Vvvrrooom!
The ground shook beneath their hooves. Rubber flew through the air, blackening the risen gates around the track. Wind whipped by, taking everything with it. The crowd roared, breathless and hot, stamping their hooves and screaming to the cars on the track. 2.5 miles of hot rubber. They snapped by again with a crash that would put thunder to shame. More bits of rubber showered the crowd and darkened their seats. Like lightning they crashed and disappeared, only to strike again. Hot blades of wind kicked up around them and sliced through the mass of ponies. Again, around the bend, whipping past and spinning acround the curve. The track, hot on their tires, rose up to meet them and they were gone in and instant.
Crowds of ponies gathered close to the fence. Their bodies brushed together, their ears pinned back against the clamor. For yards all one could see was the raised benches, the far back ones empty so that the mass of furry rainbows collected around the fences. Voices pierced the sky, drowned out only by the cars zooming by and then swelling once more to fill the stale air. They gleefully sucked it in. The burning track, the suffering heat, the breath of the ponies around them. Each pair of eyes wide and glued to the bright little figures, stark against the black track. The sun beat down against the crowd to wash them all into one massive wash of color.
VRROOOM!
They whipped by again. 2.5 miles. A hundred laps to go. The carts pulled around the corner, the pony inside slamming against his door. He yanked the wheel right and pulled the car away from the wall. With a grunt he was back on the petal, leaning against the gravity, the wind that blasted the car at the hood. It pulled him to and fro into the turn and he hit the door again.
Behind the driver was a sudden, piercing shriek. The cart pulled away from the wall and slammed into his backend. Metal screeched against metal, throwing both drivers against their wheels. Another force slammed into the left and the cluster backed into the wall. Smoke billowed out and covered the engines. Heat kicked through the exhaust and filled the seats.
More figures burst out of the cloud of smoke. They tore down the track and leaned into the turn. Engines spurred on, roaring louder than the hundreds of onlookers. Flashes on light met them like a wave all the way down the track. Cameras and screams and flashes. All for the carts as they whipped around and slammed the gas. Everything was focused on the road ahead of them. The tail end of the next cart. A way to get around. The driver cut the wheel, pulling out and entering the curve. Up against the tail end, gravity pulled them around the two met. Screeching and tearing away, the car ahead of her was yanked out and the middle met her front end. She slammed the brake, jerking against the wheel as it slammed into 48's side. She gave a grunt, the leather belt snapping against her shoulder. Muzzle smashed into the steering wheel, blood burst down her face and into her fur, she beat the front console and pressed harder into the breaks. All the while the world turned. It spun out of control and threw them into the metal wall. Sparks shot out and flew across the asphalt. Huge chunks of rubber tore away and went flying down the track. The screams grew impossibly loud as the two cars melded into one another, crashing again into the wall as they spun further down the track.
Torn away from the steering wheel, the driver was pushed into her center console. The gear shift jammed into her elbow just as they spun back. Tossed back against the door, they rolled to a stop against the end of the track. Bits of metal laid a trail, half a mile long. Chunks of the two carts littered the track after a thick, inky trail in the fence.
Another cart tore through the wreckage and beat his way down the path. Metal glinted in the sun, followed by three more. The head of the pack hit the pedal to the floor and flipped the corner, just barely pulling out before a stark yellow cart. Lights flashed above its head and the carts behind it slowed, barely missing it and filing up behind it.
The driver in the broken car shook her head, groaning and pulling away from her door. She looked ahead to number 48, the carts nearly welded together. Steam poured from the engine, filtering back toward her and darkening the cockpit. She coughed and put a hoof against the window, pulling herself up. Unhooking the net, she climbed out as medics raced across the field from the service pit. The lights above her smeared into one big, fuzzy canvas. The track was hot on her hooves. 14 stepped away from the car and stumbled toward the grass. Roaring crowds, flashing lights, dozens of engines carefully motoring by the debris. A medic shouted to her and she removed her helmet, the blood already drying on her muzzle. Her light purple mane dripped with sweat. slicked against her orange face. Wobbling on four legs, her wings buzzed until she stumbled into the medic.
"Scootaloo?" The voice was strange, foreign. A hoof wrapped around her shoulder and held her aloft. "Scootaloo, 14, can you hear me?"
"Huh?" She shouted over the dull throb in the back of her head. Screams and pounding hooves faded into a dull roar behind the rushing in her ears. "Yeah." Strong arms lead her back to the pit and down into a little cabin set up behind the service run. She sat on the bench and leaned back, groaning softly as her stiff muscles stretched across the tough fabric.
A medic worried over her until she shooed him away. In his place came two blazing magenta eyes. The cyan mare hovered above her and waited for her to focus. "What the hell were you doing out there?" Rainbow Dash threw her hooves out.
Scoots sat up, shaking her head. "What?" The dull throbbing filled her ears. Rainbow's voice echoed out to her, dim and confused.
"I said," the mare raised her voice, "what the hell were you thinking?" She lit down beside the bench, grabbing Scootaloo's head and turning it toward her.
"I didn't think you'd get out of your show in time to see." Scoots jerked her head away, groaning as the world swam around her. She fell back onto the bench, a hoof running up to her head. "I'm okay, really. Nothing too serious."
"I'm not worried about you, ya featherbrain!" Rainbow cracked her in the head, scowling menacingly. The wall behind her blurred against her silhouette and the colors washed away. Everything faded to grey around Rainbow until there was just her colorful mane and those scowling purple eyes. "I'm worried about the stallion they had to pry out of the race cart." Scoot's eyes crossed and she squinted at her friend. "You could have killed somepony."
"I didn't though."
"That isn't the point! This isn't a game for dirty tricks." Rainbow plucked at Scootaloo's blue costume, the yellow lightning sewn through the fabric waving as though it would strike down around them. "These clothes aren't just for play, kid."
"Please, you act like I didn't follow the rules." She yanked away from Rainbow Dash. "Last I checked, a wreck wasn't illegal."
"But it sure as hell shouldn't be strived for."
The door cracked open. Sunlight washed across the dim room, unsettling both of the mares standing in. A stallion with a short brown mane and a dark pair of glasses poked his head in. "We need you out here, Miss." He bit his lip and glanced out into the field, running his hoof down his cheek.
"I'm afraid that's my cue." Scootaloo leaped up from the bench. Blood rushed through her and blurred the world once again. The closer she stumbled to the sunlight, the starker the colors became. Finally emerging, she stepped out into the mass of crowds and engines. To her left was the site. Bits of metal were discarded in the grass, large chunks of it torn out of the ground and muddying the track. It had been cleared, only small bits of rubber now pulling out with the wind and shaking above the hot road. Cars whizzed past, unsettling the pieces and shooting them out across the grass, into the pit, out and over the crowd. Voices screamed from the wall of fur risen above the track, visible through thick metal bars that kept the crowd at bay. Some flashed from the sea of bodies surrounded Scootaloo, now emerging from the little shed. Most however, like a wave surging through the ponies, followed the lead driver.
A slick blue frame darted down the track. Four rubber tires tore up the asphalt, leaving skid marks behind him for the other drivers to chase. Outfitted with stickers and flags that no pony could see, it blurred into a blue streak that pulled away from the turns and shot down the track like a bolt of lightning. The fading sunlight glinted off the metal frame. The tired roared beneath it. The engine spurred with magic, turning the motors and spinning the gears at a breakneck speed. Pistons shot and steam flowed through the exhaust, leaving a trail of fine clouds bursting against the windshields behind him. Sleek and fast and tearing up the track, number 54 was in the lead.
Scootaloo watched him circle around once more. Her ears fell back and she followed her crewpony through the pit. A small section was walled off with short metal railings, the number 14 hanging from a plaque above it. "Wait, they restarted the race? Where's my cart?" The crewpony didn't stop by their pit. He wove his way through the center to an off track. There, melded into one another and steaming in the hot evening sun, were the two cars. Both empty, both still sputtering steam from every crevice, and both utterly dead.
The stallion took a measured step away. "You lost a lot on the track, Miss Scootaloo." He coughed nervously. "The crash forced the two together and we couldn't pry them apart. You're out of the race this time, Miss."
Her jaw hung, her eyes struggling to focus on the wreckage before her. One window was cracked on the bright red car. Once sleek and polished, the blue banner proudly displaying a little yellow pony figure with a cape. Now, that pony was etched away, leaving deep silver scratches and caved crests. The outline obliterated and the wall jutting up and pushing the window away. The plastic had snapped and pushed out in two jagged slabs, blackened from its run in the wall. The mesh on the other window was gone, on both cars. Gears and pistons lay spewing out from the smashed hood. The metal had buckled, pressing into one another with incredible force, the weak substance hadn't resisted. The other car fared no better, caved in on the side and pushing the second seat up and into the driver's. Luckily he had been removed; where to, Scootaloo wasn't sure.
A dull thumping came from behind her, shockingly loud against the deafening background. Rainbow Dash had barely lit down when the orange mare snapped off, stomping out of the scene. "Scoot!" RD called, hitting a hoof on the grass. "Come back here. You can't just storm away; you're a grown up now. Act like it!" She groan and slammed her hood against the floor, gritting her teeth. "Arrogant little..." She scuffed and threw herself into the sky dipping back and heading for the crowd to watch the race.
Scootaloo was already gone, trotting down the stairs to a little gateway under the track. Its walls rumbled and shook as the carts shot over it. The sound only drove her faster. WIngs snapping open, she hovered just an inch over the ground and buzzed up the steps. Large crowds swelled around her, surrounding the walkway and tripping her walk. Cheeks red, ears pinned back, she shouldered past them all and galloped out into the mile long stretch of market carts and trailers. Beyond that, the wagon lots and the tent grounds. Scootaloo stomped past them all, her head low, her wings tight against her sides, her eyes narrowed. The heat beat down her back through the lots and trailers, past a tall plastic banner suspended over the gate.
Its words, stark against the plain white banner, bid her farewell. It welcomed all others with:
WELCOME
WONDERBOLTS GRAND PRIX
Author's Note
Just a silly little story to help me get back into my groove. If it isn't as flowing, it's probably 'cause I'm a little rusty. Leave your feedback down below! 
Roaring cheers echoed in the distance. The sun dipped below the horizon, splashing the sky with a brilliant wash of fiery oranges and burning reds. A sea of tents snuggled down into the crook of that horizon and it drew further away. With it went the sounds of tankards clanking, ponies stomping and congratulating. Champagne was popped and beer was chugged. Even the little ones had room to go racing around their parents' hooves to chase after the millions of fireflies dancing in the air around them. Lanterns were lit to fill the fading sunlight just before it disappeared for good.
A long stretch of country road led away from the pit were everypony celebrated. Shielding away the fleeting fire above were tall, broad trees. They lined the country side for miles until they broke away into long stretches of farmland. Corn as tall as the ponies' heads and stretches of short bean fields met the eye and melded into the backdrop of trees; big pines and sturdy oaks with blazing red leaves in the middle. The clouds dotting the sky still bathed in the red glow above them and shined down upon the woods, giving them a silhouette of fire. The occasional farmhouse broke this illusion.
Further along the road it began to branch away into different streets. The homes became common and were replaced by small storefronts and market vendors. Dodge City came into being around the Pegasus as she went. Orange hooves clung to long black bars. Wings buzzing soundly, she rode smoothly through town. The board beneath her had begun to wear over time, pressing into her hooves to make them sore; a problem that was becoming far more apparent to the mare as she slowed to a stop for a traffic sign. All around her the vendors pushed their carts through the busy street. Most of them were heading home for the night but some veered for the local tavern. Scootaloo watched them all go with a quirk to her frown. "A cold berry punch sounds great right now." She lowered her head and swerved toward the street, kicking her hoof across the ground for a stop. Dust kicked up around her and billowed out with the wind.
The streetlamps were just turning on across the old city. Most of the architecture was Appaloosian. Old wood buildings hastily constructed and even worse maintained. It held a bitter rustic feel to it. Colors were muted and bland. Each storefront blended into one another so well that not even the elegantly carved signs at each door could tell them apart. It had a tone like the sand that dusted over the dirt roads; and a taste like it too. The tavern sported a creaky wooden porch that stood on stilts held up by a stack of old concrete blocks. Many of which had chipped away over the years and left the whole construction to sag to one corner. Rotten wood underhoof gave way with each step and slowly eased itself back into position. The moss growing around each board was slick to the touch and sent many ponies tripping down the two steps that remained of the short stairway. Heavy cobwebs in the corner of each beam along the railway held thick bundles of spiders, most dead but some that shook their webs angrily as Scootaloo approached.
She stepped past the short double doors and into the saloon. Heat welcomed her in its choking embrace. It hit her square in the chest, pressing around her like a tight coat that carried her over to the barstools. Fungus grew around the bottoms and squished when she sat down. Moisture clung to the once polished bar and oozed out from the leather seat under her.
The wall directly across held rows and rows of dusty old bottles. Half of them empty and the other half old as dust, nopony had so much as given them a glance since the bar's opening. The shelves sagged with their weight and some had finally given way, mashing the bottled together and cracking the ones below. The wood had been left to slowly rot and spill dirt onto the countertop below. This led up to the condemned balcony. The dull red carpeting was torn all the way up the grand staircases that twisted around the counter and lead to the missing space where the balcony should have been. In its place was an ever expanding hole that had at one point been patched with hastily nailed planks of wood. Glaringly yellow pieces of tape blocked the staircases. Some had been torn away and replaced dozens of times, as small bits of torn tarp flapped noisily in the breeze from the dozen heavy metal fans set up all around the bar.
Before the bar was a short carpeted area that held ten or so sets of tables and chairs. Old and overly-polished, they gleamed in the faint lights above them. Not four ponies occupied these tables while a hooffull sat at the bar. Its keeper stood on her haunches, leaning over the edge of her back counter and facing the biggest fan in the room. It tousled her bubbly purple mane and sent curly strands flying free from her tight bun. The twin pearls at her neck jostled against her darker fur and disappeared from sight. The fan billowed out dust and dirt from around her and down the counter, fanning out the strong liquor breath that clung to the moist air around them and kissed the back of Scootaloo's throat.
She unclipped her helmet and let her ears shake out. Drops of sweat flicked off her fur as she pounded a hoof on the counter. "Spiced ginger," she called to the bartender. The mare groaned and rolled over onto all fours to fetch the drink. Scoots swiveled around and took a look. Her muzzle crinkled despite her and her ears fell back. Each breath whistled through her nose and drove drops of sweat down her breast. Slowly, she put her hooves on her knees, shaking her head. "It's hot for fall being so close." She laughed as she turned to get her beer. "Thanks."
The mare gave her a curt hum and retreated to her fan.
"Hey Plum, you ever gonna wing by to get us something?" A few agitated gruffs came from a table in back. The bartender raised her snout.
"You ever gonna give me my money?" Her thick Manehattan accent belted out. Sharp blue eyes glared out into the tables. "Why I gotta get myself all the way out to you in this heat, eh?" Hoof on her hip, she stomped over to a busted old cooler and yanked out a few crisp bottles. Breaths of cold air leaked out across the counter and filled that corner with a bitterly short second of cold. Then the door was snapped shut as Plum walked toward the tables and the heat rushed back in to fill that second with another drag of pressing heat. "You'd better damn well appreciate that." She cracked it open on the corner of the table and handed the stallions their drinks.
Scootaloo sipped hers and swiveled toward another stool. A colt was hunched over his drink, hair darkening around his muzzle and deep bags under his eyes. A friend sat beside him and reached way over to pat his shoulder, ears back.
"Hey pal, it's just a race. Don't sweat it." The stallion took his hoof back and grimaced, wiping away the sweat on the barstool.
"I lost everything on that bet. Number 17 was gonna win it all for me!" He hit his head against the head of the bar. "He totals in the first fifty laps."
His friend watched him beat his head, gently reaching over and pushing the glass bottle in the way. The stallion paused and gave the glass a short look before snatching it back and downing a quarter of it. "That's why you don't bet on these stupid cart races."
"Yeah, you wanna place a good bet, do it in one'a them Wonderbolt flyers." An old coot with greying fur and a white mane raised his hoof. "I remember when they came about. And the ain't gone away yet, you know why?" The other bargoers groaned aloud. "Because it's real. There ain't no wheels or magic pushin' them forward, it's pure strength and will. That's how you tell a good race."
"You can't say there isn't any will in cart racing, though." A shy voice peeped up from the back.
Plum tossed her hooves. "Specs, d'ya have to encourage him?" Scootaloo turned to the Specs colt. He was fairly young, a face full of dark scruff and thin wire glasses. He sat at a lone table hunched over a rootbeer but now he looked at all of them, pushing his glasses further up his face.
Scoot eyed the bartender, the squeal in her chair as she turned almost drowning out the constant hum from the fans. Metal scraped against metal and drowned away her first words. "I agree with him."
"Huh?"
"I agree with Specs. It takes more than just fancy magicks to race in a cart." There was nothing to lean on so the filly leaned forward, her slick elbows sliding on the over-polished bar. "It takes a lot of heart."
"What do you know?" The stallion next to her spoke through his bottle, tipping it across his wet lips and smacking them, sending short little drops spraying out across the counter.
"I know it takes a lot of strength to turn that wheel. You ever been in a cart?"
"I've seen a few," Specs piped up, "I read about them down in Detrot. They were thought up by a young unicorn years back. He kept working out the idea for a motor machine that used stored magic to propel the wheels on an axel." The other stallions gave him a short glance. "I think his name was Motor Wheel."
Grandpa down the bar scoffed. "If they're so great, why can't I go cruising in my magic-run cart then?"
"Cause you're poor as dirt, Stamp Herd." Plum cracked at him. "Those things cost more bits than this bar is worth."
The others snorted. "That much couldn't buy you the gum under the railing."
"It does take a lot of skill." Specs brought it back around.
"And hoof-eye coordination." Scoots chimed in. She swiveled back to eye Specs, leaning against the bar. Flies buzzing around his drink had been left long enough to find themselves floating in it. A few buzzed away to spread the news and soon a couple of them returned to scope out the unattended cup. Specs had discarded it in favor for the talk, eagerly looking forward to the ponies at the bar. The others around him at the tables gave a half hearted listen and continued with their cards in the back, shaking their heads and mumbling to themselves. Scootaloo locked eyes with her young partner and shared a brief smile.
"I had a cousin who helped work on the racing carts." The drunk stallion's friend piped up. "He went on and on about the racers and the sport. Like it's some grand ol' step for earth ponies." He rolled his eyes and took a swig off his friend's bottle.
"How the hell'd he figure that one out?"
Specs eagerly sat forward. "Because the biggest races are all ones sponsored by the Wonderbolts."
"-ragged group 'a rotten feathers they are-"
"All of the races and shows they put on are all about the flyers and the pegasi but the earth ponies didn't have anything until just now."
The old stallion rolled back in his chair, the only one with a sturdy back. He tapped his hooves on his round belly and pricked his ears. "Really now? That's interesting. Why don't you tell me how many earth ponies run in this bold new sport?"
"Pegasi can drive too."
"That's how I get around." Scoots buzzed her wings for them to see. "My scooter's out front."
"Yeah yeah," the drunk friend suddenly lifted his sorry head back up. "Wasn't it just today that some pegasus totaled his cart?" Heat flared around Scootaloo's chest. It thrust into her with almost enough force to knock her off her barstool. Color rushed to her hot cheeks and burned beneath the orange fur. Sweat broke across her brow, leaping from strand to strand of fur until plummeting to the floor. She shifted in her seat, squeezing out the water it soaked up and feeling it run down around her thighs.
Specs nodded. "Number 48, wasn't it?"
"I feel sorry for that poor sod."
"I feel sorry for all of the drivers."
The bottle Scootaloo had been nursing suddenly felt cold in her hoof, even though it hadn't been cold to begin with. She ducked her head low, depositing a few bits onto the counter. They slid out across, a few clattering to the floor on the other side. With a short breath, she chugged the last of her bottle and slipped toward the door. In the brief thirty seconds she had excused herself from the conversation, it had swelled into a heated debate over the number of the broken carts.
The bartender looked over from the pile of bits. "Leaving so soon, hon?"
Scoots paused and nodded, hiding under her mane. "Uh, yeah, Rainbo- Uh, m-my sister, needs me. Can't stay out too long." She gave a quick shrug and whipped around.
Specs already gave up in bringing the topic back around and was eyeing his drink with something of mild dismay. They shared a fleeting glance before she backed out the door and flew herself over the moldy, sunken railing.
