught doing it’?”
Something caught in the cadet’s throat. “I-I’m afraid I haven’t heard that one, ma’am.”
“Huh. Must have just been where I grew up. That’s fine though, it’s bullshit anyway. If it’s illegal, it’s illegal. The first one, however, might be more applicable for you.” Closing her eyes, Spitfire continued. “I know about your brush with the police a few days ago, and I know what you got caught with.”
Cloud Gazer froze up, her skin turning pale and her forehooves shivering. “Oh, Celestia…”
“You worried?” Spitfire asked, her expression deadly serious, “You should be. Wonderbolt command don’t take very kindly to drug users, especially of the class A variety.”
Swallowing a large gulp, the recruit attempted to put on a brave face, but Spitfire could feel it cracking within an instant. “I realise that, ma’am. I, I’ll go get my things now, and—uh, thanks for not doing this in front of everypony, I—” she cut herself off with a sob, turning away.
“You’ll do no such thing.” Spitfire smiled, reaching out a hoof and turning Cloud Gazer’s head to face her. Seeing the confusion in her eyes, she continued. “I wanna know why you did it, Cloud Gazer. Tell me that, and we’ll see what we can do.”
“I… I mean, we all did a little when I was younger, it was just party culture, you know? No one ever got hurt, and, well, it was fun, but it was expensive, and it’s only the kind of thing you’d do when you were clubbing, of course.” Looking at Spitfire, she managed to straighten her voice. “It was my brother’s twenty-fifth birthday three days ago, we all went out on the town and someone was carrying. It’s not something I do often, honestly, or even that much of, but the other night we were just having such a blast and—”
“And you thought ‘why not liven things up with a little bit of this’?” Spitfire finished for her, Cloud Gazer nodding as her lip quivered. “And when you thought that, did you give any consideration to what might happen if you were caught? I’m gonna assume you didn’t. Did you think about what might happen if there had been a random drugs test at work the next day? Did you think about anything?”
When Cloud Gazer said nothing, looking shamefaced, Spitfire continued. “You might not be thinking about your future all the time, Cloud, but I am. I can see how devoted you are, and I know you’ve got the skill necessary to become an excellent Wonderbolt, but only if you put your mind to it, and that doesn’t just mean training. What else do you think it means?”
“...Not doing stupid things?”
“Trust me, Cloudy, I do stupid things. Tons of them, in fact.” Her expression stern, she let a little of her signature commanding presence into her voice. “If you wanna go and get a little high one time when you’re out clubbing, that’s your prerogative, but I never said that. However, if you do find yourself getting caught again, I won’t be able to bail you out. Repeat offences are cause to be let go. As it stands now, you’re due to have a drug test.”
Jumping in place, Cloud Gazer shimmied back to her side of the cloud. “I won’t pass that, I know I won’t, it’s pointless to even—”
“Which you’re also going to delay, because right after we’ve finished talking here you’re going to write a formal request addressed to me asking for a trained medical professional to oversee your test, and that’ll delay things long enough for your system to clear, understand?”
Cloud Gazer’s eyes slowly lit up. “...I can do that?”
“Damn right you can,” Spitfire grinned, “but again, I never told you that. You worked it out yourself. If anyone asks you why you went off with me, you were the one enquiring about it.”
“Oh, thank you…” Cloud Gazer wrapped Spitfire in a surprisingly tight hug, nuzzling the side of her neck and sobbing. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
“Don’t thank me,” Spitfire replied, though she didn’t push her away, “I’m just giving a good pony the benefit of the doubt, don’t make me regret it.”
“Hold on…” Cloud Gazer said, pulling herself away, the hint of a blush on her cheeks from her sudden outburst, “Why are you doing this for me?”
Spitfire cast her eyes over the spry, relieved mare. “Let’s just say that if command knew about half of the things I did before I got Captain, I’d probably have been court marshalled by now.” Catching the recruit’s mystified look, Spitfire couldn’t help but chortle. “No, nothing that bad, so don’t get too carried away. Besides, I’ve never been a fan of authority figures, it’s fun to take the wind out of their wings every now and again.”
“But aren’t you an authority figure?” Cloud Gazer asked, head tilted.
“Yeah, you’re right.” Spitfire rose, her last words a little bitter in her mouth. “I’ll expect that request written and on my desk by the end of the day, no later, or you’ll really have to start worrying. Now, get a move on.”
Cloud Gazer looked at Spitfire, then out towards the sky, then back at her once more with an expression that betrayed disbelief, maybe a hint of wonder. “Y-yes ma’am,” she said, rising and turning to leave.
“And don’t stutter!” Spitfire yelled, laughing openly, “It gets on my nerves!”
“Yes ma’am!”
“Better! I’ll see you in basic tomorrow!” As the mare disappeared from sight, Spitfire laid back on their shared cloud, a warm, all-encompassing feeling swelling within her. Maybe this would be all she ever did with her life, and maybe she’d never truly feel fulfilled, but the feeling that came from saving that recruit’s hide was pretty hard to top.
Still, it was a rare thing, and it didn’t even put a dent in the real issue of working there, but Spitfire was content to ride her buzz for a little while, she’d earned that much.
After a fair amount of time spent languorously lazing in the sun, idly fanning her face with a hoof, she decided it was time to get back to work. It was funny being the highest commanding officer in the area but still having to busy yourself in front of your colleagues, who was going to chew her out? It’s not like inspections happened very often.
Still, she should set a certain standard for herself, she knew that much. Grumbling like a teenager being forced out of bed, Spitfire rolled to the side of the large cloud and straight off it, freefalling for three seconds before spreading her wings, catching the air.
Something about plunging through the sky always got her heart racing, even if it was just for a moment. Maybe it was the feeling of uncertainty, of not knowing what could happen next. Maybe it was that small movement her body made by default to avert danger, and the thought of what might happen if she wasn’t so used to falling. Then again, maybe it was just the rush of the air whistling past her, her surroundings melding together into a blurred cornucopia of colour.
Spitfire lived for that rush, but she also lived for the calm moments she had just had. Right then, right there, she had influenced something in what she could only assume was a positive way, and for better or worse she had changed a life. It had been a very long time since she could say that, and the fact she only managed to do so by subverting both her company’s rules and code of practice was absurd.
Was that what she needed to do? Forget the rules and just live life by her terms? Or would she have to be mindful, just like she had been earlier, sneakily bypassing her constraints, but without losing what she already had. It was a fine line she walked between freedom to act as she wished and conforming to Wonderbolt regulations, but she’d balance on that tightrope like her life depended on it if it meant she could actually move.
And move she did, back down to her building, down to her office, where she sat for the rest of the day writing out forms and taking inconsequential meetings about insignificant things. All too quickly, it was back to the norm.
There was talk about live performances. Who gave a rat’s ass about performances? Talk about promotion; who wants an extra slice of zombification to go along with their cushy job? It comes with a bigger payslip and a bigger asshole breathing down your neck, but you already knew that when you signed up.
Spitfire felt it again, that stab of loathing. She really hated her job.
Finishing up for the day, she left her office and flew home. This time, she watched all around her, taking in every detail as the familiar landscape rolled by. Repetitive, quotidian, but a semblance of life still clung to it, waiting to be explored. Spitfire figured that she only knew things from the way that she was used to seeing them, that she only understood things the way she knew them, and that beyond that there was still so much to explore, so much to not understand, and that prospect excited her.
Inspired by a small new wonder for the world surrounding, Spitfire chose to sing, closing her eyes and softly swaying her body in the breeze as she glided her way home:
Would you give me the time of day if I stopped the clock for you? Would you lead my heart astray if I broke its lock for you? Would you hurt me in nasty ways darling would you mock me too? Would you step with me dance and sway if I tapped my trot to you?
Her wings grazed the soft clouds as she narrowed in on the upper levels of Canterlot, a homely comfort she had rarely experienced as a filly.
I’d give you every second every hour till there was no time left. And I’d do everything in my power to make sure I did nothing less. If roses have thorns then I’m your flower would I mock you? Oh you bet. I’d walk with you till my fetlocks cowered I’d still dance with broken legs.
Canterlot began to emerge through the dense layer of clouds, its image resplendent. Spitfire barely noticed.
Well it’s nice to see you’re eager but can you keep up with my pace? Pouring out my love by the litre why don’t you come have a taste? So you can give but can you receive huh? Could I get up in your face? If you’re a saint then I’m a believer but are my thoughts naught but chaste?
Spitfire flew around the mountain, circling it as she belted her tune loud enough for the far off ponies of the city to catch a few words. She began to descend, closing her eyes as she became more and more lost in her song.
I can see by the glint in your eye baby you wanna jump my bones. Energy from your tail to your thighs baby you’re about to blow. Don’t worry we’ll be starting off light baby we can do it slow. And I’ll be whispering one little lie baby as I make you gasp and—
“Spits! Fancy seeing you here!” A familiar voice chirped, breaking her reverie.
“Huhwhatwhoa!” Spitfire jerked to the side, barely avoiding a nearby lamppost. “Holy shit… Vinyl?!”
The mare in question was sat on her doorstep, a massive grin on her face.
