When You Hit a Rut
Deep breaths, Bluebird.
“Mares and Gentlecolts!” The stadium announcer boomed over the loudspeakers.
Soarin took a deep breath and let his stress ebb away. He shook himself and felt the tension in his body loosen up.
Just let everything fade away.
“Let me introduce our one stallion showstopper!”
Soarin blocked out the roar of the crowd and the stomping of hooves. From his vantage point high up behind the bleachers of the Baltimare Arena, he took in the wide open space.
It was the second largest stadium behind Manehattan at half the size of Canterlot Castle. A glorious stage for the Wonderbolts to perform upon.
When you feel pressured or nervous, always remember, Bluebird.
“A stallion of perfect execution! A stallion of dynamic flight! I give you-”
Soarin moved his goggles down to cover his eyes and braced himself for launch. He closed his eyes and focused on the thumping of his heart. A steady rhythm that kept him in the zone.
He waited for his cue, his anticipation reaching a breaking point.
Flight is, first and foremost, joy.
“SOARIN!”
Soarin jumped off the edge of the platform and dive bombed towards the center of the field. The split second before he would burst through the cloud floor of the arena, he unfurled his wings and rolled forward.
He brought himself into an upright position and gave a roguish grin to the audience.
It was met with the typical loud cheering and stomping hooves.
It was a bittersweet feeling. On one hoof, the cheering gave him a rising feeling of elation as he felt energized from the roar of the crowd. On the other, he couldn’t give the crowd what they wanted.
What they needed.
And you can’t. Right, Soarin?
Regardless of his feelings on the matter, he was ready.
It was time to give the crowd a show.
Soarin started his routine with a spiral upwards. At the peak, without wasting any momentum, he tilted himself and spun through two successive hoops in a perfect execution of a Spiralling Torpedo.
From there, it was move after move, stunt after stunt. He dove and swooped through the air. Not a single feather misplaced.
It was, in a single word, perfection.
For his final maneuver, Soarin flew as high as he could within the confines of the stadium. At the peak of his ascent, he let himself fall back, and plummet. He spun as he fell to build up the wind around him.
The audience waited with bated breath as Soarin spun faster and faster and plummeted towards the ground.
Before impact, Soarin righted himself with a roll forward, and unfurled his wings sharply to immediately stop his descent. A gust of wind billowed out from under him as he released the air he had stored up from his fall. It whipped his feathers and mane around in the ensuing gale.
He landed lightly on the stadium floor and gave his best charming grin.
The crowd went delirious in applause and cheers.
At least, that’s what Soarin told himself.
He trotted out of the arena through the gate nearby. A security guard gave him a grin and a ‘good work as always!’. Soarin felt his grin become strained as he replied with a simple thanks.
He trotted around backstage looking for a private place to continue watching the show. Soarin didn’t have anything more to do.
He had, as he always did, performed technical perfection. The same routine he performed at every show.
The exact same.
Perfectly.
Soarin felt a twitch as he struggled to keep his ever present grin, when he received a standard ‘congrats’ from another guard. As if he done something spectacular.
He wished somepony would fill him in on what.
He soon found the spot he was looking for. A long corridor with windows that looked out over the arena. He could still hear the announcer and roar of the crowd even with the thick glass separating him from the rest.
Soarin settled himself down and waited for the next routine. He could watch it from backstage or the VIP seating, but then he couldn’t be by himself.
With others he had to keep up the grin.
Here he could frown and nopony would complain.
He knew the congratulations were real. That the ponies who said it sincerely meant it, but that’s all it was. Congrats. Good as always. Perfect.
Never interesting.
Never awe-inspiring.
Never wondrous.
It was the same routine. He did it every time at every show with technical perfection. Everypony always applauded him as the most ‘perfect’ flyer. The one with the best professional record. The best technical aptitude.
And to him, the most boring.
“... And Mares and Gentlecolts let me introduce you to... the Wondercolts!”
The Wondercolts. The stallion-only half of the Wonderbolts to its sister WonderMares. His team. At least, was his team. He couldn’t even remember when he had last flown with them. He had found out pretty fast that he was part of the third side of the Wonderbolts known simply as ‘Soarin’.
It’s what happens when a pony resigns as Captain with no reason as to why.
Soarin watched with an appraising eye as the six best flyers of the Wondercolts launched themselves from their positions and swooped into the arena. They glided into the centre and passed by each other, looping over head in an arc, and racing out of it with the Wonderbolts’ signature thunder streak.
It was a standard opening move and something Soarin had never done as Captain. That stunt had existed since the founding of the Wonderbolts. It was overdone and frankly uninteresting. Why would they use the same routine over and over again?
Hypocritical from a pony that performed the same routine every show.
He watched as the flyers started their routine and Soarin allowed himself the most rare of his expressions.
A sneer.
Everypony was off. Two of the flyers clearly needed more wing strength training, and another was noticeably a painful two seconds behind through the entire performance. Soarin didn't even need his degree in fitness to know that Silver Zoom was struggling to finish due to a severe lack of stamina.
The worst offender by far was the Captain. A dull orange mane with white streaks and one size bigger than any of the other flyers.
Fire Streak.
The show boater came out of his dive and flashed a sleazy grin at the audience as the other team members streaked overhead.
Figures Fire Streak would make a point of making himself the focal point of the entire show.
Sick of having to watch this farce of a show, Soarin stuck an easy grin back on his face and trotted towards the locker rooms.
He had better places to be.
Scritch scratch.
Soarin sat by the window of his luxury, upscale hotel room. It was a kind of luxury only the most distinguished of celebrities were allowed to have and something Soarin didn’t care for.
Scritch scratch.
He looked out on the cobblestone streets of Baltimare. Ponies flitted about the narrow streets and tall buildings. Canals ran through and under the streets. In the distance, the sun was beginning to set along the horizon bathing the entire scene in bright orange.
It was beautiful.
And completely irrelevant to what Soarin was focused on.
Scritch scratch.
In front of him was a simple sketchpad. He was drawing the portrait of a smiling mare feeding the birds in a nearby park. She sat happily on a bench, throwing breadcrumbs to the pigeons that darted about.
Using the charcoal in his right wing, he sketched out the subtle curve of her muzzle in a single stroke and began to add cross hatching to define her chin.
He noted to himself mentally that he would need to shower before heading to the inevitable party later that evening. Charcoal and graphite were a pain to remove from wings, but he had gotten proficient after years of messy sketching.
Besides, it wouldn’t do to look less than perfect for the optional after party he would be asked to attend. Despite the fact that he would be chewed out for missing it.
Knock knock.
Soarin paused in his work and perked his ears towards the door. He glanced askance at the clock sitting on the nearby end table. 18:30 hours. The show would have ended only half an hour ago and the only pony he could think of that would skip the usual fan schmoozing following the show would be the only pony he cared to talk to.
Maybe this time will be different.
He quickly sketched out the remainder of the mare’s features, enough that he could finish the piece from memory, and threw his pad in a duffel bag lying nearby.
He trotted to the door and swung it open while plastering a cheesy grin on his face.
In the doorframe was a yellow pegasus mare dressed in a Wonderbolts flight suit with a fiery mane and classic, dark-lense, aviator glasses.
“Hey, Spitty,” Soarin greeted cheerfully as he trotted back into his room, “What’s up?”
Spitfire trotted into the room, and closed the door behind her with a single kick. She looked idly around the room and eventually settled on Soarin, who had chosen to lay down on the bed.
She scowled. A signature look for the Captain of the Wondermare division of the team.
“You weren’t at the show,” Spitfire stated.
Spitfire always had a way of stating things with no room for argument. The entire team always found it difficult to refute her. Soarin had long since found a way around it by taking the literal meaning and throwing random garbage technicality words at it.
“I was,” Soarin grinned, “If you had been watching the whole show, you would note that I did in fact perform my usual routine. You know, as Soarin; The ‘One Stallion Showstopper’.”
“After which you left,” Spitfire retorted.
“Not right away,” Soarin cheekily replied, “I saw the Wondercolts perform, or whatever the equivalent was of what they actually did.”
“Soarin,” Spitfire growled.
“Spitty,” Soarin grinned.
Spitfire continued to glare as Soarin rolled over onto his back. He knew what she wanted to hear, but he was determined to postpone admitting to it until he had too.
Once enough time had past that Soarin began to fidget, he finally admitted, “Fine, I left shortly after the Wondercolts started. I do that every show now, you know this.”
“You need to stay for the whole event,” Spitfire said, “Not just the parts you have to or want to.”
“And why’s that?” Soarin quirked an eyebrow questioningly from his position upside down on the bed.
“You might need to-” Spitfire gave a disgusted scrunch of her muzzle, “Can you please flip right side up?”
“I don’t want to,” Soarin pouted playfully, “Besides, I’m not showing off anything you haven’t seen before in the locker rooms.”
“Soarin, we are having a serious conversation,” Spitfire gritted her teeth, “Can you at least pretend to be listening?”
“I don’t see the big deal,” Soarin replied as he wiggled a bit to get into a more comfy position, “Also, why should I care about staying for the whole show again?”
“You-I-Gragh!” Soarin smirked, “You might be needed if a member of the team is out of commission.”
Soarin laughed uproariously, “Are you serious, Spitty?” Soarin looked at Spitfire’s glare and snorted, “Oh sweet sun, you are. Look, Spitty. Fire Streak would put an earth pony from the audience in the air show before he would even consider me.”
“He would,” Spitfire muttered under her breath and then louder, “But you still need to be present,” Spitfire stomped her hoof, “It’s your job. The fans need to see the whole team together, not just the ones that felt like showing up.”
“The fans don’t care,” Soarin laughed, “Have you seen my numbers recently? I’ve been on decline for months now.”
“You wouldn’t be, if you actually put in more effort with being part of the team instead of holing up in the hotel and doing whatever it is you do when you’re alone,” Spitfire said frustrated.
“‘More effort on being part of the the team?’” Soarin replied with an insufferable grin, “I would have you know I have a perfect record.”
“‘Perfect record’ doesn’t mean crap if you don’t stand with the rest of the team!” Spitfire shouted.
“Oh, you mean in the back where I can continue to be ignored, instead of on a comfy bed I can lounge on,” Soarin replied.
“No, so the team-”
“That also doesn’t care if I’m around,” Soarin interjected.
“- Can be seen as one cohesive unit,” Spitfire gritted her teeth.
“Right, so we can at least keep the appearance of all getting along,” Soarin laughed, “Spitty, you’re a riot today. Any good reason I should stay behind?”
“Because I need you there!” Spitfire cried out.
“Oh, the great Spitfire, Captain of the Wondermares, needs the washout ex-Captain Soarin for help?” Soarin rolled his eyes, “Seems ridiculous, don’t you think?”
“Why do you insist on never taking anything seriously?” Spitfire yelled.
“Why do you keep trying to make me?” Soarin retorted.
“Because I want you to be part of the team!” Spitfire pleaded, “Because we’re better when you’re with us.”
“Oh really?” Soarin frowned, “‘Us’? Are you sure you don’t mean ‘me’?”
“No!” Spitfire said exasperatedly, “I really do mean the team. We were best when you lead them. When you-”
“Were the target?” Soarin interrupted.
The room went quiet. Spitfire took off her aviator glasses and stared at Soarin with sorrowful orange eyes. Soarin, for his part, just looked back with a neutral expression.
They’d had variations on this conversation so many times over the last few months. Some devolved into shouting matches, others were just heated. They always had a common denominator though.
It always ended with Spitfire giving him the same sad expression.
Unfortunately, Soarin had long since gotten past the point of caring.
Instead of replying, Spitfire took a slip of paper from her flight suit pocket and hoofed it over to Soarin.
Soarin grabbed it with a wing and looked at the paper. It was a yellow VIP ticket for a wrestling match between two ponies named Golden Victory and Mason Crusher.
“Wrestling?” Soarin asked incredulously, “You got me wrestling tickets?”
“You’re not obligated to attend the after party tonight,” Spitfire put her glasses back on, “Figured you could use a change of pace. Maybe get your groove back.”
“I’ll have you know on good authority that I have the best groove and have never lost it,” Soarin grinned.
“On whose authority?” Spitfire quirked an eyebrow in question.
“Mine,” Soarin replied, “The best authority.”
Spitfire rolled her eyes and trotted out of the room, “I expect you to stay for the entire show tomorrow.”
“Alright, Mom,” Soarin called out after her.
Once the door clicked shut, Soarin rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. He still needed to remove that charcoal from his wings.
And settle down from his latest argument with Spitfire.
He turned his gaze to the bathroom counter and noticed that he had forgotten to eat the raspberry he’d put there earlier.
Soarin popped the raspberry into his mouth and grimaced.
He hated raspberries.