Relieved

by Midnight_Blaze

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life
Length: 6203

Spitfire's time as commander of the Wonderbolts has been fraught, to put it mildly, but is it all really her fault?

Between the Young Flier's Competition incident, the Wonderbolts Academy incident, and trying to get rid of the stupid if well-connected Soarin', Captain Spitfire has had a star-crossed run as Wonderbolts 6. Can she account for her actions?

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-04-28 00:57:25 UTC

Below Center of Mass

CPT SPITFIRE:

REPORT TO SQDN HQ @ 1500 FOR COUNSELING

                                                                                                            HIGH FADE

                                                                                                            LTC, REAF

                                                                                                            12th SQDN, COMMANDING

Spitfire sat in the hallway outside her squadron commander's office, wound tight as a mainspring. Her leg jiggled as she sat in the uncomfortably stiff government issue chair, rereading the note that the training room had brought her that morning. In an effort to take her mind off the impending flank-chewing that almost certainly lay behind that oak door, she read the posters in the command group hallway.

"CORE VALUES: LEADERSHIP, EXCELLENCE, INTEGRITY"

The poster featured a determined, earnest looking pegasus soaring out of a stylized cumulus cloud.  To its left hung a poster entreating the reader to report sexual harrassment. To its right another poster warned of the innumerable dangers to rank, pay and career posed by gambling.

Down the hall, Slideshow, the squadron adjutant hammered furiously on his typewriter, generating the myriad schedules and reports the squadron required to function efficiently. With a flourish, he pulled the latest finished product from his machine and dropped it in the outbox.  He was so engrossed in his work that he hadn't noticed Spitfire's arrival, and seeing her startled him momentarily.

"Oh." He stated flatly. "Spitfire. 1500. He's expecting you, go ahead and report."

As she got ready to knock, Spitfire considered the possibilities. Soarin's wife called the cops on him again? Misty Fly get caught drinking underage again? Silver Lining popped hot on the piss test? Spitfire gathered herself and rapped the door with her hoof.

"Enter." High Fade called out.

"Sir! Captain Spitfire reporting as ordered."

Lieutenant Colonel Fade left her standing there at attention, eyes fixed straight ahead, for several seconds.

"At ease, Captain. Take a seat."

Spitfire sat uneasily in the chair across from her commander.  He reached onto his desk and slid a sheet of paper across to her before steepling his hooves. Spitfire regarded the paper carefully. It was an Officer Evaluation Report, which confused her at first because she wasn't due for her OER for another couple months, but as she continued reading her eyes caught on the words "Relief For Cause".  Her hooves trembled as she read on.

"You're... You're relieving me of command? This is... Sir, I'm shocked." Spitfire stumbled over herself, trying valiantly to subdue the fury and embarrassment welling up inside her.

"Shocked?" "SHOCKED?"  Colonel Fade shouted, slammed both his hooves on his desk as he leaned forward.

"Spitfire, I can't see how it comes as any surprise. Your performance as CO of the Wonderbolts has been substandard at best. You had the incident at the young fliers competition where your entire team failed to recover a competition participant in distress and had to be rescued by one of the young fliers, in front of Celestia I might add..."

Spitfire fairly vibrated with constrained rage as her commanding officer berated her.

"You had an incident where you promoted a cadet under your command to lead pony, despite her history of endangering her wingmates. That same cadet then created a tornado that caused the destruction of a civilian air vessel and endangered the lives of six ponies who just so happen to be on a first name basis with the Princess."

LTC Fade was on a  roll now. Flecks of spittle flew from his lips as his tirade continued.

"Then... Then to top it off, you decide to try and cashier Soarin'. Soarin', who's had top block ratings since flight school. Soarin', who's uncle is Iron Triangle, the Representative of Cloudsdale and is on the Armed Services Committee. So you tell me, Spitfire. Tell me how I shouldn't fire you."

And with that, Spitfire had had enough.  Quick as lightning she twisted her head and bit her rank off her collar and spat it viciously at her boss.

"Buck You." Spitfire said emotionlessly.

"What?" High Fade's eyes bulged in surprise and anger at Spitfire's affrontery.

"You heard me. BUCK. YOU."

Somewhere in Spitfire's brain, something had snapped, and the stress and frustration of dealing with four years at the Equestrian Military Academy and six years on active duty exploded out in an uncontrolled, unhinged torrent.

"Let's review those incidents, shall we? For starters, that entire young fliers competition was a safety nightmare. No emergency response plan, no first responders, no pre-flight safety briefing, and the organizers are letting anypony who shows up with a set of fragile aftermarket wings compete, and you want blame ME when MY TEAM jumped in from the sidelines to rescue somepony when the inevitable happened?"

Spitfire stamped her front hooves on the squadron commander's desk. High Fade, for his part, sat in silent shock as the young Wonderbolts commander unleashed on him.

"And don't get me started on the Wonderbolts Academy - springing that additional duty on me with one week's notice was bad enough, but then your shithooves Sergeant Major decides to hide his buddies Manerick and Whiplash out there as TAC NCOs because they're so close to retirement. And you wanna know why I promoted Lightning Dust to lead pony? BECAUSE WHEN THEY WROTE THE EVALS THEY SAID SHE WAS THE BEST FLIER OUT THERE. Come to find out after the fact that the two 'super-experienced' 18 year Master Sergeants tasked to run the lanes wrote that she was the best because her name was first on the sign-in roster and they just wanted to get home early. And the afternoon of the incident with the balloon, neither of them were paying close enough attention to their lanes to notice that a civilian aircraft  had drifted into the training area, in what was supposed to be restricted military airspace, I might add. And you might say 'But Spitfire, why weren't you there being a leeeeader?' to which I would reply 'I WAS AT THE MOTHERBUCKING STUPID SEAPONY HERITAGE HISTORY MONTH LUNCHEON YOU MADE ALL YOUR SUBORDINATE COMMANDERS BUY A TWENTY BIT TICKET FOR AND ATTEND!'"

"And another thing - Soarin's a pie-obsessed halfwit who's gotten as far as he has because it's easier to promote him than to get rid of him. He's got a good manecut and gets a 270 on his flight fitness test, but that's ALL he's got. The guy couldn't find his flank with both hooves and sooner or later his connections are going to get him promoted past his level of incompetence and his idiocy is going to get someone seriously hurt."

"So y'know what? I'm sick of it. You've got a system that fries junior officers whenever anything goes wrong because nobody is willing to stand up for them. So, guess what? I bucking quit."

With that, Spitfire whipped her pen out of her uniform jacket, signed the report and stalked out of her commander's office. Slideshow boggled at her as she strode off, his important presentation forgotten in the moment.

To her credit, Spitfire made it all the way home before the tears started.

Expiration Term of Service

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.

Be, Know, Do

"Did you steal a bunch of airshow money?" Rainbow Dash asked inquisitively.

"No."

"Did you buck some dirty protester in the face?"

"No."

"Did you lose a bunch of expensive weather equipment?"

"No."

"Did you get it on with Soarin'? Cuz I totally wouldn't blame you if..."

"NO! Sweet Celestia, no." Spitfire interrupted sharply, shivering in revulsion at the suggestion.

It was to Spitfire's great chagrin and annoyance that Rainbow Dash had tailed her, loudly posing hypothetical situations that could've caused her dismissal from the Equestrian Royal Air Force. Spitfire stopped mid-flap and spun to face the curious if tactless young pegasus.

"Dash, please. I just want to get some groceries and head home. We can play professional development some other time, okay?"

Spitfire's sharp retort deflated Dash like a needle through a party balloon. For all her braggadocio, Spitfire thought, she's really still just an insecure kid looking for validation; I shouldn't be so hard on her.

"In fact, what are you even doing here, anyway? You're supposed to get three months of leave between candidate camp and reception phase; shouldn't you be home saving the world or at least partying it up with your friends?"

"No Ma'am. I waived it so I could start my training earlier. The recruiter said the assignment board would look favorably on it when I went to choose my assignment."

Spitfire facehoofed. "Y'know what, kid, groceries can wait. Follow me."

~~

Rainbow Dash wrinkled her nose as she pulled up a chair at Spitfire's unfinished maplewood kitchen table, wholly unimpressed by the aesthetics of her surroundings. Spitfire's cloud home was small and sparsely furnished; she had no pets and few personal effects, a symptom of a life spent training and touring the air show circuit.

"Cores Light? Appelveisen?" Spitfire queried from the kitchen.

"Naw, I'm good."

"Well, I'm having one." Spitfire replied as she slid her chair out and plopped down in it unceremoniously.

"So you want to know why I got cashiered, huh." Spitfire said as she deftly aligned the top of her hard cider bottle on the edge of the table and stomped.

"I can totally understand if you're embarrassed and don't want to talk about it, I just want to know so I don't..." Rainbow Dash stammered, taken aback at Spitfire's blunt approach. She searched in vain for a judicious way to complete the sentence, pausing for several seconds before Spitfire saved her the embarrassment.

"..Buck it up as bad as I did?" Spitfire grinned sardonically.

"No, I get what you're after. Basically, Dash, I got fired because a lot of bad things happened under my watch; there were some high-visibility incidents and as the Wonderbolts commander at the end of the day what happened or didn't happen in my unit was my responsibility. But, at the same time, in retrospect I think the only thing I could have done differently would have been to quit."

Dash cocked an eyebrow as Spitfire spoke.

"That seems a little, well, heavy on the drama, don't you think? I mean, how bad could it be going to airshows and showing off your slick moves all the time?"

"Dash, let me tell you what it's like. One morning, I'm sitting there at my desk just getting settled in and the Squadron Commander kicks the door open and starts screaming about how we've got to mobilize, there's a dragon on the loose. And I'm taken aback, gobsmacked really, because we're the Wonderbolts; we're an *aerobatics and recruiting* unit, not the Night Guard or a Magic Fires Brigade. We don't have weapons or armor, I mean, we don't even do actual combat training, and this guy's screaming in my face to mobilize a bunch of pegasi in fancy tights to go toe-to-toe with a rampaging dragon. So I round everypony up and we're buzzing around this wild bucking monster trying to figure out on-the-fly what we're supposed to even do about it."

Spitfire paused to take a deep draft from her cider. She wiped the foam from her mouth with her foreleg before setting the bottle down. Her leg started to jiggle nervously as she recounted the incident, her body tensing subconsciously as the memories came back to the fore.

"We're out there getting swatted out of the sky by this thing, and do you know why they had us out there? Because there hasn't been a conventional war in Equestria in a thousand years, and every senior leader from the Chiefs of Staff down are scrabbling for any reason they can to keep their slice of the defense budget or better yet take away part of somepony else's. The upshot? My squadron commander puts my flight's lives at risk to prove that we could respond to a threat faster than the other service branches so that HIS boss could ask for more money. And then, then to top it off, they had the gall to be furious with us when we couldn't stop the bucking thing."

Spitfire hadn't realized her voice was slowly but surely getting louder and angrier until as she finished she was nearly shouting and pounding the table with her hooves.

"I... I'm sorry." Spitfire scooted her chair back and scooped up the drained bottle to drop it in the trashbin. It clattered loudly atop the other empties. "I didn't mean to shout."

"Like I said, If I'd been a good leader, the day that happened I would have resigned. Everything that happened since then was just a continuance of a delusion I held that if I followed orders and played by the system's rules that I'd be okay. In the end, though, it wasn't. It ruined me."

Dash sat silent for a moment, absorbing the implications of her former commander's confession.

"So uh, what should I do, then?" Dash finally broke the silence that had settled over the room.

"Well, I think the question you're going to have to ask yourself is if it's worth the hassle."

"Whaddya mean, worth the hassle?" Dash asked tilting her head.

"The hassle of being held accountable when nopony else will take action, like the incident at the young fliers competition."

Spitfire opened the refrigerator and pulled out two more beers.

"No, really, I'm good." Protested Rainbow Dash.

"Itf cuftomary," said Spitfire, tilting her head to set the bottles on the table, "For an officer to buy a sister a beer when she's saved said officer's flank. I owe Fleetfoot two, I've lost count of how many Soarin' owes me, and by my math I owe you one. Drink up."

Dash shrugged and opened her beverage. "Thanks. Your welcome, I mean."

"So young fliers competition. Hundreds, maybe thousands of pegasi were there to watch and participate that day, and when your friend burnt her wings off, out of that crowd of thousands there were only four of us who moved to do anything. Not Princess Celestia, not her guards, not the event coordinators, not High Fade, just three Wonderbolts who were there ostensibly to hand out awards and one young flier."

"But that's what being a leader is about, isn't it?" Dash interjected, "Being the one to act when things go wrong?"

"That's true," Spitfire nodded in affirmation, "One of the things that separates us from regular ponies is that we run to the sound of trouble, not from it. The problem is though that as a pony who does, you'll always be subject to criticism from ponies who can't or won't."

"I'll give you an example. After you saved us, my boss called me into his office to chew my flank for getting knocked out while trying to rescue your unicorn friend. Can't say I was really surprised, being as how many people saw us fail, but what grated me was that he did nothing - sat there like a lump while we jumped in. And then, then he had the gall to try and tell me, get this, that I should have flown UNDER her to catch her. Swear to Celestia, he said that to me. You'd think he'd never been through a basic freefall school."

Rainbow Dash nearly spat out her drink. "Are you kidding me? She would have crashed right down on top of you like a load of bricks! Every schoolfilly knows that's what happens if you steal somepony's air..."

"And every schoolfilly knows that trying to catch a free-falling pony is a dangerous last-ditch maneuver doesn't always work," Spitfire said, intently fiddling with the label on her beer bottle, "But it didn't stop him from writing me a negative counseling statement, even after he personally sat there in the stands doing nothing as she fell."

Spitfire looked up from the tattered label. Dash couldn't help notice the pain in those tangerine eyes had been hiding.

"Some nights I even have dreams, yknow?" Spitfire paused, her lip quivering. "The howls of the wind mixed with her shrieks of terror and that horribly contorted alabaster face, eyes bugging out of her head and I'm trying to get in position and I can't, because of the turbulence..."

Spitfire's voice cracked and went silent as the words caught in her throat.

"Even as fast as I am, it was a close call; we were maybe twenty feet off the deck when I pulled out. We were all lucky that day." Dash offered quietly.

"That's my point, Dash. Suppose you'd been a hair slower in your dive. Suppose you'd mistimed it and we all augured in anyway. Do you think you'd be able to stand there and face the scrutiny of a bunch of armchair experts who sat there and did nothing? Because that's what happens."

Spitfire quickly steeled herself, dancing back from the precipice of breakdown. She coughed, surreptitiously wiping her eyes.

"Anyway, my advice? If you're still gung-ho for joining up, forget trying to get on active duty - join the reserve. You'll get to fly, but everypony in the reserves has civilian jobs, too. It's nice, because it means you're at least marginally less likely to serve under idiot careerist warhorses who're trying to make their next OER bullet on your back."

"So what's next for you? Do you have plans?" Asked Rainbow Dash.

"Long term, I don't know. This all happened so fast I didn't really have time to plan for an exit strategy, so I'm thinking I'll take some time and travel, visit my family maybe. I'll be selling this place, if you're still looking to buy."

"No... Probably not. I've got a lot of re-thinking to do." Rainbow Dash replied. "Thanks for the talk."

"I guess I needed to say those things as much as you needed to hear them. Thanks for listening, anyway."

Rainbow slipped her issue saddlebags on and made her way to the front door, leaving the former Wonderbolts commander alone with her thoughts.

Outbrief

Pegasi are free-spirits by nature; in some ways it is their gift. Where earth ponies need their farms and tools to live, pegasi make their homes out of the very weather they craft. If a unicorn wants to travel, there's tickets to purchase, bags to pack, carts to maintain, and reservations to make; when a pegasus wants to leave, she just goes.

Selling her home was a relatively easy affair, owing to the high turnover and massive real estate sales mechanisms that always seem to exist in military towns - a nice young couple that'd just been relocated from Fairweather NAS in Baltimare snapped it up within a week of it hitting the market. Not that anypony at the realtor's office was suprised, really; she'd priced the place to move fast.

When she left, she'd handed them the keys and took off heading west with two saddlebags - it was all she needed.

South of Las Pegasus in the dry, barren wastes of the San Palomino Desert lies an installation called the Roanopah Test Range. Back in the early days, the all-or-nothing wing and a prayer days, Roanopah was where the real flying happened. This was where General Firefly assembled the first Wonderbolts, a team of young pegasi who'd shown The Right Stuff in flight school, to serve as Princess Celestia's elite aerial display team. When Commander Easyglider revolutionized the Wonderbolts aerial techniques, it had been Roanopah's hot sands in which the first hoof-drawn diagrams were etched. When Captain Mach Hunter set out to smash that chromatic brick wall in the sky, it was Roanopah where the rainboom's rumble first echoed. For professional fliers, it was heaven.

Was, anyway.

While E.U.P. emphasis on Royal Equestrian Air Force wings in general and the Wonderbolts in particular had tailed off significantly over the past half-century, it was the massive drawdowns of the post-reunification defense restructuring that had hurt the most. Roanopah's mission had been scaled back to serving as a part-time desert training center for the E.U.P. Guard; the only permanent installation features still operational were the garrison headquarters building, a small commissary and a small museum dedicated to the Wonderbolts.

And, of course, Barns's place.

The original Barnstormer had passed some years back but the place stayed open anyway; mostly, it seemed, out of equal parts habit and obstinance. Decades of sun had beat down on the tin roof and cedar walls, fading and warping them to the point of caricature. On the wall hung framed pictures of the great flyers who had once frequented the bar but had gone on to their final rewards. Spitfire looked them over carefully as she waited for the barmaid, trying to match the young faces in those faded pictures with those of the aviation giants she knew from history.

"Which Wing?"

Spitfire swiveled on her stool to gawp the old pony at the end of the bar. He was aged to the point that his mane had gone past silver and was working it's way up to a bleached bone white. His face was hard, sunbaked and wind-whipped into tanned leather.

"'S'cuse me, Sir?"

"Which Wing. Which Wing were you in?" He reached up to his face and pulled off his Aviator sunglasses, revealing the coldest, sharpest crystal blue eyes Spitfire had ever seen.

"Oh, uh... Third Wing, Twelfth Squadron."

"Mm. Fort Ledge. Wonderbolts." He affirmed to himself.

Spitfire couldn't help but be slightly taken aback.

"How do you know?"

"Just an educated guess. You carry yourself like one. Head up and on a swivel, eyes assessing."

"You got me." She shrugged in mock resignation.

"Nope, no Ma'am. Don't see many of your kind around here anymore. Not in ages. Bet you're here to see the museum."

"Yeah. It's closed though. Permanently, too, from the looks of it."

"That's because," said the elderly pony as he downed his beer, "I'm here, and not there. Could be bothered to take a flight over yonder, if you're still interested in seeing it."

~~~

The museum itself was one of the base's cavernous old corrugated steel hangars, repurposed and modified to display and house all the Wonderbolts memorabilia. The caretaker fumbled with his keyring, trying several before finally getting the right one and opening the main door.

"Wait here, I'll get the lights."

Spitfire coughed as she peered over his shoulder into the darkness. Sun shone through the high slit windows at the building's peak, casting slender beams of light through the dust particles in the air.

*CLACK*

The overhead lamps crackled and hummed to life in sequence as the caretaker flipped the arcane switches in the back of the building, bathing the displays below in a dim artificial glow. Cobwebs and a thin layer of undisturbed dust lay on the exhibits.

Spitfire stepped forward into the building, hoofsteps echoing in the expanse. "This is..." She trailed off.

"Yeah, I know. I have to apologize for the state of the place. Pretty much the only ponies who come here now come through when there's a rotation through the training area. Other than that, since they opened up the big fancy E.U.P. museum in Canterlot, it's open 'by appointment only' anymore, which is to say almost never."

"This is AMAZING! Commander Easyglider's flight jacket! Colonel Purple Dart's pipe!" Spitfire buzzed from exhibit to exhibit like an schoolfilly, poring over the details of the different placards.

The caretaker chuckled at her unabashed excitement, watching her as he leaned up against an exhibit wall. "Think you'll make it here someday?"

Spitfire drooped visibly as she thought about it. "Yeah, probably not. Kinda got 'retired' if you know what I'm saying. I'll never be like any of these ponies."

"That so? Come look at this exhibit."

He gestured for her to follow to a display labeled Wild Mustangs.

Spitfire read the placard beneath the display table quietly aloud. "This exhibit is dedicated to the nonconformists who led in the face of convention, without fear, favor or hope of reward..."

The caretaker pointed at a picture of a tall, muscular azure and white stallion.

"Colonel Jay Bird, who invented the L.O.O.P. system and revolutionized improvisational aerial maneuvers. Look, Orient, Opt, Proceed? Never heard of it? I guess they don't teach it anymore at the Academy since they're more into routines and formations, these days. The Royal Equestrian Air Force never did appreciate him, but the Seapony Assault Force sure loves him."

He pointed at another, a pure white pegasus, and continued.

"How about Colonel Wingding, who got dumped in a nowhere outpost in Saddle Arabia for being so bold as to say that Generals ought to be accountable for winning wars? After being uninvited to speak at the Academy, you'd think he'd have just disappeared, but no; he's one of Equestria's foremost military policy experts now."

Spitfire looked over the exhibit with a small lump in her throat, looking at how all these ponies had succeeded even after they'd left service. Something was out of place, though.

"Hey, Colonel Hunter's glasses are missing." She jerked her head at a peg in the display where the Hay-Ban aviator glasses were meant to be hung. A faint outline in the dust indicated they'd been taken recently.

"They don't do me much good collecting dust in the display case, kid."

You'd have needed a special sort of jack to lift her jaw off the floor.

"You're... You're..." Spitfire boggled quietly.

"Hush, or they're all gonna want one." He winked slyly at her.

"What.. Why's an Equestrian hero like you out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"What else should I be doing? It's nice and quiet, no traffic, no noise. I'm happy here." Mach Hunter offered.

"I just can't believe I finally got to meet you." Spitfire gushed exuberantly, "Ever since I was a little filly, I wanted to grow up to be like you - a great flier."

"Well, kid, I'll make you a deal. I'll trade you these glasses of mine," he said, smoothly pulling the vintage Hay-Bans off his forehead, "With one proviso."

Spitfire nodded silently.

"Someday, when you've made it big, bring them back here. Do something worth inspiring some young filly or colt to greatness, and we'll consider the debt repaid."

Epilogue

She should have been in bed hours ago, but still she clattered away at her typewriter. The candle had burnt down nearly to the holder; melted wax puddled on the heavy oak writing desk in messy white rivulets. Around her lay the crumpled, abortive remains of half-finished letters, previous attempts that had foundered on the shoals of her withering dissatisfaction.

This one, she thought, might finally do.

Soarin',

I bumped into Misty Fly the other day - she'd mentioned you made full bird and were in line to get your own Wing. Figured I ought to finally finish this thing before you got too big to remember the little ponies you came up with.

The truth of the matter is that I've meant to write you this letter for a very long time, but every time I try to compose my thoughts I just end up feeling too terrible to finish it. That's how regrets work, I think.

I was jealous of you, Soarin'. I felt like you'd had everything I had to work so hard for handed to you on a silver platter, what with your family's connections, and that jealousy allowed me to justify behaving like a spiteful, underhanded jerk. When I tried to keep you off the relay team, it wasn't because you weren't good enough - it's because I thought you didn't deserve to be there. I had no right to make that call, and lying to you to keep you off the team was awful of me.

I'm sorry.

It's been years since I left the service, and it still bothers me that I treated you that way. I betrayed your trust and most importantly our friendship. I even avoided going to our ten year Academy reunion because I didn't feel like I could face you after all that. You deserved better than the treatment I gave you. Please accept my apologies.

In any case, I hope this letter finds you with good health and happiness - I know how trying command can be, but I'm sure you'll be up to the task.

                                                                                                                                                   Spitfire

Spitfire rocked back from her typewriter and regarded the letter with a critical scowl, forelegs crossed in silent judgment.

"Whatcha writin'?" Powerful forelegs slipped under hers and wrapped tightly around her midsection, his head settling on her shoulder.

Spitfire was silent. She could feel Fireflight's jaw tense as he read the missive over her shoulder. "You know you don't owe him buck-all, right?"

"It's... It's as much for me as it is for him. He may have been incompetent, but what I tried to do to him was immoral and unjust. Out of all the things that happened during my command, that's the one I haven't been able to get over. I betrayed a friend."

"A friend who then used his family influence to end your career." Fireflight scoffed.

"Pfft. The Soarin' I knew was a bungler, not malevolent. For all we know, he was probably just venting to his folks about his terrible CO and they decided to do something about it on their own."

Spitfire pulled the letter from the machine, folded it neatly and placed it in an envelope.

"Besides, if he hadn't, I'd never have started the flight school and I would've probably never met you. I'd probably be some dried-up Lieutenant Colonel developing pointless briefings at E.U.P. headquarters, wondering where the last twenty years of her life had gone and if any of it had made any difference to anypony. Instead, every day I see the thrilled faces of those little fillies and foals as they stick their first landings. I get to know that my time's been well spent."

"Mm." Fireflight grumbled by way of concession. "Do you think you feel better now, at least, getting this off your chest?"

Spitfire leaned back against her lover's sturdy frame and rubbed her head playfully against his.

"Honestly? Above all else, I feel relieved."