Epilogue

Epilogue

The track beckoned Soarin from his bed. After everything that had happened today, and over the course of these last few months, he couldn't sleep. And how could he? Starting tomorrow, he would be a Wonderbolt.

He walked out to the track. His limbs were sore from rolling with Spitfire, but he didn't want to fly; he'd miss too much of this moment if he flew and he needed this to last. The wind was a cool blessing from on high, the moon a silver medallion in the sky. Soarin' could hardly wait for dawn. He was done with silver things now, all done. Tomorrow he would be a Wonderbolt, and finally deserving of gold.

Mmmm, gold... He thought of his team captain and carried on.

Voices rang out as he neared the track; apparently a few others shared his plans for a late night jog. As he came closer, the voices became clearer, more familiar. One was a crackling torch in the night, the other a crashing wave.

Fleetfoot and Spitfire were both wearing their flight suits, minus the masks. They were arguing, and neither noticed Soarin's approach. He stood still. Watched. Listened.

"...You didn't have to storm out before the end like a big baby," said Spitfire.

"And watch you have your way with another recruit? Gross. Thanks but no thanks."

"Oh, come off it Fleet. You were cheering for him the whole time, and you know what happens when they win."

"You mean when you let them win," said Fleetfoot smirking.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, I'm sure. It would have gone differently if you would've let me have him. You know, like you promised." Fleet ran a frustrated hoof through her mane and looked off at the sky, a huff puffing off her lips.

"Oh, crap," said Spitfire. "Did you want...?"

"Shut up. You know I did."

"Fleet, I'm... I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"Don't tell me how I feel about this."

Fleetfoot opened her mouth to say something, but shoved Spitfire instead. "Just piss off. It's like two in the morning what're you even doing out here?"

"Checking up on you. Rapid says you've been staying up later and later, always studying and training."

"Just keeping ahead of the competition." She jabbed a hoof in Spitfire's chest. "Boss."

Sun-fire eyes flashed down at the hoof, then back up to its owner. "Rest is part of training, too. We have a big show coming up and I need you on point. No slip ups like last time."

Fleetfoot snorted and drove her brow into Spitfire's. "That was the cadet's fault, the one you picked and I had to cut later. I. Don't. Slip."

Spitfire didn't budge. "Just come inside, Fleet. Please. You're gonna run yourself ragged out here."

"And drop down to your level?" Her laugh was obnoxious and forced. "In your dreams, boss. Why don't you go cuddle up with Fallin' and listen to him go on and on about how great you are."

"You know what?" Spitfire's smile was sly. "I think I'll do that. He loves the saying my name, you know. 'Spitfire,'" she taunted, mimicking Soarin's voice. "You should have stayed and listened. 'Spitfire, Spitfire'..."

For a second Soarin' was sure Fleetfoot would pounce on the team captain, but she only said, "Like I give a crap. Fallin's got no moves. You just let him win so he'd fuck you."

"No, he beat me fair and square," she insisted. "But you know, there was this one cadet I liked so much that I let her win, just to get her on the team. White mane, reckless, bit of an attitude. Maybe you know her?"

Fleetfoot laughed aloud, and just like that, the conversation's entire tempo changed. "Shut up. No you didn't."

"Oh, but I did." Spitfire closed on her teammate grinning impishly. "The team needed her, so my pride had to come second. And I'm glad I let her win, because she's been the best addition to the Bolts since."

"Really?"

"Really." Spitfire punched her friend's shoulder. "Now let’s get you inside and warm in your bed."

"Wait," said Fleetfoot. "Let's say, hypothetically speaking, that this white-haired pony were to return for a rematch. What would you say to her?"

"I'd say bring it on."

"Oh, it's been brought." Fleetfoot smiled as she ripped off the top half of her suit and flung it to the ground. Spitfire did the same, and then they were a tangle of limbs and grunts, rolling and tumbling, a cloud of steam that wouldn't rise.

Soarin' considered staying to watch, but then remembered that neither mare could be boiled or doused. He went back to bed, deciding he'd rather not stay up all night.