Epilogue

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A storm surged through the night, dropping screaming sheets of rain and blasts of sharp wind through the town of Sundown Straits.

In a tavern on the corner of Clyde and Stockhoof, a solitary pegasus in an old flight jacket rested uneasily in the booth at the back of the room, casting furtive glances out the window.

Spitfire slowly slid a hoof across the table surface, absently drawing circles.  Her ears twitched at the sound of panicked words coming from the bar.  Normally this pub was crowded enough that she was left alone with nothing but the dull roar of the late shift enjoying their last pints, slapping hooves and clinking mugs for toasts forgotten by the next morning.

Too loud to hear oneself think --- and that was the point.

But tonight, a deathly hush hung in the air, broken only by the distant rattle of rain and the scratchy voice emanating from the radio behind the bar.  Patrons huddled close and still, and the single bartender had been slowly polishing the same glass for several minutes.

Spitfire slumped against the booth seat, drawing herself deeper into her old flight jacket as she listened along with them.

"...as the last of the citizens crossed the county line.  Torrential rain has been reported a half-mile from the coast, along with a rising swell. Experts last estimate put the winds blowing strong enough to knock over trees, but there's no sign of Bianca slowing down anytime soon.  By the time she makes landfall in a day, she will rate as a Category Five hurricane.  Damage to Vanhoover is projected to be catastrophic.  Our hearts and prayers go out the skeleton crews of the fire and rescue teams who volunteered to stay behind and mitigate the expected fires and downed power lines..."

Murmurs rose from the huddled masses on their barstools.  Outside, the fierce rain that had been hammering away at the foggy window intensified audibly, a hissing wail that sent Spitfire's hackles to rise.  Sundown Straits wasn't far away from 'Hoover, maybe ten miles or so down the coast.  If it was this bad here, she shuddered to think of the monster looming out in the ocean.

"But most of all, we hope for the safety of the weather teams who have mustered at the city center for a last, desperate attempt to divert Hurricane Bianca's path.  Hundreds of pegasi from Cloudsdale to Los Pegasus have gathered here under the loose leadership of the Wonderbolts, who arrived on the scene three nights ago to spearhead the operation.  We managed to grab a quick word with their commanding officer, Soarin'."

Spitfire sat upright, whipping around to stare at the radio with a gaping mouth.  "What?!"

The radio crackled as the noise issued forth took on a new pitch, almost like coming out of a tin can.  "Captain!  Captain Soarin', I'm with the EQR, can you spare a moment for a few questions?"

"Oh, um, I've got a lot to deal with currently, but --- excuse me, ma'am --- we can walk and talk for a moment, yeah."  Soarin' sounded awful; he probably wasn't sleeping, Spitfire realized.

"What drove your decision to send the Wonderbolts to 'Hoover?"

"That's... what?  That's a stupid question, I'm sorry."

"Beg pardon?"

"We are the Wonderbolts.  It's our job to handle things like this.  Rampaging dragons, chaos entities, supernatural horrors... yeah, not so much.  But a hurricane?  No matter how strong, that's our neck of the woods.  The Wonderbolts are made up of the greatest fliers in Equestria.  We know how to work the weather like nopony else.  And if we can make a difference, we just might save this city.  Or at least buy it enough time to evacuate."

"I... I see.  Is there anything you'd like to say to those listening at home?"

"Yes.  Pegasi of Equestria, if you think you have what it takes to stand up to Bianca, come to the Vanhoover City Hall, and get here fast.  Only those with ten-point-oh wingpower should make the journey --- we need ponies who can handle themselves and work as a unit.  Weather team members are preferred, but only if their absence doesn't endanger their own community.  The more talented fliers we have on our side, the greater the chance of success we have here.  We can't do this alone.  We're counting on---"

The radio hissed again, and the signal dropped.  Spitfire found herself at the bar in a split second.  "Get them back, get them back!" she yelped to the bartender, who frantically worked at the dial.

One of the patrons eyed her wings.  "Geez, lady, what's your problem?  Got somepony you know in that mess?"

"No --- I mean, yes --- I mean... they..."  Spitfire shook herself, wings fluttering uneasily at her sides.  "Shut up!"

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" another one of the patrons asked.

"You do seem familiar, lady," added the first.

Spitfire opened her mouth to reply, but the bartender's nervous fiddling finally hit paydirt.  "...certainly knowing just how this storm developed should help immensely for future hurricanes.  But for now, this has been Microphone Check, reporting live from Vanhoover City Hall, ground zero for the weather teams'  mission.  We'll be back for hourly updates, keeping you posted for the remainder of Hurricane Bianca..."

"Here."  Spitfire dug in her pocket before slapping a few crusty-looking bits onto the counter.  "That's for tonight and the next time I come in."

"Wait, are you going out there?"  The first customer butted in again.

Spitfire didn't answer, instead popping her the flight jacket's collar up high about her neck and pounding outside.  Immediately, stinging rain slashed at her face.  The sheer chill of the winds made her breath hitch with the first icy gust.  She winced at the fury of the storm, but dropped a shoulder and charged off down the road regardless.

Her place wasn't far from the tavern --- maybe something she'd planned, maybe not --- but when she stumbled in through the door, she was soaked to the bone.  Didn't matter, really.  She swatted at the lights, but they didn't come on.  Power outage, she realized.  The small apartment was a mess, littered with abandoned pizza boxes and instant noodle cups, and she blindly scrabbled  through the mess until she pulled out something from beneath the couch.

A pair of pristine flight goggles flashed in the sudden glare of lightning.

Her hoof tenderly traced a circle around one of the lenses, before Spitfire jerked back to life, plunging through the mess again into her room.  The closet found itself upended, the few clothes she had tossed unceremoniously on the floor, until she found a light blue windbreaker with the Wonder Bolt running down the chest.  It was the only waterproof item she owned.

Tossing it on along with the goggles around her head, she spun, surged out of the bedroom, and out the door she'd tumbled through only moments before.

She didn't bother locking up.

If the old brass could see her now, they'd have kittens.

Flying through the storm, Spitfire plunged heedlessly on, blasts of wind screaming at her from all directions and rain slamming at the windbreaker's hood, deafening her ears.  It wasn't the type of flying she was used to, but it was a type she had trained for regardless.  She had to hold herself back from trying to outrun the wind, though.  Those days were long past her.

So she endured the lashing and stinging, threading the needle through the storm's various turbulent layers, letting its fury push her along when she found a suitable current.  Every so often, a thunderbolt would hurl itself down out of the sky, mostly from an area off to her left, which she knew was open ocean.  The hurricane was still gathering strength out there, even an earth pony could see that.

Still.  Despite the circumstances, it felt good to fly like this again.  She hadn't pushed herself this hard for weeks, even if she was nowhere near former top speed.

A rogue cloud loomed in the darkness, pulsing with barely-contained energy.  Gasping, Spitfire rolled left --- hard --- and felt her wingtip graze the surface.  A painful jolt later, and she jinked away, her primaries slightly smoking.

"Horses of Heaven, that was close," she whispered into the wind.  Bianca must have absorbed a thunderstorm somewhere over the ocean, because hurricanes usually didn't have this much lightning-bearing cloud cover.  Those things were dangerous enough as it was; a pegasus could accidentally run into one during the chaos of a storm and receive the full dose of electricity intended to strike the ground.  It could stop your heart --- or worse.

Finding a river of colder wind snaking in roughly the same direction she was, Spitfire angled herself about and into the current, allowing it to buoy her upwards and onwards.  The sudden acceleration strained her muscles, and she found herself flying faster than she would have liked.  But there was no helping it.  She could ride this all the way to Vanhoover.

And then...

Try not to let them catch her helping.

"Ma'am?"

Spitfire shook herself.  "Sorry, could you repeat that?"

The pegasus with the clipboard frowned at her.  "Name, place of residence, and age."

"Uh..." Spitfire clutched at straws.  "Sp---" she caught herself, "---lashdown."  Another pause as she desperately ran through a list of places she could choose.  Something nondescript, some backwater nowhere that everypony knew about, but nopony went to.  "From Wethoof.  As for age, that's none of your damn business, kid."

The pegasus snorted.  "Right, Splashdown.  You're assigned to the Las Pegasus division.  Second wing.  Follow the signs down the hall."

Spitfire had to resist the urge to salute.  "Who do I report to?"

"The Wonderbolt in command.  Her name is," he glanced at his clipboard, "Surprise.  She'll be the one in uniform.  And nice threads, by the way."

"Yeah, thanks," Spitfire absently said, already trotting away.  Inwardly, she was fighting a grin.  Surprise was one of the newest members of the Wonderbolts, and least likely to recognize her.  All she had to do was lay low, and keep the windbreaker hood up.  Her mane had grown long and wild since her time on the team, but few had a head of fiery hair like she did.