Pushing the Sky
Falling. Whistling wind in my ears, deafening me and pounding against my face. My heart in the pit of my stomach, a gripping, crushing nausea. The ground rapidly approaching. My teeth clatter. It’s hard to breathe. Over the roar, all I can hear is my heart thumping.
I grin.
I pull up.
The crowd gasps.
In the back of their minds, as much as they don’t want to admit it to themselves, they expect me to die. In their minds’ eyes, they see a bloody mess on the ground below, crimson and bone mixed in with sky-blue jumpsuit. I welcome their thoughts. It wouldn’t be any fun without that image plaguing them throughout the show. But I deny them. With seemingly un-ponylike precision, I change direction against all my momentum. I am flying level to the ground, then vertically. I do three large loop-de-loops, blink and you miss it, leaving behind a faint streak of teal. I even throw in a few corkscrews.
The crowd erupts.
I chuckle.
The rush is intoxicating, the cheers are addicting. Having all the eyes on me makes me feel like a prince. I fly between and around clouds, causing them to twirl like tops in rapid succession, drinking in the crowd’s cries. I admit, I’m an attention whore, but if I wasn’t, why would I be a Wonderbolt in the first place? I’m so focused on the performance and the crowd that I barely hear the loudspeaker. “...and gentlemen, Zephyr of the Wonderbolts! We’ve seen quite a show here today, and...” Even if I could hear all of it against the din, I wouldn’t have paid it much more attention; watching the crowd was always more interesting. Speaking of, I do a barrel roll and speed past the nosebleed section, waving to all the ecstatic ponies. And the gryphons.
It’s not often we got a mixed crowd like this. Then again, it’s not often that the Wonderbolts perform in the Gryphon Kingdom, and by ‘not often’ I mean ‘I think the last time was sometime before my grandfather was born’. Well, that is why we’re here, a sort of diplomacy thing; bolstering relations between the two nations, and what better way than a friendly competition between Equestria’s premiere flight team, the Wonderbolts, and the Kingdom’s best set of fliers, the White Talons?
The White Talons... I’ve only seen one of their performances before, back when I was a kid, and if the current team is half as good as that one was, this is gonna be a show for the history books, politics be damned. I haven’t met any of them yet, with the exception of one, Gaspar. As excited as I am at meeting the rest of the Talons, catching up with Gaspar afterwards will be all the sweeter. Let’s see... the plans Gaspar and I made the other day: after the teams have finished socializing with each other, however that goes down, the two of us will slip off someplace and have ourselves a good natured race, like in the old days. No paparazzi, no worrying about being seen, just the two of us, flying together like we used to, to see who’s the better--
Holy crap, that spire came up fast. Fortunately, I snap back into it quick enough to pull off the flight pattern around the spires in the middle of the airfield; anyone with a keen eye for flight could see my beginning was sloppy and abrupt, but the first rule of business is to never let them know you screwed up. I carry on through the pattern smoothly, darting left and right through the spires at enough speed that I’d wind up with an acute case of ‘broken everything’ if I hit one -- dangerous, yes, but the routine is muscle memory now after all the practice runs. I keep thinking of after the show. I’ll...
No. Gotta focus. Gotta focus. The performance comes first; zone out and you’re done. I finish the routine by flying straight up after clearing spire, spinning with hooves outstretched. I fly up, proud, all eyes on me.
The crowd erupts.
I laugh again.
That moron.
I have to smirk as I watch Zephyr’s routine from the White Talon’s private skybox. Still as full of himself as always. I rest my head against my fist while idly running a talon along the rim of my glass. Still, he at least had the skills to back it up -- those corkscrews, while showy, weren’t half bad.
“So whaddya think?” asks Gabrielle, the Talon who was the freshmeat before I came and usurped that oh-so-covetous position. She is sitting next to me in her white flightsuit with the hood off. She’s a wiry one and just a little bit smaller than me, but she’s as vivacious as they come. The question isn’t posed to anyone in particular, but Gatsby answers first.
“Think we ain’t gotta thing to worry about if that’s the best they’ve got!” Gatsby says, adding on his trademark belly laugh and slamming down his cup. Gatsby’s the second in command and a big dude if I may say so myself. Friendly enough guy and great drinking buddy, but damn will he drive you. I’ve seen him take the piss outta a lot of cocky gryphons, myself included. I can’t wait till he and Zephyr meet. That’s gonna be a fun night.
Gabrielle shakes her head. “I dunno, the Wonderbolts are pretty good--”
“But we’re better!” Gatsby replies.
Gabrielle shrugs. “Well, yeah, but... I ‘unno. Well, it’s supposed to be a friendly competition anyway... Hey, Gaspar,” She turns to me. “What do you think?”
I keep my eyes focused on the airfield. “Eh, I’d say they’re pretty good. I mean, they wouldn’t be Wonderbolts if they were slouches.” I nod a bit watching Zephyr do the cloud trick. Putting a little spin on one of our old stu-oh, geez, did I really just make that pun? Ugh. Nevertheless, I lift my head off my fist and steeple my talons, leaning forward with a sly grin. “I think the next few days are gonna be a lot of fun...”
“Mm-hm,” Gabrielle says, taking a drink from her bottle. “Hey, the pony performing now, didn’t you say he was a friend of yours?”
It annoys me that I have to refer to Zephyr as just a friend, but I would prefer to keep my career and limbs intact. “Oh, yeah.” I wave a talon. “He and I go way back. Met in flight camp, hung out with each other before we both split for advanced flight training.” We also hooked up, went our separate ways, and found each other again in a chain of events that’d probably leave pulp romance writers with their beaks agape. “I figure, what better way to catch up with an old friend than by showing him up in front of a crowd?”
“He’s a cocky little bastard is what he is,” says Grindel with a sneer. He’s one of our older members and resident hardass. He’s sitting at the end of the counter, the only one of us not drinking, and he’s looking on Zephyr’s performance like he’s planning battle strategy or something. I wouldn’t be half-surprised if he is.
I think about saying something back, but keep my beak shut. Getting into a disagreement with Grindel on anything is a recipe for an evening of frustration. Besides, he’s completely right; if he isn’t as proud as if he just single-talonedly -- uh, single-hoofedly punched a dragon’s lights out, then he isn’t be Zephyr. Flying past the crowd and waving like that confirms it.
“Just gonna get himself hurt,” Grindel adds.
I shrug and continue to watch, although I grimace as Zephyr goes for the spires. Even if I didn’t have the view of the VIP box, anyone who isn’t blind and paid the least amount of attention could see that he faltered. Naturally, Grindel catches it, giving an unimpressed snort, while the rest of the Talons just keep watching silently. He doesn’t typically choke like that, not even a little; at most, I’ve only seen him just get frustrated when he comes up against something he can’t beat. He recovers, of course, but the way he’s flying... I have to wonder if something’s up. Couldn’t be stage fright; that’s way too out of character for Zephyr. I’ll have to ask him about it later.
As he goes into the last part of his routine, I grab my glass and take a sip of my sweet apple cider. Equestrian-made, of course; they’re pushing a lot of Equestrian-made stuff today -- food, Wonderbolts memorabilia, the works. Not that I blame them, given the whole nature of the airshow. ‘Authentic Sweet Apple Acres’ or something is what they told us. I hadn’t heard of the place until today, but at least the drink is pretty good.
I drain the rest of it as Zephyr finishes his routine. The crowd explodes, and I don’t blame them. I give a small little clap for him, and as it turns out, I’m not the only one in the box to do so. Between Gabrielle and Grindel, Grace, our captain, is clapping alongside the crowd. She’s always one for good sportsmanship, and is probably the second-most excited White Talon about this whole meet-up between the teams, behind me.
“Well that was fun! That new guy was a little shaky, but it was good,” she says, ignoring Grindel’s sidelong glance toward her. I nod in agreement as Zephyr flies back to the cloud where the rest of his team is staying. The next member takes flight to do their performance -- Fleetfoot, according to the announcer. I get up to get a refill on my cider.
“Whew.” I collapse back onto one of the locker room’s cloud cushions with a sigh of relief. As much as I love putting on a show, it always leaves me a bit drained afterwards. Not too much -- I tend to recover quickly, you see -- but I want to make extra sure I am game for my flight with Gaspar tonight. Chilling in the locker room post-show helps with that, especially when it’s one used by the White Talons themselves. There aren’t that many lockers, but it has comfortable seats made from high quality clouds. Simple, but classy.
I unscrew the cap on my bottle of water with my teeth and tilt my head back, drinking the whole thing in one go. I can still hear the crowd clamoring from outside -- from what I figure, it isn’t just the Wonderbolts fans who traveled all the way to Pisa just to see us, but some of the White Talon fans as well. That gives me a bit of a rise; if the crowd is this hyped just by seeing the Wonderbolts show their stuff, I have to wonder how they’ll react when the two teams are flying side-by-side. I also have to wonder how many drunken fights there already were today. I laugh with the bottle still between my teeth. The bar scene is gonna be a shitshow tonight.
Rapidfire plops down on the cushion next to mine. “Have fun out there, kid?” he asks, moving his goggles to his forehead. I nod, taking my empty bottle and lobbing it toward the trash can. Just missed.
“Hell yeah,” I say as I get up and walk over the trash can. “Always do. Did you hear them out there? Man, they friggin’ love us.” I pick up the bottle and lob it almost straight up so that it falls into the trashcan vertically.
“Mm-hm.” I turn back to him and walk back to my cushion, relaxing back on my little seat of heaven. Rapidfire pulls off his hood, shaking his head as he does so to unmat his mane. Dude’s more worried about looking good than I am -- of course, he does get all the mares, so I can’t blame him for that. He turns to me. “Hey, kid,”
“Hm?”
“You sure you were okay out there?” he asks, opening his wings in preparation of slipping his suit off. “That stunt with the spires, looked liked you spaced there or something. You don’t seem much for stage fright.”
“Oh, uh...” I lean back, putting my hooves behind my head trying to look casual. I can’t damn well tell him I was thinking about me and Gaspar going flying tonight, and saying that it was nothing is too suspicious. Sheesh, I’m starting to sound like Gaspar. “Goggles just fogged up a bit, threw me off for a second.” I then mentally kick myself; they freakin’ custom make our goggles specifically so that they don’t do that.
Rapidfire just laughs. “It’s okay, kid,” he says. “Normal to feel a bit nervous during an event like this. Hell, I think we all have some butterflies in our stomach. I don’t think any of us woulda ever thought we’d do a show with politics behind it.” Well, that’s fortunate. He sees right through me, but assumes the wrong thing. “Uh, hey kid, mind givin’ me a hoof?” He motions his head back to the zipper on the back of his flightsuit.
“Yeah, sure.” I bite the zipper and in one smooth motion unzip the thing.
“Thanks,” he says, and continues pulling the suit off. I know it shouldn’t think like this, but I always gotta suppress a laugh whenever I do that for Rapidfire or Soarin’. I mean, the irony, y’know? With me undressing another Wonderbolt. Any other coltcuddler would kill for this kinda opportunity, but I'm already taken. I’m sure Gaspar would get a kick outta that. I always wonder what would happen if the other Wonderbolts knew that I play for both teams when I do this. Probably freak the hell out, I'm guessing, but I dunno, and I'm not interested in finding out now.
I shake my head when Rapidfire offers to unzip me, deciding to stay in my flightsuit awhile longer. Just wearing it makes me feel good, so I savor every second of it. I’d probably wear it when I wasn’t doing a show or in training or doing some PR stuff like the Gala or something, except for the fact that Spitfire and Soarin’ don’t really want us doing that. Too show-offy, they say. I don’t really care either way, but I respect them. They say they don’t want to get swarmed by ponies just going out. It works, actually -- people recognize the suit but rarely ever see the pony inside of it. Besides, after this we’re all supposed to slip out for some R&R, then meet up with the White Talons to talk about the upcoming routine, then hang out with them over a couple of drinks or something to pal around. And then...
“Zephyr!” I snap back to reality and turn to see that Rapidfire’s gone and Soarin’s peeking in through the door. “We’re gonna go meet up with the White Talons soon, right after we leave the airfield,” Soarin’ says. “Hurry up and get changed.”
“Uh, right! Sorry, sorry.” I didn’t expect we’d go see them that quick. I’d already seen Gaspar a couple times before the show, but this would be the first time I’d meet his teammates. I slip off my goggles and reach back for... “Crap. Uh, Rapidfire? Soarin’? L’il help?”
I drum my claws against the table wondering when the Wonderbolts will get here. It’s an abrupt change pushing up the meeting time but the airfields aren’t that far from the White Talon’s main residence -- in fact, taking an aside glance out the window, you can see the airfields in the distance. Such are the benefits of having your base of operations on a cloud near Air Force H.Q.: short transit from home to work and a panorama the rich guys would peck and claw each other for. And the place doesn’t stick out as much as you would think; it’s just a refurbished house from one of the old nobles, the kind you can find all around military installations.
Grindel, of course, is not fond of our abode. “Too exposed,” he would say as if it really mattered; we may be the flagship flight team, but we aren’t exactly a standard military outfit. If anyone actually cared enough to try to get the drop on us, they would have better targets; the worst we could possibly get is a couple rabid fans, not that we get very many around here.
For the time being, Grindel’s main concern is not visibility, but punctuality. He stands at the window, constantly checking his wristwatch. “Where are those ponies? If they expect to make a good impression on us by being late, I’ll have to wonder why they bothered with this whole fiasco in the first place.” Like I said, resident hardass. To be truthful, though, while I’m not particularly worried about the Wonderbolt’s punctuality, I would rather not sit around doing nothing if I don’t have to. I figure they just had a little trouble slipping out of the airfield without getting swarmed by paparazzi. I rest my forelimbs, folded, on the table, figuring they’ll be hear any min--
“Oh, is that them?” Gabrielle says, looking out one of the front windows. I lean over to get a better view -- a high-class cab flanked by pegasi. No doubt about it, it’s them. I don’t recognize most of the ponies as they pile out since they’re not in uniform, with one exception: the teal pegasus who gets out on the side away from me and flies over the cab, looking to and fro to take in the area. Classic Zephyr. It occurs to me that this is probably the first time Zephyr has seen the White Talon’s base. The times we had met up in Pisa before, we had either just hung out around town or at my own apartment. I can just imagine him bounding in here, admiring the place, then making a beeline to me.
The Wonderbolts enter, and we are up to greet them. “Gaspar! Man, good to see you!” Zephyr says. He gives a short whistle as he looks around the room. “Nice place you guys got here.”
I smirk. Called it.
“Zephyr, how’ve you been?” Out of the corner of my eye I notice Grindel gives a short glare in Zephyr’s direction after he’s been identified, but I ignore it, and thankfully Zephyr doesn’t notice. He looks like he’s about to give me a full rundown of the past few months even though it’s been less than twenty-four hours since we’ve last seen each other, but Grindel clears his throat.
“If you don’t mind, we do have actual business to discuss,” he says.
“Right, right,” the orange pegasus who introduced herself as Spitfire says. We all head to the table while Zephyr shoots me a “the hell’s that guy’s problem?” look. Even if I had the time to talk, I honestly can’t tell him.
Outlining our synchronized routine goes just as you would expect. Grace and Spitfire go over plans, pointing and making talon and hoof gestures to display the routine, although I only pay half-attention. Most all of it is review -- I perk up to make note of new plans proposed by the Wonderbolts and volunteer my opinion occasionally, often enough to show that I do, in fact, know what is going on, leaving most of the questions and analysis to Gabrielle. For the most part, I can direct my attention elsewhere, notably our resident newbie teal pegasus. I know better than to look directly at Zephyr, or to even make any more than a cursory glance over every few minutes. Is that even enough space between glances though? Too suspicious. I know, at the very least, Grindel and Gatsby would pick up on that. Still...
I manage to steal a glance over at Zephyr -- uninterested, meaningless, and brief, of course -- while our captains and second-in-commands work out the timing of one of our stunts. To my surprise, he’s actually paying attention... or he could just be trying to play along with me. It’s hard to tell with Zephyr; flying is probably the only thing he loves more than me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to see him or that I also hadn’t been looking forward to our plans tonight after all the team bonding. Don’t get me wrong; the Wonderbolts don’t seem like a boring bunch -- I’d expect Zephyr to have better tastes than that, after all, and they seem nice -- but when a guy has other desires... you get the point.
After a few more minutes, the business part of the meeting ends and we discuss where we’re going to hang out tonight. Gabrielle suggests the Scarlet Feather, one of the most exclusive clubs downtown, and after a few more suggestions we agree on that. Not a bad place to spend the evening, I don’t think. Grindel doesn’t seem too into it, but of course Grace and Gatsby goad him in, determined to bring him along even if it kills him -- and by the way he’s scowling, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s deathly allergic to relaxation. Regardless, we’re not going over right away; the Wonderbolts decide, since they came directly over from the airfield, that it’d be best for them to go back to their hotel to get ready, then meet us there in a few hours. We say our goodbyes, and before he leaves, Zephyr makes a point to give me a fistbump -- hoofbump. Whatever.
“Catch you later, Gaspar,” he says. My imagination adds on “Don’t forget about tonight.” I nod, and they take their leave. As I watch them go, I catch Zephyr giving a look back before entering the cab, and with that they are off. I retreat to my quarters afterwards, and lay down on my bed, staring at my ceiling. I close my eyes. Deep breaths, deep breaths -- yet I can’t stop images of disaster from swimming through my mind.