Relieved

The cubicle in which Spitfire slouched was one of many identical cubicles on the third floor of the admin building. This one was occupied by a chubby post-menopausal Earth pony named Gladhoof. She had personalized her cubicle as much as was allowed within regulation; on her desk, a painted collectable ceramic figurine of a foal holding a baby rabbit. On the walls, clipped-out newspaper comic strips about officeponies. Over her desk hung a drawing of a draconequus in a straight jacket with his tongue hanging out, captioned "You don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps!"

Ms. Gladhoof set the discharge paperwork down on her desk and peered over the top of her wingtip glasses with an expression that to Spitfire's mind was reminiscent of a constipated owl.

"Looks like somebody wanted you gone fast, eh sunshine?"

Spitfire chuckled resignedly. "Yeah. Guess you could say that." Ms. Gladhoof nodded and went back to work, glancing over surreptitiously every few seconds, assessing her. Every time she did, Spitfire could feel those eyes on her, trying to guess what it was a Captain could do to fall so quickly from grace. She looked away and fidgeted purposefully with some random papers in her packet, pretending to study them - anything to not have to see the administrative functionary's judgmental glances she could neither righteously address nor escape.

Outprocessing the Equestrian Royal Air Force is a highly variable process; for a Master Sergeant or a Colonel mustering out after twenty or more years of service, the process is staid, almost laconic. About a year out from separation he'll have his Warhorse Affairs brief, and from that moment up until his actual end of service he'll be "Retiring", attending various briefings and appointments but still drawing a paycheck.

Under other circumstances, the process could move very swiftly indeed; in the case of a young Soldier who'd been dismissed for some misconduct or another they could be escorted through the process, stripped and out on their haunches in a matter of a week once the papers come through.

As Ms. Gladhoof had correctly deduced, such was the case with Spitfire - her outburst had nearly gotten her a 15-6 investigation for insubordination and conduct unbecoming an officer, but High Fade's outrage was placated when she submitted her request for separation paperwork. By requesting separation, there was less paperwork; no sworn statements, no appointing investigators, and most importantly less visibility for his commanders who might decide to use the incident as a reason to investigate his behavior.

Everything had moved like a rocket sled on rails from that point; her request for separation went through in record time, having been personally shepherded through the process by Slideshow at Colonel Fade's request. Inside of a month, she'd gone from being the commander of the Wonderbolts to finishing her final out-processing.

At least I'm leaving an honorable discharge, Spitfire thought. In this she regarded herself lucky.

Ms. Gladhoof cleared her throat.

"I'll need you to sign and date here, here and here, initial here and here, and then I'll stamp it and, well, that's that." Ms. Gladhoof paused momentarily. "Oh, and your end of service award will be mailed to you."

"Can I see what I got?"

"Oh, hmm, let me look." Ms Gladhoof scanned the cryptic codes on the paper. "Ah. Here we are. It looks like they've got you in for... An Achievement Medal."

Spitfire pursed her lips. An Achievement Medal was the sort of thing you'd give a private when you catch them not falling asleep on guard duty. As an end of service award, the culmination of a pony's decade-long military career, it was a kick in the teeth, one final "Buck You" on her way out the door.

Dutifully, Spitfire signed the documents. Ms. Gladhoof reviewed them one final time before bringing her final rubber stamp down on the papers with a heavy thunk.

"Aaaaand you're done. Thank you for your service, Ms. Spitfire."

"That's that?"

"That," confirmed Ms. Gladhoof, "Is that."

~~

Ten years of strict routine does funny things to a pony. As she winged her way away from Fort Ledge for the last time, she was plagued by a nagging feeling that she was about to be in big trouble, that she wasn't allowed to go home yet, that somepony was going to be looking for her, that she was missing some meeting, that there was somewhere she had to be and she wasn't there.

The feeling of desperate unease grew so strong that she lit upon a nearby cloud to calm herself.

I don't have anywhere you're supposed to be, this is okay, she thought. In fact, I never have to be anywhere ever again.

No more having to request permission to leave town. No more late night knocks on the door when an inebriated subordinate crashed through someone's roof. No more training meetings. No more briefings. No more mandatory physical training every day at six in the morning. Nopony would ever again have the power to yell at her for not wearing a reflective belt. All of these things, she realized, were now some other pony's problems.

Spitfire launched from the cloud, springing into the air in a flurry of wingstrokes, giggling to herself. Celestia, when was the last time she'd giggled while flying? When was the last time she even really enjoyed the gift of flight at all for that matter?

She pointed her nose skyward and gave an extra burst of speed, accelerating as hard as she could into a giant graceful loop, letting her momentum carry her through the apex and into a powerdive towards an unsuspecting little cumulus cloud. She squealed with unabashed joy as she hit it, bursting it into wisps of rapidly dissipating vapor.

Her target destroyed, Spitfire cranked left in a steep bank, having spotted another tempting ball of condensation upon which to wreak havoc. She dipped low to smash the cloud up from underneath, pouring on power with enough ferocity to leave a thundering contrail in her wake. The cloud exploded on contact with a feeble poof.

"H... HEY!" An flustered cry rang out. An indignant cyan streak rocketed out of the cloud's evaporating debris.

"I WAS SLEEPING THERE! Don't you crazy weather ponies ever knock?" Rainbow Dash hovered, forelegs crossed, sizing up the unfortunate pony who'd so rudely interrupted her mid-afternoon nap. Her expression softened as she recognized Spitfire; she'd never seen her out of uniform before.

"Ma'am? What are you doing out here? I didn't know you moonlit with the Fort Ledge weather patrol."

"I don't. Just out blowing off a little steam."

"Off at two... I mean 1400 on a Wednesday? Man, you officers sure have it good. I can't wait until I finally get pinned!" Rainbow Dash beamed proudly.

"Yeah? Well, good luck with that."

Spitfire broke her hover and spiraled lazily down to the town below, hoping the young pegasus would just go about her business and leave her alone.

"Hey, wait up!"

No such luck, she thought miserably.