Introduction - Chance and Nice
Chance, a normal, loving, peaceful reporter sits down at his desk frantically pressing the keys of glory with his white, pasty fingers. Sweat slowly drips down his cheeks, while his blue eyes gaze at an unmoving screen. His right hand gently lifts from the keys to move a black mouse on its pad, which moves a black blinking cursor slowly across the screen, making its way to the end of the page before starting fresh, free, and white as can be.
Chance, a fearsome French warrior whose dashed personality raises hell through his computer, his brand spanking new camera, and his ID that dangles around his neck, does his job well. He would like to think that smashing those keys with the anger of a thousand pissed rhinoceroses would make his article look interesting, but knowing that the deadline for his next article was approaching did not make those sweaty palms move faster. All he needed was this night to remain calm. No distractions, no national weather emergencies, no sudden computer malfunctions; just him and his retro monitor that hummed every hour he used it.
Chance was twenty-five. He had been a reporter for his hometown for a short while. The staff knew him all by name, especially Nice, whose tom-boyish attitude sparked a flare of hope in his day. Yet, sometimes, that flare was entirely unnecessary. In fact, it happened to be all—
"Another late night with your computer, Chance?"
He sighed—by chance. "I hope you weren't expecting to sneak up on me doing something interesting, Nice."
The young woman, whose brown hair accompanied her blue eyes that glimmered in the night's white glow, poked her head around the cubicle's entrance and peered at her friend. "Typing isn't all that bad."
Chance, who was in mid-stroke of typing the word "pleasant", relinquished his keyboard and turned to Nice. Her clean young face was sporting a very arched eyebrow. "What?"
"If you're typing an interesting story, then the whole process of doing it isn't bad!" she exclaimed, smiling. The rest of her small frame appeared in front of Chance. "Come on, let's see it."
He frowned. Another night at the office. "All right, have a look."
She smiled and shoved him aside, which ultimately made him tense, violated, and mildly confused. He stared at her with the face of a child whose toy was tossed into the evil neighbor's yard. "How dare you shove—"
"Oh, get over it, Chance," she said while her eyes were glued to what he had typed. "You'll get over my shove tomorrow morning when we go to get some Denny's."
She was right. He would. He would forget her rude stunt and go back to typing. Was he accepting of it? No, but he was tolerating it. Maybe he had to start caring about her shoving him so she'd stop stalling him. He could be using his time more efficiently so he didn't have to stay in the hours of the night furiously bashing his keyboard to bits. Maybe—
Did she say Denny's?
His stomach, who was quiet for the entire time, roared mightily at the sound of the word "Denny's" being uttered at such a late time.
"Sounds like your stomach agrees."
"Shut up," Chance replied, sparking a giggle from Nice. While she read his "magnificent" article, Chance was leaning on the remaining spot by the computer, holding onto the side for dear life. His arm, still locked into the 'I thought I fell but I'm still up' position, was shaking from the shove. He sighed and carefully moved it. As he did, the jitters—his arm was being a spas—slowly subsided, leaving him with his normal arm once again. With a smile not on his face, he turned to Nice to see her eyes not on the screen. She had finished it already, and she was smiling at him. This wasn't a good sign.
"Chance, you said I wouldn't be interested." She rolled over to his side and nudged him lightly. "I didn't know you would lie to me like that!"
Chance smiled at her. "Lying can sometimes be my specialty, Nice. Speaking of, how was it not bad? I want to make it as dull as possible so that the readers don't stalk me on Twitter for more information."
She groaned. "You really think writing about a portal to a new dimension would get your readers bored?"
"Do people really buy into this sort of reporting?" he asked, head swimming at the thought he was doing the exact opposite of being an everyday reporter.
Nice facepalmed. "Did you really fail Human Communications 101?"
Chance nodded. "Had to take it twice."
"I wasn't asking for an answer!" she shouted, holding her hand closer to her face. Slowly, the small hand slid off her red face—probably red from dealing with Chance—while her right brow twitched in agony. "Look, you wrote something more than just interesting. This sounds one hundred percent legit!"
Chance let out a chuckle. "You'd think I'd lie to you, Nice?" he said as he stood up and carried his white mug to the break room.
Nice stood up and followed her friend. "You just told me it was one of your specialties," she answered calmly. "Unless you don't have a specialty that is truthful?"
He sighed. "Definitely not one you'd like to hear."
"What might that be, Chance? What is your specialty?"
He smiled and lifted his mug in front of her face. "Being a professional coffee drinker."
She chuckled. "A professional coffee drinker?" The two stopped in front of a coffee dispenser. "You know how ludicrous that talent sounds?"
Chance lowers the cup under the dispenser's nozzle. "At least it isn't as bad as the article I typed."
The coffee began to be reborn, splashing into the white mug of an anxious, tired, and beat-up reporter. His mug carried its sweet delectable liquid while the conversation between the two friends continued raging on into self-hate and lies.
"Chance, your article is awesome."
"No, it's absolute shit. If I turned it in with the quality I typed, I would be fired in an instant." He gazed at the mug. "Besides, who would read that garbage?"
Suddenly, the counter shook with the strength of an earthquake. Nice, who was farther from Chance just a second ago now stood closer to him, her breath tickling his nose hairs. "Not only did I read it, but I would go with you to see the portal." She stopped standing on her tip-toes, gazed at the coffee dispenser, and with a squeal before her remark, she screamed, "Is that decaf?!"
Chance sighed as the final few drops enter his mug. "No, it's regular. Decaf is too cheap for this office."
She sighed after hearing those comforting words fall from Chance's mouth. "Phew, you had me worried that you were an amateur coffee drinker."
Chance smirked as he lifted his cup from the dispenser and placed it on the counter. While carefully snapping the traveler's lid—the old lid was bent anyway—on top with a loud click, he asked freely, "So, why are you here?" He looked over at Nice. "You don't have any new stories you have to type up, since you told me you already turned yours in yesterday."
Nice gasped quietly. "I-I was curious to see where you were at!" Her hand slowly slipped from the counter. "And I wanted to know if we—"
"Nice," Chance said, cutting her off. "You know we split up months ago."
She cringed. "I'm sorry..." She looked down, while her hand gravitated to her hair, twiddling with each strand. "I just thought we could... be together again, just this once."
He sighed. That's what she always said. Just this once, Chance. Just this once. She always did this before she walked away into the night, hoping for another bite at another man. She didn't know what commitment meant if it bit her in the rear end, but Chance knew she was committed as a friend; the best friend he ever had. "I'm happy you'd like to try again for the third time. But I'll pass."
"C-Chance...." She watched as he moved past her, his mug clasped between his hands. "How about we just go as friends?"
Chance stopped, his head spinning from all those times she romanced him; the kisses, the hugs, the long hours sitting on their bed loving each other, before they slipped into not one, but three consecutive arguments that stabbed their relationship straight in the heart. Those arguments tainted his mind more than the loving moments.
He wished they never existed.
"Sure. We'll meet at Denny's at nine-thirty sharp." He turned around and headed to his left. "Don't be late, Nice."
Behind him, all he heard was squeals of happiness and joy.
Morning had arrived. It was late, like always. The sun hadn't been burning so hot lately, so the temperature had resisted breaking the 'oh shit, we need some A/C!' point and instead lay comfortably at a seasonal average stat of seventy degrees fahrenheit. As it had rose, so did Chance, who was, like usual, submerged in his covers, wishing that the sun was away while he gathered just a few more minutes of rest. Like usual, he slowly crawled out of the sheets—almost bumping his head on the frame in the process--and assuming an upright position to adjust his nightwear.
"Drool," he grumbled as he spotted the adversary's streak down the front of his shirt. He sighed, wiped his face clean of leftover slobber—if there was any—and slowly waddled into the bathroom, where he woke the angered french man within him.
"Merde, Chance. Un petit merdeux, es-toi!?"
He splashed some water on his face, soaking his skin. "Ugh, Nice would slap me if she heard that."
Another splash; it soaked his skin. "Yet again, she always keeps me in line."
With a towel, he wiped his face clean and without a moment to spare, he climbed into the shower and washed away the pains of yesterday.
Chance parked his car at the Denny's parking lot. It was pretty full, considering this was the only breakfast eatery in the entire town, but he hadn't expected it to be as full as it was. He had garnered one of the few spots remaining, which probably angered the family behind him, whose mini-van hummed when he turned off his four door sedan. Figures, he thought, as he opened up his car door. People didn't like his car nor his parking spot recognition. Oh well, they'll have to deal with it.
After looking both ways (he didn't want to get run over by the same angered mini-van driver), Chance crossed the lot of hell before landing on the safe sidewalk of the restaurant. He smiled, turned, and waited for—
"Chance!"
He sighed. "You always arrive earlier than me."
She came to his side, her head titled slightly to the left. "What do you mean? You said I shouldn't be late!"
"So you came early?"
She paused. Her finger slowly gravitated for her hair again, wrapping itself in a cocoon of her long hair. "I just... wanted to go in together. It just looks bad when you walk in alone..."
Chance looked at her eyes. He knew her reasoning. She wanted to be closer to him so she could feel like they were together for that time. It was her lure. It was her way of getting back together; she wanted him.
He didn't want her like that.
"You could've reserved a booth for us," Chance said, throwing another metaphorical dagger at Nice, who took it to her heart. He noticed her frown: one that she had worn when they were breaking up. For some reason, though, he did not feel her hurt. He felt nothing except his stomach growling, his mind asking the waiter that did not exist at that very moment what types of pancakes do they serve, and his heart was trying to calculate blood amounts without spilling it into the wrong tube.
It isn't to say that Chance didn't care that he had caused his best friend to be sad, though. So he did what he should do: wrapped his arm around her and gave her a noogie.
"H-Hey!" she hollered while trying to bat away Chance's arms. "Stop that!"
"Then stop being sad," Chance replied, pulling her close.
"Do I have a choice?" Nice asked, her frown beginning to come around.
Her question was answered by a noogie and a loud growling monster.
She smiled—just enough—and said, "Alright, Chance. Let's go inside. I can hear your stomach rumbling."
"My stomach isn't—"
The monster growled again.
"Sounds like Sovereign is more than ready," Nice said with a jab to Chance's side.
He growled. "Shut up and let's get inside." He walked towards the door. "My stomach is calling for a meeting with ten different varieties of pancakes and bacon."
"Is their ambassador going to visit you too?" Nice asked as she strolled up alongside Chance.
"Not if we keep stalling!" he replied while bursting through Denny's glass doors.
She laughed heartily as she joined him in finding a waiter to annoy. Together, the two were inseparable, undefeated in gaming—she owned the console, not him—and...
"WHAT?!"
...they were the most impatient human beings on the planet.
"What do you mean we have to wait for five minutes?!" Chance shouted.
The skinny, young waiter whose name tag was clearly upside down stood in front of them with a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. "Another family just took the last table. There should be a—"
"Chance, stop stressing out the kind waiter," Nice said, waving her finger in front of Chance's nose. Her finger poked him straight in the nostril, but she didn't jump back in disgust. No, she kept it there to see if he would move first.
"Nice, what are you doing?" he asked while looking at the finger wedged in his nostril.
"I'm 'fingering' you, Chance," she said with a giggle, which made Chance and the waiter's jaws drop. "Too much?"
"Scott, could you please notify the next guests their boooooth..."
The scene was perfect. Nice, who had kept her finger in Chance's nostril, stared at the new intruder with her eyes half-lidded, while the two boys, who were still awestruck from Nice's lewd behavior, stared into space. A few customers had been watching the scene. Some were disgusted by Nice's choice words and actions, but some were laughing in hysterics. One customer even was choking on his pancake while a much stronger man stood over him performing the heimlich maneuver. It was a great time.
"What is going on here!"
Except for the general manager, who stopped the fun right in its tracks.
Nice, not aware that she had her finger still lodged in Chance's nasal cavity, spoke her mind, "Fingering."
Aware that Nice just stated it bluntly, Chance, while pulling out the finger, said, "Pardon her, monsieur, she's just a bit overwhelmed."
The general manager's eyebrows formed into two parallel slants. "Scott, get these two their tables..."
"Oh thank you so much sir," Chance said happily. "I finally am able to quell this angered—"
"...and a fine."
"A fine?" Nice asked.
Scott nodded and proceeded to give them their table, which was in the farthest corner from the entrance. Once he gave them their table, Scott left with a polite greeting, their menus, and their little piece of paper: the fine.
Chance sat down, read the paper slip, and groaned. "Fifteen dollars for disturbing the peace."
Nice frowned and sat across from him. "I'm sorry..."
"I would say it's not your fault, but it clearly is," Chance said with a matching frown. "That doesn't mean I can't accept your apology."
Nice's frown slowly turned to a smile. "Thanks, Chance." She looked around to see some customers glaring at them, but they quickly hid behind their menus or turned back to their conversations. "Are people mad at me?"
Chance smiled. "If they are, let them."
There couldn't have been a better thing to say.
After their meal, the two left the establishment with full stomachs.
"That ambassador sure was tasty," Chance muttered to the air.
Nice giggled. "Did Sovereign like it too?"
Chance paused. "You're hooked on that Mass Effect game, aren't you?"
"Of course!" Nice replied giddily. "Who do you think I am?"
"A bad influence," Chance answered flatly.
Nice jabbed Chance in his side. "Look who's talking!"
The two laughed heartily as they returned to Chance's car. Nice smiled. "So, I want to go visit the portal. Mind taking me there?"
"And leave your car parked at Denny's?"
"Chance, I didn't take my car," Nice said, earning her a confused look (brow raised higher than he could normally raise it) from Chance. "I took the bus?"
"You took the bus?" Chance asked in mock surprise. He knew her car wasn't ready yet. It still needed new brake lines placed before it could even move out of her driveway. Yet she was mechanically inept, so her luck had to be placed within her friend Len, who owned his car repair shop downtown.
Nice grinned. "Yep! That means you have to drive me to the portal!"
Chance leaned on his car door. "How does that imply that I would take you there?"
"You wouldn't leave me alone... here... where I'll just make more lewd comments in your name an—"
"Alright, hop in," he said, unlocking the car with his keys. "Let's head to the facility."
All Chance heard was happiness and a pig squealing in the distance.
Chance and Nice stood quietly in front of a giant weathered building. It was close to the road they had traveled on, but unlike their town's pristine boardwalk and colorful buildings, the abandoned ones only saw glimpses of a passerby. Well, until today, that is.
"Hemming's Gate?" Nice asked. "What the hell type of name is that for a business?"
The big white letters told the tale of a business that once stood the test of time. "Hemming's Gate was an electric company, Nice."
"Electric?" She huffed. "Sounds more like a gate to hell."
Well the building certainly looks like hell, but Chance knew there was more to it than he thought. After investigating the property further, he found something stellar. At first he thought it was a malfunctioning piece of machinery the people who had owned the place left behind. But no, it was not someone else's problem, but rather a treasure.
And Chance couldn't wait to show her.
"Well, the gates of hell has your portal."
She arched an eyebrow at Chance. "This... hollow building has the portal in your article?"
"Yep," Chance began, his arm reaching out for the battered handle. He gripped it tightly and turned it as he spoke, "Found the portal after I investigated the area. Who knew that dysfunctional electrical equipment would be so interesting?"
As the doors swung open, old dust particles welcomed their lungs. The two humans coughed after inhaling such toxic fumes—sarcastically speaking—but Chance did not care. He hadn't died from the first trip here, so there was no need to worry. He sputtered one last time before grabbing Nice's hand and heading into the land of darkness.
Inside Hemming's Gate was a waiting room. There was a kiosk with papers thrown about. The old tile floor was dirty and moldy. Due to the lack of lights, it was hard to see. Thankfully it was still sunny out, or Chance would be tripping over every little thing. Specks of light pierced the canopy of soot and grime. Brown weathered desks accompanied old cabinets of paper and taxes (separate but equal in Chance's mind). He had seen the worst before, but Nice hasn't even touched a speck of the place. She's been marveling the fact that the place even exists.
"Why haven't I seen this place before?"
"Because you're too busy typing about hair salons and shopping malls to notice."
"Ha, very funny, Mr. Portal Guy."
Chance rolled his eyes. "You're the one who asked to see the portal."
She nodded. "I just never expected it to be here."
Chance nodded as he held his phone in one arm, and his other on the gritty railing. They were on the path to the portal, but the old stairwell that led directly to it had collapsed. The only other way down was the path Chance and Nice were taking. Chance was worried though, since this stairway was not in good shape either.
"Keep a good hold of the railing, Nice."
"Gotcha, mon ami!"
When Nice spoke French, her accent flirts with the students who just learned French. It is, as if, she was never even born in France.
"You keep sounding more American every day, Nice."
"And you keep delaying our portal adventure with your quips," she replies, frustrated with her friend's commentary.
He sighed and walked into the next corridor. "Sorry that this adventure is taking so long."
In the darkness lay a passage. It was not normal. It felt too futuristic for Chance's tastes, one that made his stomach squirm and his mouth feel clamped shut. He didn't want to say anything, nor did he want to move any farther. This door gave him trouble before, but that feeling now grew stronger with Nice by his side.
"Stay here for a spell."
His hand hesitantly rose to the button near the wall.
"I'm going down alone."
The words had left his mouth too quick for Nice to respond.
When Chance bashed the button, the ground beneath their feet shook. Nice had almost fallen to the ground, but thankfully Chance had the balance to keep both of them upright. While they struggled to stand tall, a passage in the far corner opened slowly. Chance knew what was below, but she didn't. So he sprinted to the passage and hopped down the hole.
"Chance!" Nice shouted as she scrambled to the hole. "Are you okay?"
"Just hold up, I'm fine!" Chance replied, coughing up dust of the yesteryear. Grumbling, he took his phone out and shined some light into the room.
"Now where is that switch...."
Theoretically, the power shouldn't be working. Chance knew that this whole side of town was removed from the grid years ago, but something in this building has given it the power of electricity. When Chance found out the lights were working, that was when he knew this place was something else. It was a story that he didn't even know about.
"Ah ha! There it is!"
Smashing the sneaky little white button on the wall, Chance watched as the whole room lit with happiness and glee. Tall monitors played old retro tunes, hanging light bulbs grew life of the light again, and the sounds of archaic technology struggling to start made Chance's heart pump rapidly. Even if there was life here, the room mirrored the rest of the facility's old, gruesome look. The place had been worn many times before. Dust and stale air float around aimlessly, but inside this room lays a generator, and a gigantic portal from the article.
"All right, hop down, I'll catch ya!"
Nice, who had watched the room light up, hopped down the hole and into the world of electricity.
"Whoa, it's light city in here!" Nice exclaimed. "Who would've thought this building had promise."
"Yeah, but the promise is right here: metallic and trans-dimensional," Chance replied, casting his hand out to present the fine-work of art.
"Whoa..." Nice murmured. And Whoa was the word indeed. The hunk of circular metal hummed to the sounds of life in the room. It beeped plenty of beeps both loud and soft. Some lights flickered on when a certain loud beep sounded, but the main attraction, a purple warped membrane in the center of the portal, was the most futuristic of the entire facility. But that's all that Chance knew. Now Nice is up to par with him.
"Do you even know where this leads to?"
Chance shook his head. "Not at all."
Nice walked up to it and touched the side of the portal. It was very cold to the touch. As a result, she pulled her hand back and winced. "That fucker is cold!"
"Your fault, yet again," Chance answered. He received another punch in the arm from Nice. "Abusive."
"Wimp," Nice replied. She giggled to Chance's eye roll. "So, are we going in?"
"And risking our livelihood?" Chance asked.
Nice wrapped her arm around Chance's back. "Exactly! You and I both know that our lives are a bit more boring than usual, and this could be our ticket to a whole new world! What could happen?"
Chance thought about it for a whole three seconds before responding, "We become slaves, we become prostitutes, we die, or worse, we do all three of those in order."
Nice frowned. "You're not advertising this right..."
"Was I advertising this?"
Nice nodded. "Putting that article in the newspaper is advertising the portal, Chance."
It was Chance's turn to frown. It was just his treasure before the article, but once corporate gets their meaty little hands on the article he half-finished, they'll either toss it or print it. And it'll become the advertisement of the town.
"This is our only opportunity to do something different, Chance! Please?" Nice asked.
Chance watched as Nice turned on her 'puppy eyes act' right before him. He never seen her beg before. Actually, that is a lie, he's seen her beg multiple times. Usually it was for her own agenda, which he usually had no time for, but sometimes he went with her to wherever she wanted to go. It was either for shopping (protection from creeps), tanning (fear of dying in a tanning bed), or going to the beach (buff guys and sand kickers). Unlike those events, Nice didn't use the puppy eyes act. So why now?
He gazed at the portal. The portal was blinking and warping the fabric of time right in front of them, and they hadn't even touched another button since Chance pushed the white button. This whole paradise was up for grabs, and they were the first to find it. Chance laughed at the thought of being the first.
Finder's keepers, losers weepers.
It was the trademarked phrase of a lifetime, and it applied so well to this situation.
He sighed. Maybe this was their only opportunity. But what if something goes wrong?
Chance spared a glance at his begging friend. She's all he really has at the moment, save for his family and his other friends. He really enjoys their company, but Nice has been stuck to him like glue ever since they met in high school. She wore her nerdy glasses while he wore his Michael Jordan Bulls jersey. They both became outcasts and best friends as a result.
Chance grabbed Chance's left hand and pulled her up. "Stop kneeling when you beg, it looks demeaning."
Nice frowned. "I'm sorr—"
"No you're not," Chance fired back. "You say that and then resort to begging every time. You've been the same since high school."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Nice asked.
In one, swift movement, Chance grabbed his friend by the shoulders and brought her close. He hugged her tightly and sobbed into her shoulders. The pain that he felt in school with this woman—their backs stung with each hit sometimes—he would go to the ends of the Earth to find her again if he could.
She was his best friend, after all.
"Chance, why—" she began, while patting his back.
"If we do this, you better not die on me," Chance said in-between sobs. "Best friends don't die on best friends."
Nice giggled and returned his hug. "Chance, I have no plans on dying. All I have is plans on being the best friend I can be."
In the midst of sadness, Chance wore a proud smile. He pulled back from his vice-grip, wiped his tears from his face, and kept that precious smile on for his best friend. He had made his decision.
"Let's go."
"Really?"
Chance nodded.
"No turning back? No yelling, no nothing?"
"You got me to fucking ball my eyes out, Nice."
Nice brought a finger to her chin, pondering over the moments before. Then, she nodded. "I guess that counts."
Turning to face the portal, the two humans held hands for what they believe may be their last time together on Earth. Then, as the portal's warped purple membrane shatters the fabric of time, the two run towards the time warp.
And just like that, the two humans disappeared from Earth, never to be seen again.
Introduction - Spitfire and Soarin
Flying, sweat, panting, and tattered uniforms: the ingredients Spitfire knew were of a well-made and trained group of flyers. Her flyers, the Wonderbolts, were of pristine measure. They could do several Buccaneer Blazes without spinning out of control and careening straight for the ground in a fiery mess of feathers and broken bones. Her team could work together to make the most basic moves look like the most complicated pieces to a puzzle. She knew they were great.
"Spitfire, how are you not tired?"
And so was she.
She smiled at her second in command, whose dark blue mane looked like a mop's wet end. "Soarin, I've been through this course too many times to be tired," she said, her wings jutting from her tattered uniform. "Doesn't mean I didn't break a sweat though."
She watched as Soarin approached her, his eyes roving towards her chest. He smelled like death, she thought, which, in her mind, was worse than going through the Wonderbolt Academy's Training Camp again. Her eyes felt like they were on fire, her nose was to the point of being numb, and her eyebrows felt like they burned off into the wind. She needed some air freshener on this stallion, and stat.
"Soarin, take a shower. You smell like a cadet who forgot his magic freshener." Should probably have told him to use extra soap...
Soarin raised a brow. "You know I just took a shower, right?"
She gasped. "So that means..."
"You smell like death!" Soarin shouted and flipped on his back. The stallion laughed loudly, drawing the attention of the others who were having a pleasant conversation about stunts and why having stunt doubles would be overrated. Spitfire frowned as she brought her nose to her right leg's pit. She sniffed and—
"Holy--" Spitfire was interrupted by the sudden urge to gag. "I do smell like death!"
Spitfire wasn't joking either. She had never broken this much of a sweat before. Back in the days of cadethood, she had flown to the point of passing out. In those days, Soarin had commented that she smelled like death, but that was because of hardwork, agonizing exercises, and hours upon hours of stretching and wing-ups. Today, however, was different. She had worked hard, but not as hard as her younger self. She exercised, surely, but it wasn't strenuous. She did stretch today too, but not as much as she usually does.
So why does she smell so bad?
Soarin's laughing began to subside as she looked at him with disdain. "Soarin... did you do something to me?"
Soarin shook his head. "No, Spitfire. I didn't do that at all!"
Spitfire came closer to his face, which began to ooze with sweat that dripped from his already wet mane. "What do you mean by 'that'?"
"U-Umm. Nothing, ma'am!" Soarin replied through clenched teeth and eyes that screamed 'I definitely did something to you'.
She sighed. "Meet me in the cafeteria, all right? We've gotta talk about what you did."
"But I did'n—"
She shoved a hoof into his mouth. "This has you labeled all over it, Soarin." She smirked. "I can see it in your eyes."
He pulled her hoof away from his mouth and frowned. "All right, I'll meet you down there."
She smiled. "Good." Before she turned away, she flicked her sweaty tail at his muzzle. "I can't wait to hear about this story."
A smile wormed onto his face. He couldn't wait either. With some lift in his step, the stallion walked down the hall, heading straight for the cafeteria.
"So, why did you what you did to me, Soarin?"
Soarin twiddled his hooves. "I thought you would've asked what I did to you first..."
"I smell bad, Soarin. I know what you did to me. I just want to know why," Spitfire explained.
She simrked as she saw his face turn red. "It was for a bet, Spitfire..."
"A bet?" She looked around to make sure it was just the two of them. Lucky for her, the cafeteria was empty. It was just the two of them sitting there at a blue table.
"Yeah, a bet..." He began, his forehooves clip-clopping together. "The bet was made due to the team thinking I wasn't doing my job as your second in command. I told them I was doing fine, but they said it was not good enough. So, I gave into their bet."
She gawked at Soarin. "Why..."
"Why would I agree with them?" Soarin asked.
She heard the depressed state of his voice. It was low and lost, begging for some pony to come and save it. She heard this once before, when Soarin came to her room in despair the night she had broken her wings. He was upset, knowing that he had to take her place. He didn't like that at all.
In fact, she knew what he did like. He liked her. She knew it in the bottom of her heart. Whenever they raced, the two of them would be so happy. She would see him glancing at her with his dumb ol' smile plastered on his face. At lunch, he would only smile when she was talking to her, but with his friends, he was slightly different. The smile felt fake.
She also knew that they could never date. Something about a relationship would spoil their team chemistry or what not (at least, Spitfire knew this from the CEO, who actually owned the team). The boss wanted to avoid this entire relationship among members so that the media didn't destroy their personal lives. As of right now, the CEO already had enough problems with the Media. She didn't want anymore additional issues to deal with.
So Spitfire and Soarin never dated. Soarin has asked and she had to decline. She couldn't. She just couldn't. There's too much at stake.
No, there isn't, I'm just being a Captain, not Spitfire.
Somewhere deep inside her cried out in response. "Yes, how could you?"
The sudden angered flair threw Soarin out of the loop, or so she thought, as she saw his eyebrow raise just slightly. "Because you never make jokes like we used to when we first met." Spitfire was about to retort, but he had shut her mouth with his hoof. "No, let me say what I need to say."
She wanted to get angry at him. She wanted to, but she couldn't. So she nodded and let him to the talking.
He smiled at her. "Thank you, Spitfire." He cleared his throat. "You don't smile like you used to. It's as fake as that mask you put on whenever you're practicing a new move or routine. You're like a whole 'nother pony out there commanding us. Surely we're being led rightly, but it's never anything different."
Spitfire frowned. "What do you mean by it being different?"
Soarin got up, slammed his hoof on the table, and glared at her with a burning gaze. "Drills, Spitfire! All you think is drills, drills, and more drills before stumbling off to the bars to get a drink!"
Spitfire got up and slammed her hoof next to his, her glare attempting to match his. "That isn't true Soarin and you know it! I—"
He sighed. "No, it is. I wanted something to change: this pattern of being drilled to death and not being able to hang out with my best friend properly!"
Hang out with my best friend properly!
The thought echoed in her mind, shattering all of what she wanted to say to him. She sat down and buried her face in her hooves. "Then what do you want me to do, Soarin? I'm doing my best to keep this team in top shape for the Prelims in the Crystal Empire for the Equestria Games! All I'm getting is flack from the boss to get everypony ready and—"
Spitfire stopped as she felt his hoof slowly glide over her mane. She looked up and him and saw him gently smiling. "Then enjoy a good prank or two. Heck, maybe even do something else other than planning our next drill set." He picked himself up and sat by her side. "Besides, you and I could go do something for old times sake."
"What do you have in mind, Soarin?"
His face fell. "Wanna go to the movies? I remember you liked going there after school."
Is he asking me out on a date? "You mean the one in Cloudsdale?"
Soarin grinned. "Yep! We went there bunch of times to see the new releases our friends were raving about. Why not go there again?"
Spitfire nudged him as she spoke, "Because you hated Cloudsdale's theater, remember?"
He laughed. "I didn't hate it, I downright despised it for not having what I liked."
"Pie?" Spitfire asked, tilting her head slightly to the right.
"No," he said while looping his forehoof around Spitfire's neck. "Cold Non-Alcoholic Cider."
She giggled. She remembered it now. He hated those theaters for not carrying his drink he had seen in the other theaters. He even cursed out the manager, who was blushing ten fold and stuttering when she tried to respond to him. Spitfire couldn't stop his rampage either as he stormed out with his wings as rigid as ever. Poor ponies got the wrong idea when she came after him, asking for him to stop.
It was embarrassing for the both of them.
"Didn't you shove the greeter on the ground for asking if you had a good time?" Spitfire asked.
Soarin laughed heartily. "Yes! That poor colt's face when I slapped him upside the head with my wing before throwing him to the ground!" He pulled Spitfire closer. "He couldn't keep himself contained!"
She smiled. "Then I guess we'll have to go there again."
He stopped his laughing—rather abruptly—and turned towards Spitfire. "You're serious?"
Spitfire nodded. "Yes, I'll go to the movies with you."
Suddenly, her heart began to soar as she saw him get up, prance around in a circle before hoof-kicking in the air while screaming, "Yes!" as excited as a colt going on his first date—
Date?!
She tried to sigh, but her heart wouldn't let her. She wanted something like this for so long. Going as friends would be difficult though while sitting next to him.
Only as friends, Spitfire...
She tried to calm herself down. She tried. That goofy smile didn't keep her calm, but more so anxious for the movie.
Maybe we could hold hoov—
"Spitfire?"
Soarin's voice knocked Spitfire out of her stupor. "Yes?"
Pawing the ground, her best friend said, "I'm sorry for putting a skunk in the shower's water supply, I—"
"Wait, you WHAT?"
It had happened so quick that evening.
Spitfire, who was racing against the clock to get herself ready for the movies, had restyled her mane—she wore it like this when she was younger with her hair short and laying towards the sides—put one of her great, Fireside pins—Fireside was her favorite restaurant—and matched it all together with a clean, more fresh Spitfire that didn't smell like a skunk's rear end. All in all, she had to make sure the bangs in the front did not go over her eye. That was why she was running late: bang problems.
"Come on, move to the left!" she said, her hoof trying to angle the hair just right.
While she was fiddling with her bangs, a certain someone called her name, which made her freeze in mid-swipe. "S-Soarin?"
A gallop to the door later, she opened it up to peak out. Standing outside was Soarin, whose normally crazy swept back mane was easy to spot. It still was an easy target, but he had used some moose to keep it under control, which was something she never had seen since—
We went to the movies last...
"Hey, Spitfire." He flashed her a smile. "Mind if I come in for a bit?"
She shook her head and opened the door for her friend. "No, not at all."
Slowly but surely the stallion had walked in. He turned and gawked at Spitfire's get-up.
That was not the reaction I was thinking of!
She began to be more nervous as he eyed her up and down.
Does he like it?
"I like..." He tilted his head."...your mane?"
Spitfire's eyes fluttered shut. Why did that sound so awkward? "Thanks," she muttered.
He sighed. "Look, I'm just a bit nervous too. So..." He looked at his hooves. "If I sound awkward, it means my anxiety hit the roof."
Spitfire opened her eyes, approached his side, and gently nuzzled his cheek. "It's okay, Soarin." You're not the only one who's nervous.
He blushed while nuzzling her back. "S-So, shall we?"
She flashed him a grin. "Well, what are we seeing, Soarin?"
"Oh... That's a surprise."
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME, SOARIN?"
The two friends stood in line behind several other customers who were eager to see the brand new movie called Orion - The Last Stand. Spitfire was eager to see the conclusion to the series of this action thriller, but her team had been having so many drills. And it was all thanks to her. She frowned at the thought of torturing her teammates with drills, but it was what she had to do. Even if that meant killing her time to see the Orion series. I'm so glad Soarin took me out tonight...
Spitfire looked at Soarin, who was shaking slightly. She sighed and nuzzled him. His anxiety must really be going through the roof. "Are you all right, Soarin?"
Soarin slowly shook his head. "Flashing lights always scared me as a colt."
Spitfire wrapped her wing around him. "You got me, then." She looked on at the blue interior of the place. "I haven't been to the movies in a long time."
He flashed her a smile as he spoke, "They changed the interior to this place. It was once pure gold, remember?"
She nodded. "Yeah, except it looked like puke because of the paint's discoloring right?"
He chuckled and nuzzled her back. "Yep! Vomit and all."
She giggled and took another step forward. "Think we're going to ever get in?"
"I hope so, otherwise we'll have to go back to my place to watch a different movie."
That does sound nice. Being snuggled up next to him while we—
Her eyes widened.
Calm yourself, Spitfire! Look, all you need to do is keep yourself calm. You have two and a half hours with this...
She looked at him. His smile, his eyes, his wings... She'd better stop looking at him like this if she wanted her heart to stop beating so fast.
I'm going to have a heart attack at this rate.
She looked at the ticket master. Her heart began to slow. The pony was short, stocky, and looked like he needed a doctor. Scars covered his face, some more large than others. With a somewhat tired smile, he said, "Movie?"
The two ponies in front of Spitfire and Soarin smiled at the ticket master. "Two for Orion, please," the tall stallion said.
The ticket master sighed. "Sorry, looks like we're sold out."
The brown-maned mare growled. "But we've been waiting here for an hour!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but the second theater is also full. We don't have any extra spots open at the moment."
"Okay, fine," he grumbled, putting his white wing around his mare. "Come on, Stella, let's go home."
Soarin looked at Spitfire. "Guess we're going to have to head out too," he said. "Unless you want to see a different movie?"
Spitfire frowned. "I don't know what else is playing."
He smiled. "We can always go back home an—"
"Next!"
"Soarin, let's go," she whispered. The two exited the line and together, they walked away from the theater with heavy hearts and expectations crushed.
Soarin sighed. "Guess we'll head to my place..." He turned to Spitfire. "Unless you have any other ideas?"
For once, Spitfire shook her head. She was always the one to figure out the next move, the next turn, the next awesome stunt, but tonight, Soarin was her Captain.
And she didn't mind it one bit.
"Then let's go!"
Together, the two flyers flew home.
Nestled on the couch were two best friends. They were both in love with each other, but the team that they both fell for restricted their relationship to "friends". They would've tagged the "with benefits" on there, but neither of them didn't want to soil what they already had.
In front of them the screen was playing the Orion series. It was a very popular movie series about two stallions who adventured across Equestria in search of the Orion, a specific gem that had the power to turn Equestria into a giant crater. They didn't want the world to end due to a gem, so their job was to find it before the snake called Dystal had a chance to snatch it.
The finale was the fourth in the series. Right now, Spitfire and Soarin were watching the third one.
"Watch out for the boulders, Blade!"
A boulder collided with the ground behind Blade. "Thanks for the obvious warning, Storm!"
The pegasus snickered at his dear friend's quip. "When we're out of here, you and I are going for a drink—"
"Shut up and keep runnin'!" Blade shouted. He carefully charged a spell from his horn. "I'm going to zap a few of them to make sure we don't get crushed!"
"Can't you use your magic to teleport us out?" Storm asked as he dodged another boulder.
"Do I look like a master of magic to you?" Blade replied as his magic shattered a boulder that was whirling towards them.
The avalanche of boulders behind them was happening due to them stealing from the Crypt of Mysis. She was a god of another generation, one that the two stallions had uncovered in the second movie.
As the two heroes drew to the end of the cave they were in, a loud knocking noise omitted from the front door of Soarin's place.
Soarin looked at Spitfire and said, "I'll get it."
Spitfire nodded and scooted over to allow her friend to exit the couch. He slowly slid out from underneath her and walked over to the door. Carefully, he opened up the door and gasped at the mare in front of him.
"Fleetfoot, what are you doing here?" He looked up and down her form. "And why the hell do you look like you went to the Fight Club?"
Fleetfoot growled at him. "No one talks about Fight Club, dumbass! And it's because I had to fly all the way from Boozetown to tell you what was going on."
"What is all the ruckus, Soari—" Spitfire asked as she rubbed her eyes. But once she stopped rubbing them, she gasped at the sight of Fleetfoot. "Fleetfoot?!"
"Great, two birds with one stone," Fleetfoot replied, before saying, "Soarin', Spitfire, I got you some news from the Academy."
"Is it bad?" Soarin asked, eyebrow raised. "Knowing you, it probably was bad."
Fleetfoot shot Soarin a nasty glare. "What is that supposed—no, I don't even want to know. Look, there's something at the Academy and—"
"Define the something, Fleetfoot," Spitfire demanded.
"That's the thing, Captain. They don't know what they are," Fleetfoot said with agitation. "The Academy has been put on lockdown, and HQ has told everyone to report back and stay in their dorms until further notice."
"They?" Soarin asked.
Fleetfoot turned her head to Soarin. "According to the report, there was two of these tall bi-pedal things."
"What report?" Spitfire asked.
Fleetfoot smirked. "I was waiting for you to ask that." Fleetfoot gave Spitfire the report. "Take it, I don't need it anymore."
The paper, though folded in fours and somewhat stained from forsaken drink, was easy to snap open with her hoof. She swiftly swiped the four squared report, opened it, and with speed, she read the blasted text. Why are the words so small!? Groaning at the sight of the word "alien", she turned to Fleetfoot and said, "Leave it to Soarin and I."
"Is it that serious?" Soarin asked.
Spitfire nonchalantly waved her fore hoof. "Ha, it's probably just a few cadets seeing things. You know how the stress gets to them after a few days." She turned to Fleetfoot. "Thanks for the report, Fleet. Return to HQ," she added.
With a nod, Fleetfoot spread her wings wide and took off.
"Never seen a mare like her take off that quick," Soarin said mindlessly.
"When she needs to go, she goes," Spitfire said, giggling. "Look, let's get going ourselves, we have to calm these cadets down before they start reporting it to the news."
Soarin smiled. "Right behind you."
Spitfire returned the gesture. "You would like to be behind me."
Soarin grinned. "Best view in all of Equestria," he said before galloping after Spitfire.
