Sensation - Fire Streak

Chapters

Spark
Flare
Blaze

Spark

It was supposed to be my day.

At first, everything was perfect. The guys and I were in the Wonderbolts locker room in Fillydelphia's biggest stadium. It reeked. It always reeked, no matter how much they tried to clean it. It smelled like blood and sweat and everything that went into a great show. I ate it up.

Not… literally ate it, just… Shit. Lemme start over.

The Wonderbolts' stallion squad mumbled and laughed anxiously behind me, pacing around and doing whatever they could to calm themselves. They were nervous. I was nervous. It was my first show as lead flier, and with the recent shake-up on the roster, everypony had been on edge for days. The whole team felt like it would shake itself apart.

But I couldn't let that happen. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let Soarin's words echo in my head. 'The team needs focus. They need a leader that'll get them back on course, somepony they can respect that's going to give them support when they blow it, like you did with Cloudhoof last Saturday. I can't. Right now, it's on you.'

He'd been right. The team had needed me. They'd needed every bit of me, until I'd felt like there was nothing left to give. We'd trained all week to master new stunts and perfect our formations. We worked ourselves to the bone, and I'd been there every step of the way, doing everything from managing extra practices to being an arbiter when tempers inevitably flared. We'd poured everything into our practices, and we knew what was on the line. This show would make or break the team, and even more than that, it would make or break my reputation as a leader.

But I was going to be perfect. I was doing it for them. I was doing it for Soarin'. And I was doing it for me.

This was it. Friday night. Locker room. The air buzzed with that electricity you can always feel when the crowd is out there, cheering at the warm-up act. Their hearts beat fast, but yours beats a million times faster, because you know one thing: all eyes are gonna be on you. I stared at myself in the full-length mirror, blue spandex clinging to my body. It was a brand-new flight suit, and even if it looked the same as everypony else's, it was different.

Why?

Because it was made especially for Number One.

I locked eyes with myself in the mirror. My piercing, sky-blue eyes. My cream-colored fur barely showed through the flight suit, which flaunted every tight muscle of my streamlined body. My giant, billowy orange mane with the cream-colored streaks had been gelled back to minimize wind resistance, and my long tail thrashed behind me.

My breaths were shallow. My eyes were narrow. I looked at the pony in the mirror and said in a low voice, "This is it, Streak. It's all you." I pointed a hoof at my reflection. "These stallions? They're your stallions. Every mistake is on you. It's all on you. Soarin' isn't here anymore."

Almost nopony knew what had happened. Nopony outside the Wonderbolts, anyway. The official story, the one we'd sent to the media earlier that week, was that Soarin' had the feather flu. We'd been under strict orders to keep the real story to ourselves: Soarin' had been off his game for weeks, and our manager Bottom Line had finally cut him from the roster. He hadn't been fired, no, but we knew what it meant. We all knew: he might never make it back onto the team.

Soarin' had been completely blindsided, and it had showed. He'd looked sick walking out of Bottom Line's office that day, sick enough that I started flying after him until Spitfire caught up with me. She'd just said, in her usual, raspy voice, "Congratulations, Fire Streak. Your week just got a hell of a lot busier."

I didn't even ask what she meant. I tried to push past her to go after Soarin', to make sure he was okay, but Spitfire stopped me. I argued with her about how he was my best friend, how he needed somepony to be there for him, but she forbade me from going. Captain's orders. Of course, she knew what I didn't: that I'd been selected as Soarin's replacement. Soarin' was… explosive in those days, and she didn't want to risk him going off on me.

Spitfire didn't explain anything else before flying off to make sure Soarin' didn't… I don't know, off himself or something. Instead, she sent me to Bottom Line's office, where, in the span of a few seconds, I experienced both the sheer levity of complete exhilaration and the utter gravity of absolute guilt.

Soarin' came back the next day, after he'd calmed down a little. I don't know what had changed, but he was more focused. Knew what he had to do, I guess. Over lunch that day, before he left, he told us he was going to chase some tail out in the middle of nowhere. Well, no, that's not fair, I guess. It was more than just a lay. This Braeburn guy had really gotten to him. It made sense later, of course. Soarin' was head-over-hooves for him that first day he came back, and I don't think I've ever seen anypony convince Bottom Line to reverse a decision before.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

On Friday night, all that mattered was that Soarin' was out of the picture. It hurt to know my best buddy wouldn't be there to see my big break, but I knew he'd be proud. In the four days since he'd left, I'd taken the reins. I'd seen the squad through the initial shock of Soarin' being cut, and together with Spitfire, I'd gotten the team back on track. This squad belonged to me.

The New Number One.

I nodded at myself in the mirror, staring myself down and daring myself to flinch. But I wouldn't. I wasn't going to go crazy and act all goofy in front of the others like Soarin' always did before the big shows. No, I had to make my own way. I straightened up and loudly cleared my throat, and the locker room behind me went quiet. I pivoted slowly, methodically. Soarin' was always brash. I was going to be reserved. Direct. I took a deep breath of that salty, stale air and shouted, "Stallion squad! Assemble!"

They snapped to attention and lined up right in front of me: Wave Chill, Silver Lining, Stormfeather, Blaze, and Windskipper. My team. I liked it. I loved it. My whole body tingled, and I fought to keep the smile on my face to a confident smirk. Slowly, I turned my head left and right, surveying them. They were in perfect formation.

I nodded. "It's been a rough week, Wonderbolts. The hierarchy's shifted. A lot has changed. Life's uneasy, and it's a tough reminder that any one of us could be cut at any time."

They stayed still, but I saw a few eyes shift, especially Windskipper's. He'd been called up from the reserves to take my spot when I'd cycled up to lead flier. This was his first big show, too, and the little twitches made it obvious what was on his mind. That's all it takes, really – we're trained to be still, but you can always tell when somepony's starting to freak out. 'Good,' I thought. 'He should be nervous.'

I flared out my wings and stomped a hoof. "But that's why we're the Celestia-damned Wonderbolts! This is not the worst our organization has suffered, not even the worst this squad has suffered. Yes, we're all on edge," I shouted, pointing a hoof out the door, "...but that audience paid good bits for a show, and shake-up or no, we're going to give it to them. Isn't that right?"

"Sir yes sir!" It was weak. Weaker than it had always been with Soarin'.

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that all you've got? Try again!"

The puffed out their chests a little more. "SIR YES SIR!"

I smiled. "There we go!" Snorting once, I slowly turned my head left and right, making eye contact with each of them. "Now, I don't have to tell you how big this show is for me, but it's big for you, too. Tonight's the night we show them. We show them all what we're made of, and we show them that the Wonderbolts are stronger than any individual member. We're a team, and tonight, we're gonna be perfect. Do I make myself clear!"

All together, they drew in a sharp breath. Their blood surged through their veins. Their wings itched. They were ready. "SIR YES SIR!"

I knew what they were feeling, and seeing them all ready to go made my adrenaline spike a hundredfold. It took all my focus to keep my voice from cracking. "Stallion squad, salute!"

Five stallions stomped in unison. Five hooves snapped up to meet five foreheads.

"Stallion squad, scramble!"

Wings beat. Little flecks of dust kicked up in the room, and you would have thought a tornado was about to tear the place apart. They felt it. I felt it. I crouched down, and they crouched with me in perfect formation. I slid my brand-new goggles over my eyes, and they did the same. The Wonderbolts. My Wonderbolts.

I leapt into the air, giving them one last glance. "Let's do this!"

"SIR YES SIR!!!"

And as Celestia as my witness, we did it.

I can remember the way my heart beat. It was loud, and I could feel the blood pulse all over my body. It throbbed from my hooves to the tips of my ears, and it only got stronger as the announcer boomed over the speakers in a rich, full voice, calling out each Wonderbolt in turn. "…the newest stallion on the team! Give it up for Windskipper!"

I was on a platform backstage, high up in the light fixtures, hidden behind a large curtain. I got to enter in on center stage. It was my night, and at that moment, the reality of it all finally hit me. I was dizzy, and I thought I would puke. But I steeled myself. Terrifying as it was, it was everything I'd always dreamed of, and I was going to make it perfect.

"…the stallion that's cool as ice and fast as a comet, Wave Chill!"

The crowd lost it again, cheering for Wave Chill as he made his entrance from over the rim of the open-air stadium.

My heart stopped. Wave Chill was the last one before me. It was time.

"…and leading the charge for the stallion squad! The Fiery Comet! The Flare in the Sky! The Brave, the Handsome, the one and only…"

Crouched down, I laughed and shook my head. 'Jeez, get on with it!'

"…give it up for Fire Streeeeeeak!"

One thought. 'Go!'

My body knew what to do. The curtains parted, and like a cannonball, I launched forward, wild and direct and surrounded by the large boom of fireworks set up just for me. The edges of my vision shone like I was in the middle of a solar flare. I didn't breathe. I didn't need to. I was there. I was performing. I was leading the Wonderbolts.

And the crowd loved it!

The roar was deafening, and those faces… I can remember every single one, from the pudgy filly in the front row to the disheveled adolescent colts in the cheap seats to my parents in the skybox. My mom was crying with her eyes open. My dad's mouth was gaping open in the widest smile I'd ever seen, and his forehooves and face were pressed up against the glass, trying to get just a little closer.

I didn't let them down. My wings buzzed, and as I dove down and arced back up just before I hit the crowd, I activated the contrail pack by clicking my rear hooves together. A fine mist that smelled like vodka trailed behind me, but I barely noticed. I barely noticed anything at all. I didn't need to flap my wings – the cheers of the crowd lifted me up, stronger than the winds of the skies or the gravity that tried to drag me down. I didn't need to think. Everything was natural, I arced forward and upward, and every cheer and scream of my name rang in my ears, drowning out the hissing of my contrail pack behind me.

I smirked to myself as the scene in front of my eyes went orange. The technicians had lit my contrail as I crested above the upper level of the stadium, and a hot whoosh flared up behind me. The audience gasped, as if all the air was escaping, burned up in the fire that propelled me higher. It only lasted a moment, but it might as well have lasted a lifetime.

I was more than a Wonderbolt that night. I was awe. I was spectacle. I was the burning inside your heart that pushes you harder than you ever thought possible. I was fire. Fire incarnate. I'd made them feel so alive, and the show had only just begun.

In a weird way, the show was the easy part. I wasn't even really the leader once the lights and the eyes were on us. Sure, I'd drilled the routine and the attitude into them all week (once Soarin' and Spitfire had drilled the right attitude into me), but once the curtain came up, it was out of my hooves. We didn't need somepony shouting orders or critiquing our flying. We were professionals, and despite all the fears about what the hell Soarin' was doing or who might be cut next, we trusted each other.

I don't even remember the show as a complete whole. It was more like a series of moments: adjust a wing slightly here, pull up there, down a flask of water backstage between sets…

And the faces. Bro, I can't begin to tell you about the faces. I think that's what I remember the most. Just lit up, every single one of them, burning with excitement as we perfectly laced the stallion and mare squads together mere inches from the stage floor.

And then it was time for the big finale.

Fire Streak and Spitfire. The two lead fliers, pulling off the most dangerous stunts. Together. Aerial twists, near-misses, cheers, roars, and finally, the big one: the Pyre Spiral.

The rest of the 'Bolts flew in a perfect, clockwise ring just a few meters above the audience. The air began to churn, and suddenly, two spotlights flared to life: one pointed at the back of the stadium along the rim, and the other towards the front. Towards me.

Spitfire dove from her spot, and I matched her from mine. The wind tore at my face as I pushed myself to fly faster, even as every muscle in my body screamed for relief. We both dove under the ring of Wonderbolts and arced up and forward at the same time, jerking our wings back and heading straight for each other, closer and closer and closer, until I could count her eyelashes. The audience gasped and readied themselves for the crunch of broken bones, but just as they flinched, I saw Spitfire's wing rotate back at exactly the same time as mine.

There was no distance between us. We locked forelegs, and yes, at those speeds, it was absolute suicide. We didn't care. We each clicked our back hooves together again, and the contrails hissed out of our suits: an orange cloud behind me and a yellow cloud behind her. Our wings beat perfectly in time, and we each tried to fly up and a little to our left, causing us to spiral directly upwards. Above all the noise and the whooshing air, I could hear her breathing and feel her raging heartbeat, and the G-forces threatened to tear our forelegs off.

But we rose, higher and higher, until we'd cleared the top of the stadium. At just the right moment, we let go, and the real trick began. I flew just a little higher while Spitfire veered to the side. Suddenly, I jack-knifed back, then zig-zagged four times in a wide arc, the contrail still leaking behind me. I flew towards the center, then made a wide semi-circle and missed Spitfire by just a hair when she dashed below me.

I took as deep a breath as I could. 'And now the hard part.'

The lights in the stadium cut out all at once. The audience screamed, and the technicians lit the bottom of the contrails on fire. A great light engulfed the stadium below us, and I flew faster, repeating a reflection of the same pattern on the other side. The yellow and orange fire raged upwards, closer and closer and closing in on the still-active contrail pack on my hooves. I didn't think about what would happen if I couldn't pull it off.

My wing cramped, but I gritted my teeth and flew through it. Another wide-arced zig-zag. The fire was getting closer. Closer. 'I'm not going to make it,' I thought, pushing myself harder. The fire, like a spike of heat and rage, grew larger and raced upwards toward us. I held my breath, closed my eyes, and prepared for the worst…

Art by AkatsukiBritt

…but it was perfect. I opened my eyes as the fire licked at my hooves and the contrail pack was exhausted. In the flash of light, I saw Spitfire dive out the opposite side of the cloud of gas as it was all consumed. There it was: the Wonderbolts logo, a yellow lightning bolt with orange wings supplied by yours truly, blazing in the sky. It lit up the entire stadium, and a wave of heat crashed onto my back as the audience cheered louder than I'd ever heard them before. We'd done it!

Tiny lanterns guided us down to the stage, and when I landed, I thought my legs would give out. I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering, and even though I was drenched in sweat, I wanted to start the show all over again. I couldn't see a thing, but the stage managers got us off stage and to the back hallways without too much trouble. I was one of the last ones out.

How can I describe what it felt like, walking backstage? I guess I'd just have to go with, "everything." It was light and heavy at the same time: my whole body burned with excitement and joy and adrenaline and the feeling like I'd actually accomplished something. I was Number One. I was the leader, the Wonderbolt that the other Wonderbolts looked up to, and we'd come out of it without a hitch. I didn't have to worry about getting cut or whether I'd be on the roster the next week. Bottom Line would never cut me after that performance.

I walked out into the barren, white hallway backstage, and I was so lost in my head that the cheering hit me like a mid-air collision.

"Whoooo!"
"Good job, Streak!
"Shit, dude, that was intense!"
"Bro, I want your autograph now!"

I was surrounded by my teammates. My friends. The stallions and the mares were all around me, giant smiles plastered on their faces as they piled onto me and raved about how well it'd gone. Fleetfoot gave me a double-hoof bump. Windskipper bounced all around. Blaze gave me a noogie and a slap on the ass. All but one of the 'Bolts was there, cheering with me. It felt like it lasted for hours, and it felt amazing.

Wave Chill bumped me on the shoulder and jerked his head to the left toward two more pegasi: a cream-colored mare and a bright yellow stallion. My parents. He said, "We're hitting the bars after the press conference, and you better believe we're making you come with us. We're getting you hammered tonight, bro!" He winked at the rest of the gathered 'Bolts, who cheered again. "Hope you're ready, captain."

That last word set fire to my heart all over again. No, I wasn't really the captain – even if Soarin' wasn't there, he still had his rank – but the fact that Wave Chill had used that word, and the fact that nopony called him out on it… They accepted me as their leader. They were okay with me taking the reins. I had a future.

I felt like I was glowing. A wide smile spread across my face, and I nodded stiffly, saying, "Wouldn't miss it."

After a few more hoof bumps, the rest of the 'Bolts headed to the locker room, complimenting each other and giving each other a hard time for even the most minor mistakes. Everypony was laughing and having a good time, though. They knew they'd done a great job.

In that cramped hallway, my mom was crying, and my dad's chest was all puffed out. He looked like he was on the edge of shedding a few tears himself. As for me? Well, no comment.

Just… pride. There was so much pride in that hug the three of us shared. I'd made them so proud, and I felt so lucky to be their son. I'm sure Soarin's talked to you about his problems with his folks. Not everypony has as close a family as I do, and having my parents there to see me on my big day was unlike anything I could have imagined. I'm so thankful they got to see it.

Mom gave me about a million kisses, and my dad hugged me tighter than ever, and she asked if I could have a late meal with them. Dad saw my hesitation and the twinge of guilt that bounced around my stomach, and he reminded my mom that I'd made plans with my teammates. "We should let him have his night. He certainly deserves it." I promised to visit them the following weekend. We had Friday and Saturday night shows back in Manehattan that weekend, so I'd be able to swing by their place pretty easily. Mom didn't want to wait that long, so we agreed to have dinner on Wednesday, too.

They took off, and I took a moment to breathe, maybe for the first time since the show. I cast a quick glance around, then snuck back to the stage. Just for a bit. Just to take a peek. Ponies were still filing out, and I just sat there, watching. Their faces, bro. Every single one had a giant smile. For a moment, I was calm, but…

"Ya' know, I did the same thing at my first show." Raspy, but feminine.

I leapt into the air and whipped around, wings ready to jet me out of there. Spitfire had snuck up right behind me. I took a deep breath and floated to the ground, taking in an eyeful. She still wore her flight suit, but she'd removed the hood, and her yellow coat and orange mane contrasted starkly with her blue clothing. I admit, I'm still a little jealous of her. Her mane screams "fire" a lot more than mine does. It's got a great mix of orange and yellow, both bold like her, and she's got the wild auburn eyes to match.

I tensed up and gulped. We called her the "One-Mare Firing Squad" for a reason. Spitfire had made the team what it was by sparing nopony's feelings. When you screwed up, even the slightest bit, you heard about it, and my mind raced with all the little adjustments I could have made during the show to make it flawless. Feeling small, I saluted and said, "Yes, ma'am." I steeled myself for a tirade.

But I didn't get one. Instead, Spitfire adjusted her pose, relaxing and leaning heavily on one hoof. I hadn't realized she was even capable of slouching. She cocked her head back, narrowed her eyes a little, and smiled at me.

Spitfire. Smiled. At me!

I felt my eyes go wide, and she snickered. It sounded a little weird coming from her, like she hadn't had much practice. "Relax, Streak. I'm not going to open fire on you. Not quite yet, anyway."

"Uh…" I looked her right in the eyes. They were softer than I'd ever seen them. The tightness in my chest disappeared and was replaced with a light flutter, and me, in my stupidity, could only say, "Okay. What's up?"

She took another step towards me. "Just wanted to say congratulations." She extended a hoof, and I shook it. It was firmer than any stallion's. "Hell of a show tonight, and I'm looking forward to working with you again."

I was stunned. It was all too foreign.

She laughed again, a little less awkwardly this time. "I can see you're still coming down. Better get yourself together, though, Streak. The media's waiting."

I perked up and straightened out my back. "Oh. Right!"

We left the backstage area and started back down the hallway. I didn't know how to make conversation, apparently, but Spitfire was happy to take the lead. "They really seemed to like all the pyrotechnics. Might have to do more of that in the future."

I felt my muscles start to relax. Talking about work is easy, at least. "Yeah. Civilians always eat that stuff up. I'm… I'm kinda surprised you never tried it with Soarin'."

Spitfire rolled her head to the side as our hooves clacked against the floor. "Soarin's got his own moves, but there's a lot that I wouldn't want to try with him." She cast a glance my way. "You've got potential, though."

I thought back to what Soarin' had told me before he'd left for Appleloosa. "Yeah, but he's–"

"No buts," she said flatly. She nudged my side, and her tone got lighter. "Soarin' would want you to celebrate and enjoy your big night. Don't worry about him. Tonight's all about you."

I felt myself smiling again, and as we reached the locker rooms, I said, "Thanks, Spitfire."

She winked at me. "No problem."

We split off outside the locker rooms, and I entered to another round of cheers and slaps on the back and on my ass. The guys wanted to make sure I was going out for real and that my parents weren't dragging me away.

I nodded at Silver Lining, who had his foreleg around my neck. "Hell, yeah. Wouldn't miss it."

"Good," he said, punching my shoulder with his free hoof. "'Cause you're getting mad pussy tonight, and I've got dibs on your leftovers."

The guys and I – that's what we were then, just guys – shared a laugh and a few more cheers, and we just kept talking. I cleaned up, put on my public uniform, and we lounged around the locker room some more, but eventually Blaze started pushing me out the door. "It's gonna be our asses if you miss the media interview. Spitfire's on me enough as it is." After a round of "Oooh!" from the peanut gallery, Blaze added, in his cheesiest tone, "Hey, who wouldn't want to feel the heat?" They guys all laughed.

"Keep dreaming," I said, chuckling and head-butting him lightly. "She's out of your league." I turned to the rest of the team. "Great work tonight, colts." With a salute, I added, "I'll meet you outside for a well-earned drink." I liked addressing them like that, and for once, nopony was trying to cut me off or crack a joke. I could feel their respect, and it felt like everything I'd ever wanted.

My head held high and my mane still a little wet from my shower, I walked out of the locker room. My heart kept skipping beats, but I calmed myself down by marching in time with the rhythm in my head. 'Left hoof, right hoof, one-two-three-four.'

A minute later, I'd reached the outside of the media room. I opened the heavy metal door, and the cameras started flashing. I was dazed for a second, and I felt my ears flick down. I told myself, 'Keep it cool, Streak. Don't let 'em see you sweat. You've already got 'em in your hoof.' I cleared my throat and stood up straight, and once my vision had cleared from that first assault of flashing lights, I saw the rest of the room.

It was a pretty standard media room. The walls were painted an inoffensive off-yellow, folding chairs had been placed in neat rows, and art with scenes of ponds and grassy hills hung in evenly-spaced intervals. The ceiling was that gross foam that always shows water stains, and the air inside felt stale in my lungs. A raised platform had been set up on one side of the room, and on that platform sat a table, covered in a cloth that showed the Wonderbolts logo. Spitfire sat there, wearing her uniform, her signature sunglasses, and a slight scowl. She nodded to the empty chair beside hers, and in no time, I'd joined her in looking out at a small sea of media ponies. There were a lot more of them than I had expected, probably double what Soarin' said they got after routine performances, but I chalked it up to it being my first show. If only, right?

There was a brief pause, and I glanced at Spitfire. She gave a little jerk of her head towards the audience, and I felt my tail flick back and forth as I realized I was still the one in charge. My smile broadened. I sat up, cleared my throat, and boomed in a clear but friendly voice, "Welcome, everypony! Enjoy the show?"

The room filled with stomps of approval. You can always tell when a crowd is being polite, but this wasn't one of those nights. My heart soared as I realized I'd managed to impress such a tough, surly audience.

Of course, they weren't just interested in the show.

Spitfire leaned a little forward as the hooves died down. "Alright, let's make this quick," she said in a direct tone. I cannot tell you how great it was having Spitfire there to keep the reins on them. "It's been a big night, a great show, and a long day." Spitfire smirked toward me. "And there's a lead flier here that probably wants to get to celebrating." The audience murmured a small laugh, and Spitfire pointed to a grey unicorn mare in the audience. "First up: you, second row."

The mare, in a brown beret and with a press badge around her neck, stood up. "Hot Press, Fillydelphia Times. First of all, congratulations on a stunning first show as lead flier, Fire Streak."

The audience stomped again – this time it was just to be polite – and I nodded. "Thank you very much. And… can I say something real quick?"

A few members of the audience nodded, as did Spitfire.

I took a deep breath and ran through the names I'd rehearsed. "I just want to say thank you to a few ponies. First of all, my parents, who've always encouraged me and been amazing role models and stayed up late while I whined about wanting to fly more. Yeah, they were really patient yesterday." Another polite laugh, though I did hear a snort somewhere in the middle. "Love you, Mom and Dad."

There was a collective, "Aw…" from the media ponies.

Before anypony could interrupt my train of thought, I went into it again. "Another big thank you to the Wonderbolts. All of them, from the trainers to my squad – especially my squad, they're the best I could ask for – to all our behind-the-scenes ponies and, of course…" I gestured to my right. "…our fantastic captains. They're the lifeblood of this team."

Another round of stomping, and as it died down, I said, "I could go on like this forever, but I'll spare you all the misery." I nodded at Hot Press. "Thanks for letting me hijack your time. You had a question?"

"Not a problem at all," Hot Press said. Her notepad and pencil levitated in front of her face. She smiled politely and asked, "So what was it like filling in for Soarin' on such short notice, especially given the circumstances?"

I chuckled. "Well, I certainly–"

Spitfire cut me off with just a slight edge to her voice. "The results speak for themselves, I think. Fire Streak put on a great show, first time or otherwise. I know Soarin's proud of him, and so is his whole team, especially me."

I involuntarily sneered, but I quickly covered it up before anypony could snap a picture. My head whipped towards Spitfire, and it took all my control not to shout, "What the hell? They were asking me!"

But something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Spitfire's posture was a little different. Her jaw was set tightly, and because I was close enough, I could see her eyes behind her glasses. They were scanning. She was checking out every reporter, and I could see the gears turning in her head. It was the same look she gets right before somepony crashes during practice.

I turned back to the reporters. Hot Press' face had crinkled up, and she looked back at me. "And what are your thoughts, Fire Streak?"

Spitfire cleared her throat next to me, and I took the hint. I needed to stick with neutral answers. I said, "She pretty much said it. I feel incredibly blessed to be flying with such a fantastic team. Next question? You, third row."

A brown earth pony stallion stood up next. "Snapshot, Cosmare Magazine. Question and a follow-up. First, what was it like finding out you'd be taking the lead flier position?"

"I…" I looked at Spitfire, who was stone-faced. "It was a shock, that's for sure."

"Why was that?" somepony in the audience asked.

'Hold it together, Streak. They don't need to know about Soarin'. This is your night.' I took a breath and responded. "Every single one of us spends our careers trying to prove ourselves. Few of us ever get the chance to really shine, and it was a happy surprise when I…" I paused and chose my words carefully. "When I was informed that I'd be taking the lead for this show."

I felt my cheeks flush. The room was getting warmer, and I carefully retraced everything I said. It felt like there were suddenly more camera flashes, but it might have been my imagination.

Snapshot raised his pencil. "Follow-up question: how did Soarin' take the news?"

My heart dropped into my stomach. We'd already told the media that Soarin' was sick, so that question didn't make any sense, unless… "Uh…"

Spitfire spoke loudly. "Soarin' is a professional. He understands what it means and doesn't mean to have very, very competent flier fill in for him for a show or two. This isn't the first time this has happened, and we all hope he'll make a speedy recovery."

Fill in for him. A show or two. She might as well have spat on me. I grit my teeth, and as she took a breath to say something more, I jumped in with, "And in the meantime, we've got tons of new stunts and visual effects for our audience. I've got a lot of ideas, and this is only the beginning." A reporter started to say something, but I kept going. "I think the audience really liked the pyrotechnics. We really nailed it tonight, didn't we, Spitfire."

Her eyes were wider. Not noticeable to most ponies, but enough to make me feel dizzy. Spitfire wasn't supposed to get shaken, especially in front of civilians, and that made me nervous, too.

Spitfire nodded firmly. "We're always improving, and there are always things we could have done better. Fire Streak's right, though, and while I can't disclose any information about our upcoming shows, I recommend you pay close attention to what we have in store. Next quest–"

"Gossip Weaver, National Equinerer." She hadn't been called on. "So really, where was Soarin' tonight? Inside sources have claimed–"

Another reporter jumped up and shouted, "Is it true that Soarin' has been dishonorably discharged from the Wonderbolts?"

The room erupted in flashing lights, shouting reporters, and furious scribbling on paper. I couldn't control my ears, and they flattened against my head. My shoulders sank, and my mouth hung wide open when I wasn't actively trying to keep it closed.

It hit me. It hit me hard. Spitfire had figured it out right away, of course, but it was just now dawning on me: somepony in the Wonderbolts had leaked information about Soarin'. Every single one of these reporters knew that something was going on behind the scenes of the organization, and they were here to squeeze as much information out of us as they could.

They weren't here for me. They were here for Soarin'.

I felt like my wings had been ripped off, like they'd turned to lead and separated from my body. I felt empty. I felt lost. I looked around the room, and as I stabilized myself on the table to keep from falling off my chair, the writhing mass of reporters shouted louder as security stepped between them and us. "N… No comment," I said weakly.

I slumped back into my chair. Spitfire started yelling over all of them to refer to the official release, and she kept saying things like, "Fire Streak has done a fantastic job so far, and the stallion squad will do great things under him," and "Streak, why don't you tell them about that new regimen you came up with?"

Bless her. She was trying. Spitfire knew what a huge day this had been for me, and she was trying so hard to give me what I felt like I deserved.

It didn't help, though. The media are like wild timber wolves: once they're on their prey's scent, they won't let up until they've hunted down every last scrap of what they're looking for. The questions about Soarin' kept coming. Spitfire kept trying to beat them back and focus on the show itself, but it didn't matter.

There were no more questions about me or the show. The press conference only went on for another ten minutes or so, and as it did, I felt myself shrinking smaller and smaller. I ended up looking down at a small stain on the tablecloth and focusing on it while Spitfire navigated their questions. I could already feel the limelight dying on me, like I was being crowded out by a pony – by my best friend – who wasn't even there. My thoughts kept coming back to, 'Was I… Was I not good enough?' Even when I was the lead flier, when I had picked up the pieces he'd dropped so spectacularly and when he was Celestia-knows-where, Soarin' was still the real Number One.

The conference wound down, and one of the reporters, a new guy from the looks of it, got to ask the same question that we always get asked: "Any final thoughts?"

'I wasn't good enough.'

Spitfire gave a tactful answer that came out loud and determined. The reporters were all listening to her, and so nopony saw the slight wetness on my face. None of them saw me quivering or saw the hollow look in my eyes, and none of them heard me whimper in a soft, low voice, "It was supposed to be my day…"

Flare

Swallowing the stale, cheap coffee the next morning, I set my mug down hard on the faux-oak table and mumbled, "Are they for fucking real?" With a grunt, I slapped the paper down next to my coffee.

The hotel room was a nice one. Even if the 'Bolts didn't spring for the penthouse, the lead fliers got to have their own rooms, almost always a suite. This one didn't disappoint: plush, new carpet that couldn't have been more than a few months old, a marble bar stocked with high-end booze, and a hot tub big enough for six ponies. The bathroom was decked out in gold and had a marble bath with textured sides that were supposed to relax you or something. There was a separate sleeping room painted a deep purple with a desk to the side, which is where I was sitting. The bed was something ridiculous like a double-king, and wrapped up in the silky purple linens was a dark blue pegasus mare that really, really knew how to please a stallion.

Velvet Skies rubbed her eyes as she sat up. "Something wrong, baby?" I almost snapped at her for calling me "baby." After all, I'd only met her last night, but it wasn't her fault I was on edge.

The after-party had gone well. Spitfire had tried to pull me aside after the press conference. I wish I would have stopped and talked to her more, but I'd wanted nothing more than to get out of there and drown my memories in alcohol and mares.

The guys had waited for me and had ribbed me a little about taking so long. I didn't tell them. For that night only, I was still the hero, the guy that had stepped in and saved the day when Soarin' had failed. I was still the guy they wanted to be, who they wanted to hang out with, and who was going to score them some mad pussy.

We'd hit up a couple of the ritzy bars, and I'd spent more time talking to fans and signing autographs than I did talking with the guys. It helped bring me back from the edge, but the whole night, there was this nagging feeling that it was all going to end come sunrise. I just partied harder hoping it would go away.

It didn't. I ended up leaving with Velvet at around three in the morning, and we had a lot of fun back in my hotel room until the sun started coming up. Yeah, she was good. Real good, but it wasn't something I wanted to pursue. She was just another fan with a new story to tell her friends.

I sighed and looked at her, my skull pounding and my mouth dry and rancid. "Don't worry about it. It's been a weird day."

She got up and stretched. "Wanna talk about it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Nah, I'm good." I bit my lip. "And… hey…"

She giggled in that cute, innocent way that I think really was sincere. "Don't worry, Streak. I get it." She flapped her wings and hovered over to her saddlebag, where she started packing her things. "You're a hell of a stallion, but it wouldn't work."

I smiled and was feeling charitable. "Thanks, babe."

Velvet swung a saddlebag over her back. "I left my address on the nightstand. Promise you'll look me up next time you're back in town?"

"I will." I didn't, but, well, I had a pretty good excuse.

Velvet left, and that meant it was just me and the paper. I picked it up again while I finished my coffee, skimming the Sports section's main story again.

Soarin' Missing!

Drama unfolded at the Wonderbolts' "Skies Afire" show in Fillydelphia on Friday night. A spectacular show, as always, there was only one thing that seemed off: a missing captain.

Inside sources have refuted the Wonderbolts' official press release stating that Soarin' Windsong, co-captain of the Wonderbolts and lead flier for the stallion squad, was sick with the feather flu. One source claims that Soarin' has taken an extended leave of absence in the small western settlement of Appleloosa.

They didn't even mention my name until paragraph seven. I slowly shook my head, and my thoughts churned. 'If it's already in the papers, then they've known about Appleloosa for days. How'd they figure it out?' I'd later find out that a reporter had tailed Soarin' from the Manehattan train station and had seen him get on the Appleloosa train. Combined with the leak from the Wonderbolts, there was plenty of material for a major story.

I paused. 'I could warn him.' The room was eerily quiet for a moment, and my thoughts went blank for a while, until they started backpedaling. 'No, a letter wouldn't get there in time, anyway, and there's no way any dragons know how to get a message to the middle of nowhere like that.' My chest suddenly felt very warm, and I sneered to myself. 'Besides, if he can't handle being center stage, then he's only getting what he deserves.'

I tensed up at that last thought and suddenly felt very, very dirty. The paper fell onto the desk, and I looked at my hoof, my eyes wide open. I said out loud, "What in Tartarus was that?" My lip quivered, my skin crawled, and my tail lashed behind me. I looked around the hotel room, which suddenly had this eerie vibe, like it was closing in on me. "I… should go." Standing up, I walked towards the bathroom and mumbled, "I'm driving myself nuts here."

After I'd showered and brushed my teeth twice, I stumbled down to the breakfast buffet. It was still only about 8 in the morning, so the tourists hadn't swarmed the place yet. Wave Chill and Blaze and a bunch of the other guys flagged me over to a private room in the back, and we spent breakfast swapping stories about our conquests and who'd drank the most. It was a good meal, and we talked about the show again a couple times. None of them had read the paper.

The train ride back to Manehattan went smoothly. Most of us slept the whole trip, and Silver Lining and Misty Fly were cuddled up against one another the whole way. We usually try to discourage relationships within the team – shit blows up real fast if there's a breakup – but hey, it had been a successful show for everypony else, too, and they deserved to relax. Plus, who am I to judge, right?

We had to wait out a rainstorm when we got back to Manehattan. You'd have to be an idiot to fly around when a storm's coming. There was a semi-secluded area in one corner of the station near a bunch of potted plants and with a few moderately clean benches, so we waited there. Management wanted to find us a more private place, but we whined about having to move again until they relented.

It didn't take long for a couple fans to recognize us, and that meant that a pretty big group was close behind. Security did a pretty good job of keeping ponies away when we were in public, but there were some kids there, and we couldn't say no, right? Even Spitfire gave the okay, and so a small group of ponies got to come chill with us.

I sat up straight, flared out my wings, and smiled broadly. My heart rate picked up, and I went over all the different things I could say to them. 'Stay in school, kids! Uh… You can do it! You just need to work hard and try your best. Even if you don't end up being a Wonderbolt, you can do great things! Yeah. Yeah, that's good.'

It turns out I hadn't needed to worry about what I was going to say.

The kids all crowded around Spitfire, and she tensed up, put on a stiff expression, and talked woodenly about "how great it is to see so many young fliers. Maybe some of you will be in the Wonderbolts one day." It was the same speech she'd used for every group of foals we'd ever come across. I'm pretty sure she rehearsed that speech every week.

I maintained my toothy smile and cast glances at all the kids. Then my smile turned into a grimace, and my wings drooped little by little until they were hanging loosely at my sides.

One of the parents noticed me. He was an earth pony, and he sauntered over and said, "Hey, Fire Streak, right?" Politely, too politely, he added, "Great job at the show last night. I think it was the best one ever!" He all but slapped his knee and ruffled my mane, like the way your uncle does when you cook something for the big family gathering and he's too embarrassed to tell you it tastes like hot garbage.

I nodded and tried to hide my disgust. "Thank you, sir. I'm glad you enjoyed the show."

"We certainly did," he said slowly. There was a long pause, and then he called his daughter over. "Hey, Spring Breeze, come say hi to Mr. Fire Streak!"

A minty green pegasus filly perked up and bounced over. She stopped in front of me and cocked her head to the side. "Where's Soarin'?" she asked.

I ground my teeth together. "Soarin' couldn't be here for the show. I got to fill in for him last night. Did you see the fire effects? That was me and Spitfire!" I said, pointing back to Spitfire, who was grimacing for some pictures.

Spring Breeze nodded her head. "Yeah, it was pretty, but I like the lightning better."

My expression soured. Her dad noticed and said, in that same forced tone, "But it was very impressive regardless! I'm sure you'll eventually be the best lead flier the Wonderbolts have ever had, Mr. Fire Streak."

I sighed. "Thanks." The back of my skull burned, and I realized how off-putting I was being. "Sorry for being a little off. It's been a long week, and taking over hasn't been as smooth as I'd hoped."

"Yeah, what happened to Soarin', anyway?" The stiffness had completely dropped out of his voice. He was speaking conversationally, like a normal pony. Like a pony that was finally being honest. "I gotta say, we were pretty disappointed he wasn't making an appearance. Breeze here's got a lot of his merch back home, and it would have been great meeting him."

I tensed my jaw. "Yeah. Yeah it would have."

A few more foals came up and talked to us, but security moved us to another area when the crowd started getting too large.

And… Shoot, I need to be honest. There were a few of the fans that really seemed like they wanted to see me. I talked and posed for a couple pictures and signed a few headshots, and I even got another address from an earth pony mare that said she lived in Manehattan. It helped, but not enough. The whole time, I could still feel Soarin's shadow over me. For every fan that wanted a picture with me, two more would try to squeeze out some information about where he was.

That's all they wanted to talk about. Soarin', Soarin', Soarin'. He was the famous one. He was this big, mysterious figure, and he literally had to do nothing to get more attention than anypony else. Nothing! He just had to disappear, and he's all that anypony wanted to talk about! Can you freaking blame anypony for gunning for his position? You get it, right? Ponies swarming you, complimenting you, letting you know that, yes, you actually did do a great job, that you inspired them, and that you've finally made it as a professional. That's the freaking dream.

The weather cleared up, and we flew in a loose formation back home. The air smelled like electricity, the aftermath of the storm, and I didn't feel any calmer. I felt like my insides were constantly being prodded, like there were worms under my skin. Like the wind was whispering to me that I wasn't good enough, that I'd be in the shadows for my whole career. I felt cold, and the flight was long.

A few of the guys wanted to hang out and play some evening airball, but I wasn't in the mood. I knew how it would turn out anyway: if I started screwing up, one of them would make some comment about how I wasn't on top of my game or "looks like the new guy can't keep up" or something stupid like that, and I'd lose it. I didn't need that. Better to stay away.

Not that I was any calmer when I got home. I live in a duplex that I share with Wave Chill: two stories, but only one bathroom and one bedroom upstairs. I keep it pretty well-decorated with art and little gifts that random fans throw onto the stage, and the walls are colored with Magi-Mist to keep them from being cloud-white. Yeah, yeah, I know. It's super expensive to keep the walls colored in Cloudsdale, but you gotta feel good in your own home, right? Wave Chill griped about it, but I think he's started to like it. I got a package deal, and each room is a nice, warm color: oranges and yellows, though he insisted on having his bedroom be purple. Mine? I like mine a deep red. Makes it feel sensual and safe. Downstairs, I've got a small kitchen, a living area, and an office that can double as a guest room if I need it. It's pretty boring, but unless I'm cooking or hosting, I'm not there much. Easier to keep it clean, too.

On the way home, I'd picked up every paper I could find, just to see what the media had written. Since Wave Chill was out playing ball with the guys, I didn't need to worry about being disturbed.

I got myself some more coffee and sat down with the stack of papers. Shutting my eyes tightly, I narrated to myself, "It'll be fine. It's nothing. It's barely even a scandal. The press team will release a statement detailing that Soarin' is on vacation, and that'll be the end of it."

I looked down at the front page. There was some story about trade routes as the headline, and a few different snippets about some major ambassador visiting or something. But there, right in the lower right corner, was a little box with big lettering that advertised a "Missing Wonderbolt" and told the reader to flip to the sports section. I slid the other sections away and saw the headline:

The Search for Soarin'

The Manehattan Post had used a stock photo from months ago: Soarin' with a scowl on his face, looking slyly back over his shoulder as he exited a party. It was from right around the time that he'd started acting out more, when he'd gotten more restless.

I didn't blink for a long time. My eyes darted all through the column, looking for any mention of me. I was mentioned once. Exactly once, as nothing more than a "temporary replacement" that "seemed to know more than he was letting on about the missing captain."

I sat down and breathed deeply while my chest felt two things at once. The depression was like an icy heaviness, and rage was the smoldering fire, just waiting to ignite and consume me. They fought each other while I seethed alone, glad to have the quiet of my home to keep me from getting frustrated at anything else. In the end, I let the fire win out. I know how to keep that one under control, at least. No, I couldn't put it out, but I could at least keep it low, down to the embers, where it wouldn't hurt anypony. Problem is, you never know when those embers are going to flare up again. All it takes is a little kindling.

And sometimes, that kindling comes in the form of a Cosmare article with the phrase "knock-off captain."

My hooves shook. I started sweating. My tail thrashed behind me, and I loomed over the table, scowling at the image of the pony that had sucked all the hype out of the biggest show of my career. "Gr… Dammit!" I shouted, whipping my head towards the kitchen window and knocking a few papers onto the floor. The world suddenly had a grey tint to it, and I growled to myself a few times.

But for the moment, I felt like I had control, and I opened my eyes again. I shook my head at the papers on the floor and said, "Stupid," before picking them all up and neatly stacking them.

I kept reading. Every paper had some variation of the same headline. I'd been wrong – the media was taking every opportunity to blow it up into a huge scandal. They knew that the official story our manager, Bottom Line, had sent them was bunk, and that left a void for the reporters to fill in. Usually, that sort of thing blows over in a week or two, but then I saw this:

According to an inside source that asked to remain anonymous, things haven't been well with the Wonderbolts, and Soarin' has been walking on thin ice for months. What could this mean for the young star? For the team? Our source could not confirm rumors that Soarin' has been discharged for inappropriate conduct, but some speculate that these events could point to a larger fracture within the organization.

I slumped back in my chair, slapped my hooves to my eyes, and ran them through my mane with a loud groan. No, this story was not going to just go away.

The sunlight was dwindling, and I was dead tired. I made myself a sandwich, had a few glasses of water, and collapsed into my bed within an hour.

My first thought the next morning was, 'Work.' It wasn't dread – it was Sunday, after all – but a command. I went downstairs and made myself breakfast: eggs and fried hay. Protein and filler. Heavy and efficient. All the while, the papers were still sitting on my kitchen table. Soarin's face was looking back at me through those narrow slits of his eyes, and I could feel it even when I'd turn around. It only got worse when I sat down to eat, but for whatever reason, I couldn't bring myself to put the papers away. I ate quickly.

As I cleaned up, I could hear Wave Chill moving around on his side of the house. I thought about asking him if he wanted to hang, but something deep in my chest tugged at me. It told me what I needed to do. 'Work. Do better.'

It was… different. After most shows, you get a similar feeling. If the show was bad, it's more like fear, where you need to do better or get cut. If the show went well, it's like excitement: you want to top your own performance next time. This… was different. I needed to do better, not out of fear or personal drive, but out of something else. It was like hunger. Or sleep. It was somewhere deep inside.

Without hesitating, I grabbed my keys and left my condo. The morning air was dry and cool, and the sun shone in my eyes as I headed towards the Academy. I live pretty far away by most standards, far enough that I sometimes sleep in the barracks, but that day, the flight didn't seem so long. I hardly remember any of it. The only thing I can remember is feeling pulled towards it, more and more the closer I got to the Academy grounds.

The Academy is weird on Sundays. Almost nopony is around except for some guards, and the stillness is deafening. It's still the same layout, though: long runways near the wide-open practice fields, an outdoor gym just for us, and a mix of metal office buildings and tall, intricately-crafted cloud buildings that require a lot of maintenance but look spectacular. Statues both of famous ponies and historically-important formations were placed evenly around the grounds. The mess hall and barracks sat towards the middle of the Academy, and on the on the east side were the office buildings, including my target: the Green Room.

It's not really a room. That's just what we call the building with our staging areas and a lot of our office space. The floors are kept spotless, the windows are crystal clear, and as I unlocked the door and walked in, I could see that all the offices were darkened.

My task for the day was simple: review the slideshow that our photographer had taken from our Friday show to see what could be improved. There were a lot of pictures, but I wasn't too worried. Soarin' – I winced a little bit when I remembered – had told me that Spitfire would take care of all the hard parts, and I was content to let her be the One-Mare Firing Squad, just like usual. My plan was to go in, look at the pictures for an hour or so, and call it good.

My office was temporary – either I'd get a permanent one, or Soarin' would come back – and it showed. There was the standard issue of a desk and chair, two chairs for visitors, a metal filing cabinet, and a small table. The whole place smelled like cleaner, and I hadn't bothered to decorate anything. Why would I? The only other things there were a gem-powered projector, a set of slides, and several pages of notes from both Spitfire and the trainers. Spitfire had left them there, just like she'd told me she would earlier in the week. They were already set up, and the curtains were drawn, so all I had to do was turn it on.

I walked over behind the desk and, with a sigh, sat down. "Okay, here we go." I glanced down at Spitfire's notes. She had such pretty, looping hoofwriting, which contrasted sharply with the phrases like "Does Misty Fly even care about uniformity?" and "Silver Lining – Drunk? Or Lazy?" I chuckled to myself, but then I felt a small pang of guilt.

There were a lot of notes. Pages of them. I frowned and thought, 'She must have spent all day on these. Is… Is this how she spends her weekends?' I imagined her sitting home alone, spending hours poring over the images and looking for ways to improve the show. My chest felt heavy. Yeah, I'd spent the evening alone, too, but at last the guys had invited me to play airball. I couldn't remember seeing Spitfire with the rest of the mares when they'd had their nights out, and as I refocused, I wondered what this job had become for her.

I turned the projector on. The light inside sparked to life, and I flipped through a few slides of each pony's entrance. Not much to see, since we're given a little more freedom on those, and nopony was flying in formation, anyway. I did stop on mine, though, which showed me right as the vapor contrail was being engulfed in flames right behind me. Without thinking, I glanced down at Spitfire's notes and saw, "Fire Streak cares." It was about as close to a compliment as I could have expected.

I smiled to myself. "Nice work, Number One." With a small nod, I turned back to the image, and just for a moment, the feeling of bursting out in into the crowd came flooding back. My smile faded a little, though, when I noticed one thing. "Huh. Arc's a little lop-sided." It was true: I could have pulled up a little earlier and gotten a cleaner entrance. I shook my head and flipped to the next slide.

The image showed the first fly-by between the two squads, and I could see what Spitfire was talking about: Misty Fly's wingbeats were way out of sync with everypony else's, and Silver Lining was angled outward on the edge of the formation. My eyebrows knitted. "C'mon, guys," I grumbled. "You're better than that." I clicked the button on the machine and flipped to the next image.

Then I immediately flipped back. Something else was bothering me. A lot of things, actually. Fleetfoot's wings were out of sync, too, even if it wasn't as obvious as Misty Fly. Wave Chill was sneaking a glance at the audience, which broke up the Flying-V's crispness. Actually, it looked like only Spitfire, High Winds, and I were absolutely perfect.

I chewed on my cheek, then glanced down at the page of Spitfire's notes. 'She didn't comment on most of them.' Granted, they were fairly minor errors, but there were still errors. I thought about letting them go, but then that warm feeling came back to my chest. I looked back and forth between the notes and the image. My mane bristled, and I started breathing more quickly. The longer I thought about all these mistakes slipping by, the stronger that feeling became, until I finally said aloud, "No. We need to do better."

I retrieved a piece of paper and a pencil from my desk, and I wrote down every little detail that seemed out of place. Every. Single. One. I filled half a page with notes about what was wrong and how to correct for it, which came down to a lot of extra drills.

I flipped to the next image and repeated the same process. This time, I was looking at a large firework formation that utilized our lightning-enhanced contrails. Two of the arms of the burst were out of place: Cloudchaser and Silver Lining again. More notes. More drills to make them perfect.

But writing these details down didn't make me feel better. No, they made feel so much worse. 'They weren't this bad with Soarin', were they? Did I… not drill them hard enough?' It was like my eyes had been opened to how sloppy we'd been and how much we'd gotten away with. As I kept flipping through images and taking notes, the feeling in my chest went from a warm cinder to a burning fullness that penetrated every fiber of my body. All of my attention was dedicated to finding every tiny problem with the show, and I was going to fix them. All of them.

I was incredibly annoyed with myself when I gave myself a break for lunch. It felt wrong, like perfection didn't need lunch breaks, and as I chewed the snacks I'd kept in my desk, I kept thinking, 'You'd be done by now if the team was good enough. You'd be done if you were good enough.'

I spent eight hours in the office that day. By the time I went home, I was pissed, and I vowed to myself that by the next show, we'd be good enough.

My sour mood lasted all day and carried over to Monday morning. I didn't sleep well that night, and in the morning, just putting on my uniform seemed like an impossible task. Breakfast was a quick bowl of alfalfa, and in my saddlebags were pages of notes on everything that needed to be improved.

Wave Chill left at the same time I did, and unfortunately, that meant I didn't get to have a quiet commute. I took off from my front porch, and Wave Chill quickly caught up. I thought about speeding away, but I didn't need any more bad press. I wasn't going to be the first to say something, though, and I squinted at the horizon as he beat his wings slightly out of sync with mine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wave Chill glance at me a few times. The silence hung in the air like snow clouds, heavy and threatening to cover everything. His voice came out small and weak at first. "So, I–" He cleared his throat. "I saw the papers, bro. That sucks. You got robbed."

I didn't respond or even look at him. All I could think about was the long list of errors with his name on it.

"You, uh… You okay, Fire Streak?"

"I'm fine," I said flatly.

Wave Chill turned back to the horizon, and we picked up the pace by half a click. He kept turning his head to me, and he would open his mouth a few times to say something, but nothing came out.

I finally got sick of his hesitation and asked, with a big gesture of my right hoof, "What? Just spit it out."

He recoiled a little, but then settled back into our flight pattern. "I mean… Fuck the media, right? Look, Streak, they screwed up. You had a fantastic show, and you're going to have a bunch more, and…" He was speaking quickly and looking everywhere but at me. "…and everypony thinks you did a great job leading us. Better than Soarin', even. Maybe. It's been a nice change of pace, at least. Like, you care. A lot. It shows. A lot. Are you… are you getting what I'm saying?"

I didn't respond.

Wave Chill said, "Look, Streak, I'm sorry that it didn't–"

"I'm fine!" I snapped at him.

He shrunk a little, and his ears folded against his head. "Okay," he murmured. "I'll… see you at the Academy, I guess." He dashed forward, and I didn't chase him.

The sun warmed my face, and I took a deep breath, remembering a couple techniques I'd learned to keep myself under control. I said aloud, "Okay. Five things. Five good things. Five: Wave Chill wants you to feel better. He'll forgive you for snapping, and he'll still be your friend. Four: the fans still love you. Well, they like you, at least. Not as much as…" I snorted. "Three: the media are dumbasses, and things always blow over. Two: uh…"

I felt the tightness return to my chest, and I scrambled for something else. "Two: They… Well, Spitfire likes the job I did, and she's the one I need to impress. Yeah. And…"

Wave Chill's words ricocheted back to my mind. "One: you're still in charge of the stallion squad, and you're even better than Soarin'." I nodded to myself, a deep frown turning into a smirk. "Yeah. And they're going to see how much better I can really be."

Bitterness is like mold. It starts out someplace dark, where you can't see it. You don't know that it's there, but it's someplace deep at the back of your brain. It seems small and innocuous at first, but then it spreads. Little specks grow into a thin layer that leaches off all your thoughts until it completely covers your gray matter, until everything you think is tainted by that foul color.

Then again, the exact same happens with ambition.

I worked on my attitude the rest of the way to the Academy. 'No more anger,' I told myself. 'Just focus.' I stoked those embers back up again, let them burn brighter as I thought about how I would put the team through Tartarus and back if that's what it took to get them to be perfect. As I flew into Academy airspace and landed outside the Green Room, my whole body felt hot, and I itched to get back to practice.

Preparation Room A fell dead silent when I threw open the door. My eyebrows were furrowed, and the 'Bolts all looked directly at me. 'Good,' I thought. 'They'll need to pay attention if they want to survive.' I stomped to the front of the room as Spitfire finished setting up the projector.

She cast a glance my way, her face inscrutable, then turned on the projector. With a look at towards the back of the room, she started to say to Misty Fly, "Hit the lights."

I interrupted. "At ease, Misty Fly."

A few of the 'Bolts looked up, their eyes wide. To this day, I think I'm the only pony that's ever contradicted Spitfire's direct order and lived to talk about it. I hadn't planned it. It just happened when I realized something: if I wanted to make the 'Bolts perfect, I had to make sure they were unified, and beyond that, I needed to make sure that what happened to Soarin' never happened to me.

I stood up straight and took a deep breath. "Before we get to the main event, we're going to…" I punctuated every word by glaring at a different pony. "Have. A. Little. Talk."

The room was silent. Nopony dared breathe. Just like I wanted.

Casually, I said, "One of you is a traitor." Everypony tensed. "Take a moment and look around. Do it." They hesitated, but after they complied, I continued, "Somepony in the organization, probably in this room, decided to be an 'anonymous source' for the media. Somepony decided to sell our captain out for some unknown reason. Well, let me be perfectly clear: I don't bucking care."

A few eyebrows raised in the audience.

I turned and paced back and forth in front of the team. "Make no mistake: whoever you are, you screwed up. Big time. And if we find out who you are, then the bylaws are clear: you're out. No questions asked. But that's not what I want to focus on. No. The most important message we can take from this little incident is this." I stopped dead in my tracks for a second and stared at them. "Our team will not be broken. We're stronger than that. All you did was put yourself at risk, because you didn't think you could fly with the big colts. You thought you could give yourself an edge? Well, too bucking bad." I raised my voice. "We demand perfection, and if you can't live up to it, then I don't care how much you blab to the media! You're out!" I pivoted, stared directly at Silver Lining in the third row, and roared, "Do I make myself clear?"

They shouted back a disorganized, "Sir yes sir!"

I stomped a hoof and flared out my wings. I scowled and shouted, "I said perfection! Do I make myself clear?"

At once, they sat straight up and shouted in unison, "SIR YES SIR!"

"Do not make me repeat myself next time!" I yelled in response. I resumed pacing. "Now, I think I speak for both your captain and myself when I say that this weekend's show was pretty good. But is 'pretty good' acceptable?"

"SIR NO SIR!"

"Good. You're learning." I nodded at Spitfire, who had cocked her head back. I couldn't see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but I think she was waiting to see where I was going with this.

I looked back at the Wonderbolts. My Wonderbolts. "So we're going to make sure it doesn't happen again. Now, Misty Fly, you may hit the lights." To myself, I added, '…because you wouldn't want anypony to see your tears.'

It was the first-ever instance of the One-Stallion Firing Squad. I was merciless, but even worse, I was fair. I called out every little move I'd seen in the slides and read about in the trainers' reports. Not a single mistimed flap of a wing got past me unnoticed, and nopony but Spitfire, who was immune because of her co-captain status, made it out completely unscathed. I made a point to stare at each 'Bolt harder and longer than Spitfire ever did. Maybe it was my expression, maybe it was my intensity, or maybe it was the fear that came with seeing Spitfire be quiet for once, but they were shaken. I let them have it for over an hour, and as they left for practice, their quivering expressions told the whole story: they were breaking down, and that made them perfect for me to rebuild.

The practice that day was tough. Spitfire had laid out the usual regimen for the Monday after a show, but like her, I had a whistle, and I wasn't afraid to use it. Pods of fliers would do extra laps if they were too slow, I would demand another set of wing-ups after everypony was exhausted, and breaks were cut short to "practice endurance when the unexpected happens."

I could feel how much they hated me. The angry glares when they thought I wasn't looking, the scowls whenever they had to do extra exercises… It was exactly what I'd wanted. I needed that fire to spread to all of them if I wanted the next show to be perfect. And I demanded perfection.

And they improved, dammit. Say what you will about being hard on them, but it made them better. Tense? Sure, but better for it. By the end of each of our exercises, not a feather was out of place.

Nopony talked to me in the locker room that night, and I stayed late in my office to start making modifications to the Friday and Saturday shows. It was a double-header that week, and I wanted it be new and full of fire.

I thought Wave Chill would swing by the office when he noticed I was late, but he didn't. I did see a shadow pause outside the frosted glass door, but it eventually left.

I stayed until the sun was low, and nopony flew home with me. 'It's fine,' I told myself. 'They'll thank me after the next show. They're going to be even better this weekend.'

Dinner was simple: savory crepes with a high-vitamin vegetable puree. I had a little extra. I felt like I deserved it, and I didn't do much else that night. Can't say that I slept well, but at least I went to bed early. No dreams, either.

It felt like I'd barely closed my eyes when my alarm woke me up. Like a machine, I sat up, stretched my wings, and got ready for the morning. Breakfast was quick. The fire inside me hadn't been satisfied. If anything, I had grown hungrier. I had more work to do.

That's what was on my mind all day: work. I had to work hard to make the 'Bolts even better. They had to work hard to live up to my expectations. Everypony had to work hard to make the show a great one.

Training was going to be hard again on Tuesday. I'd spent the first hour of the morning in my office reviewing the technical details of the new stunts. Even if I'd only been at it for about a week, I had a good grip of my new responsibilities, and I didn't let anything pull my focus. Not even the headache that got worse as the day progressed.

By the time the 'Bolts were lined up in front of Spitfire and me out on the training plateau, they'd already been briefed about the new stunts by one of the head trainers, and they were getting ready for their usual Tuesday warm-up endurance flight of thirty laps around the course.

"Sixty!" I shouted, blowing my whistle.

They knew better than to wait around, and they scrambled as fast as they had in the locker room before the show. They were…

Sun's glory, I really thought they were mine, didn't I? I'm… I'm not an asshole, alright? But you don't get it unless you've lived it. For one night, I'd been the crown jewel of the most prestigious military and athletic team in the world, but it had all been yanked away. By my best friend. I needed a second chance. I would have given anything for it, and on that day, I was willing to pour the blood and sweat of my teammates onto the forge if that's what it took to craft another rise to the top. It was like a hard drug – all it took was one taste, and my friends had turned into nothing more than the needles I needed to get my next fix.

And as focused as I was, I didn't notice Spitfire walk up next to me. "We have a rule here that captains don't call each other out in front of the team."

The whistle still hung from my lips. I blew it as Cloudkicker started lagging. "Good," I mumbled with the metal in my mouth.

"But you're not a captain."

I felt her icy stare hit my cheek, and I turned my head, keeping a stoic face. "Not yet."

Spitfire's eyes widened ever so slightly behind her sunglasses. She didn't flinch, though. Calmly, she waved over the head trainer and told him. "Make sure they finish all sixty laps, but then give them a break. Stretching, take-offs, whatever. Just take it easy."

I snorted. "They need to be per–"

Spitfire jerked her head towards me and grumbled. "My office. Now." When I hesitated and felt my heart skip a beat, she added, "That's an order, Fire Streak. From your captain." She pivoted and walked away from me, her tail thrashing twice.

I stayed completely still for a moment, then let the whistle fall out of my mouth and dangle on the lanyard. "Yes, ma'am," I mumbled. I followed a few paces behind her.

The march back to her office was long. Part of me was desperate to get there, but the rest of me dreaded it, and it only got worse when I saw the big orange door. She opened it without looking back at me, and I followed her inside.

Spitfire's office was similar to mine, but with much more decoration. The same standard-issue desk and filing cabinets occupied the same places, but she'd also hung pictures of her parents on the wall behind her desk. There was a statue of a flying Wonderbolt on her desk, and a mirror-image statue – they probably came as a set – on the filing cabinet. A large poster of a pink pegasus playing airball hung on the wall, and her floor was dominated by an area rug with a forked lightning bolt on it. The room felt darker than mine, but that might have just been the mood.

Spitfire closed the shades halfway, then sat behind her desk. In a quiet voice, she said, "Have a seat."

I did as I was told, but the embers still flared up inside me. I tersely said, "Yes, captain?" I was ready for a fight.

Spitfire slowly leaned on her desk with both forelegs. She sighed, and I felt a shiver go up my spine. Slowly, she looked up from the desk at me with tired, drooping eyes. "I think I've made a mistake."

I snapped to attention, and my eyes opened wide. "No, ma'am! The 'Bolts will perform admirably, ma'am! We will be perfect!"

Spitfire smirked. "Hate to douse your enthusiasm, Fire Streak, but that's not what I meant." She looked over her shoulder and out the window. "Did you have a good time with the stallions on Friday?"

Cautiously, I nodded and said, "Yes, ma'am."

"I'm glad." She turned back to me. "You certainly earned it. The way you brought everypony together last week… You really shined. I'm glad Bottom Line picked you to lead the stallions."

The fire died down a little. "Th… Thank you, ma'am."

Her head lowered. "Please don't call me that in private."

"That's, uh… You still outrank me, though… Spitfire."

Spitfire looked up and frowned. "Streak, take it from me. This isn't how you want to run your squad." She looked down at her desk. "You should appreciate what you have with the other stallions. When the mares go out for a night, I don't end up talking to anypony. They all want to hang out, and I end up leaving early so they don't need to feel so on-edge."

My chest felt tight. She was… putting it all out there, and I didn't know how to react. I leaned forward. "But, Spitfire… You made this team. We're only as good as we are because you're not afraid to call us out on our mistakes."

She nickered, and her ear flicked back. "Yeah, somepony has to be the hard-ass, and I'm good at it, and you've seen how effective it can be…" She gestured out the window. "But this? Everything you're doing to them? Stop it." She shook her head, and when she spoke, it didn't sound angry. It sounded… sad. "Just… get your head out of your ass and realize what's happening to you."

My insides felt cold. "What do you mean? What's happening to me?"

"The same thing that happened to Soarin'."

I froze.

Spitfire continued. "I'm seeing a lot of the same things, Streak, and it has me worried. The drive and the energy are both there, but like him, you don't have any restraint." She clopped her hooves together in front of her face and mumbled, "And I don't want to lose any more friends."

My head tilted to the side. I couldn't feel the heat inside me anymore. Instead, it was a hollowness, something that seemed to come from Spitfire. "You guys aren't friends anymore?"

Spitfire shook her head. "I don't know, Streak. This job comes with a lot of pressure, and it can really mess with a pony. It happened to Soarin' – got in his heart and messed him all up – and I don't want it to happen to you. I failed him, and it looks like I'm failing you, too. See, I want all of you to succeed, but I've sacrificed a lot of friendships to get you there."

My neck felt stiff, and I tried to lie. "Spitfire, everypony likes you a lot. They–"

Spitfire lowered her glasses enough to glare at me. "I know what everypony calls me, Streak. 'The One-Mare Firing Squad.' It's… not exactly what I want my legacy to be." After a small hesitation, she took her sunglasses off and set them on the desk. "And I don't want to set a bad example for you, either. I didn't become a Wonderbolt to make friends, but that doesn't mean I want to lose the ones I have." She paused, then quickly added, "And in case you are as thick as Soarin', I'm talking about you."

I gulped. Despite how tough I'd been those past few days, she thought of me as a friend. In the short week we'd been working together, she'd seen something in me, something that she liked. I felt my heart in my throat, and I asked, "So… what should I do?"

"Be better than Soarin', Streak. I don't want to see what happened to him happen to you. You've got real potential, maybe enough to move up a few ranks, but if you can't get past one bad weekend where you got overshadowed…" She put her sunglasses back on. "…then maybe we need to put Soarin' back in charge after all."

I felt like I'd been caught by a tornado. From the sounds of it, she was considering recommending me for co-captain status, or at least she had been. If I could just prove that I was okay, then I actually had a shot!

But then the rest of her words hit home. "Put Soarin' back in charge." I felt him looming over me again, like a dark, blue shadow that completely blocked out the light. I started seeing red. It was like he was a predator, like he was coming for me. It didn't matter how well I performed or what Spitfire thought of me or how much the Wonderbolts improved. Soarin' would still come back, and as long as he held his rank, I would never get a serious shot at becoming co-captain.

The blood pumped faster in every part of me, and I grit my teeth. "That won't be a problem."

Spitfire looked at me again. "Fire Streak, I think you should take the rest of the day off." She saw me open my mouth, but cut me off. "I'm not punishing you. Like I said, I don't want you to end up like Soarin'. I… I'm trying to give you advice." She mumbled, "As a friend."

I was stunned. My wings drooped, and my eyes were wide open. And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being pushed out of the way. Soarin' had never been sent home.

My eyes narrowed, but I remained as respectful as I could. "Thank you, ma'am." I stood up and left.

The flight home felt rigid. My thoughts tossed and turned with different emotions. 'Buck. Spitfire really believes in me. But she's going to replace me again as soon as Soarin' comes back.' Every time I thought about him, the guy that was supposed to be my best friend, the fire flared up again. 'He took it from me. He took my big day, and he's going to take my position. He's the famous one, and I'm a nopony for as long as he's around.'

My thoughts looped like that until I made it all the way home. I threw open the door and paced around the kitchen, shaking my head and muttering to myself. "It doesn't matter. It's okay, I'll get my chance, but… Ugh!" I threw my head back and squeezed my eyes closed. My head whipped around, and it hit me like a slap across the face that I was the only Wonderbolt not at practice. I sneered, and I snorted, and I looked around for anything that could distract me.

And my eyes settled on a tabloid. On my kitchen table was the stack of papers I'd read over the weekend. Soarin's face was right on the cover. I walked to the table and picked it up, and a terrible, terrible thought came to me.

'What if Soarin' didn't come back?'

It was all right there, all so simple. All it would take would be one letter. Give it enough detail, throw in a couple embellishments, mail it anonymously from the Wonderbolts' own mailbox for authenticity… and no more blue shadow. Only fire. A smile crept across my face…

…and then dropped. "Gah!" My hoof suddenly quivered, and I jumped back, like the tabloid was a snake that had bitten me. I flapped my wings and hovered in the air above it, feeling nauseous as I realized what I'd proposed to myself. My jaw hung open, and I slowly shook my head. "No… No, I can't do that to…"

'To Soarin',' I thought, the words seeming to hiss in my brain. 'To the guy that went nuts and nearly drove the team into the ground. To the guy who couldn't take the pressure, then got all the credit when I saved everyone's ass.' I sighed and said aloud, "To the guy who called me the new Number One."

I landed on the floor and bit my lower lip, still staring at the tabloid. When I finally tore my eyes away, my stomach heaved. I ran into my bathroom and nearly threw up, but even as I gagged, I felt the embers burning inside me.

I tried to avoid the kitchen for the rest of the day, but I couldn't leave the house. I felt locked in, like that tabloid was calling me. I would walked past, catch a glimpse, and picture myself as co-captain of the Wonderbolts. Forever. With nopony to stand in my way. Nopony would know who had sent it in. It would be so, so…

And then I would shake my head and keep walking, desperately trying to find something to keep my mind off of it.

But I couldn't. I lay on my bed to try and sleep the thoughts away, but that just made them stronger. 'I mean, I wouldn't need to write anything too damning. Just something to keep him out until I established myself.' The worst part was… the more I argued with myself, the more it all seemed to make sense. 'And if he still deserves the top spot, he'll earn it back. I'd be helping the whole team. Competition is good. He'd want me to do everything I could for the 'Bolts.'

The fire kept building. Before knew what was happening, I was up and walking downstairs. "He's been so stressed lately. It would be good for him. Take the pressure off." I nodded to myself as I went to my desk and grabbed some paper, ink, and a quill. "And he can spend time with that Braeburn guy. Maybe he'll want to settle down." Somewhere in my subconscious, I knew I was lying to myself, but I still didn't stop. I couldn't stop.

Before long, I sat at my kitchen table with my quill and ink and a few blank pieces of paper. My chest rose and fell, and my rapidly beating heart threatened to jump out of my throat. I was sweating. My eyes were fluttering. I thought I would pass out.

But every time I considered putting my quill down, I saw it again: the newspapers all around me, all talking about the missing pony, none of them announcing my big break. I saw my whole career utterly wasted, and me, an afterthought in the history of the Wonderbolts. I saw Soarin' taking everything: my fame, my glory, my fans, my money, my friends, everything. As long as he was co-captain, I could never, ever be the star I was meant to be.

And with that thought in mind, I began the startlingly easy process of selling my soul.

Blaze

I signed the bottom of the fifth page "An Insider." My quill fell onto the table with a soft knock, and I let out a long, shuddering breath. After hunching over for so long, my neck felt like a weathervane after a tornado. The tabloids lay around me on the table, like they were already begging to see the pages of my letter. My wings itched. I wanted to fly away. I felt cold. I was having trouble blinking, and my jaw hung open. My breaths were labored.

I'd written it. Five pages of "insider secrets" about Soarin': a few truths, some half-truths, and plenty of outright lies. I'd made up a bunch of stuff about a bankruptcy and secret foal support, and I'd put in some allusions to doping. I'd thrown some true stuff in there, too, but… I don't want to tell it to you.

I think about that letter every time I go into my kitchen now. It's gotten bad enough that I've almost sold my half of the building. They were just words, but they were enough to completely destroy somepony that I'd called my best friend. And I'd written them. I want to believe that, even then, part of me knew it was wrong. I felt so distant from myself when I looked at it.

In some ways, it was a relief, like all the hatred was totally out of my hooves and that none of it was still in my body. But it's not that easy. You don't get rid of something by putting it on a page. I hated it. I hated that I'd created something so vile, but that wasn't the worst part. No, the worst part was that the fire was still there, still inside me, telling me that I was doing the right thing. It was telling me I had to go through with it, or Soarin' would swoop in and take everything away from me all over again, even more so if he found out about the letter.

I imagined him at the Academy. It was like a waking nightmare: Soarin' arriving right after I'd left, waiting for me to try to mail the letter. I would come in for a landing on the training plateau, and there he'd be, next to Spitfire, giving me a wink and saying, "It's good to be back, Number Two."

I snorted and jerked myself out of my chair. My eyes were narrow, and my face was scrunched and hot. I kept alternating between hovering and walking around in circles. I'd look out the window towards the Academy, then back at the letter.

And all the while, the fire told me it would all be better. I just had to stick the letter in the envelope. It's amazing how much evil you can convince yourself to do when it's just one step at a time.

Growling, I shook my head and ran outside, slamming the door behind me. I wanted to fly. I needed to fly away as far as I could. I leapt off my stoop. I built up speed as I ran. I flared out my wings…

…and I slowed to a stop as I got to my fence. I was already breathing heavily, like I'd been flying for hours. My head pulsed. I thought about how easy it would be to escape, but then I turned back to my house, straightened my shoulders, and grumbled to myself, "Captains don't run."

I walked back into a different house. Everything looked the same, but somehow it radiated a completely different feeling, a type of hot energy that was hard to look at. My kitchen didn't feel cozy, and it wasn't hard to figure out why. My blood pumped rapidly through my veins, and I felt like I couldn't breathe. That letter was choking me.

My hoof started shaking again, and I ran. I ran through the kitchen into my small living room and around the corner to the nook where I kept a mostly unused desk. "Where the buck did I put it?" I ripped open drawer after drawer, dug through old notepads, knocked old papers to the side. "C'mon, where? Ugh! How in Tartarus would I lose something like that?" I didn't find the envelope box until my third sweep of everything. It had been in the first drawer, like always, right with the stamps.

I snorted again and felt my hackles raise. I sneered at the envelope and stamps, then picked them up and dashed back to the kitchen table. It felt like they were burning a hole in my hoof. I wanted to be done with them. I wanted to get rid of them and never think about them again.

When I got back to the kitchen, I slammed the envelope on the table, knocking over the inkpot in the process. "Dammit!" I fumbled the envelope onto the floor and set the inkpot back up. My wings raised, trying to get comfortable as I picked up the envelope. I quickly yanked the quill from the table, jammed it into the inkpot, and wrote down the address for the National Equinerer, which was staring me in the face from their "Send in juicy tips!" ad. I didn't need to disguise my writing. The blots and my rushed hoof did it for me. I put the Wonderbolts' Press Office as the return address, then stuck the stamp on it with a loud slam.

And then, everything in my condo was quiet.

My body was hot. The fire in me died down, and it was quickly replaced by the cold grip of fear. I shivered and looked away from the table. My thoughts raced. 'Somepony's going to find out. What if it gets returned? I'll lose it all. Soarin's going to find out.'

I shook my head and left the room.

I couldn't go back into my kitchen for the rest of the day. That same feeling stuck with me the entire time, like I'd trapped a wild beast in my house that would get out if I so much as looked at it. It didn't even help to leave. I went out for dinner that night – I just swung by a hole-in-the-wall taco joint I liked – but the whole time, I could feel it, like it was calling to me.

I came home through the back door, which got me to my bedroom without having to go near the kitchen. I shut my door.

I spent the rest of the evening reading a couple of the standard-issue Wonderbolts manuals again. Did I need to? Probably not, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to be on top of my game. I went all the way through the protocols for being a captain or a lead flier, and I got through most of the basic and advanced formations and every little detail of timing and in-air communication. It kept my mind off of the beast on my kitchen table.

After a cold, cold shower, I got ready for bed. I set my alarm an hour earlier than usual, so I could mail the letter before anypony on my squad saw me. Even with that thing just a few rooms away, I slept pretty well that night. No, there weren't any tortured dreams. It was much worse to simply open my eyes when my alarm went off and realize that it was the morning twilight, time to do the deed.

I lie in bed for several minutes, until I was worried I would be late and the ringing of my alarm clock gave me a headache. I stood up. I didn't yawn, and I didn't stretch. I didn't eat breakfast, and I didn't go for a morning wake-up flight. Instead, I put on my uniform and tried to forget that Soarin' had shown me how to keep it so crisp.

The only thing I wanted was for the day to be over.

In the bathroom, I ran a wet comb through my mane, and I couldn't keep my eyes off the uniform. I imagined more patches and medals appearing on it, popping into existence over a long career, awards and honors that nopony could take away from me. I smiled and posed in front of the mirror.

But soon, my wings drooped, and my uniform felt heavy. I shook my head at the pale-faced pegasus in front of me. He looked so small and scared, with dark circles under his eyes and his ears down. He said, "I'm sorry, Soarin'." It sounded weak.

And that weakness ticked me off. I hated it. I started seeing red again. As soon as I'd said his name, I was back at the stadium. I remembered that amazing high, all being ripped away from me the moment the media had latched onto the real story. I was back in the media room, then the hotel room reading the paper, then the train station. That burning rage built in my chest again, until I stomped on my floor and growled the mirror, "No. No apologies. I deserve this."

My steps fell heavily on my floor. I moved efficiently to the kitchen, grabbed the envelope, stuck it in my saddlebag, and left my home. Wave Chill didn't meet me outside, of course. Instead, my only companion was my suspiciously weighty saddlebag, the one that seemed to whisper to me about what horrible things Soarin' was trying to do to me. The air was still, and I could hear its faint voice telling me to keep going.

I arrived at dawn. The sunrise seemed so perfect, like Celestia herself was blessing my actions. She knew that it was a new day for Fire Streak. I was taking my destiny into my own hooves.

Each step through the arches of the Academy grounds felt important. I walked in and nodded at a sleepy-looking guard, then continued down the walkway past alabaster statues of the great Wonderbolts of history. There was Commander Easyglider, General Firefly, Admiral Fairweather, and dozens more, all fliers that had proven themselves the greatest of their time. They had all become Number One.

There were no detours that day. No, I headed straight for the front office, Hurricane Hall, a small cloud building with a wrought iron sign above the door written in ancient Equestrian: "Praemia Virtutis Honores". Honor is the reward of virtue. I looked away from it. My cheeks flushed, and I mumbled, "If only."

It was time for me to earn my place among the elite Wonderbolts of the past, and all I had to do was take down the greatest threat my career had ever known. I did everything I could to not think. My hooves moved automatically, driven on by the raging fire that threatened to consume my body.

The building was still locked, but Paper Pusher, the secretary, let me in. "Um, good morning, Fire Streak," she said in a small voice that fit her aged stature. "Can I help you?"

"Good morning. Sorry to bother you, but I want to check the mail before I forget again." I hadn't checked the mail since the previous week, so it wasn't a complete lie. I gave her a grimace and nodded. "In case HQ sent any paperwork I need to fill out or anything."

She gave me a soft, warm smile that felt like a dagger in my stomach. "Of course, Streaky. I think you'll enjoy it." I wasn't sure what she meant, but I was happy to get her out of the way.

The halls of the reception building were empty and cold, and I had to turn on the gem lamps one by one as I walked down them. Smooth tile and bare walls lined the hallway, broken up only by the metal doors and a single public bulletin board that never had anything useful. I walked down the hall, counting my steps. The heat coursed through my blood, threatening to take me in a tidal wave of fire. 'Almost there,' I thought. 'Just a few more–'

I'd reached the mailroom.

My heart stopped. The large, imposing door was still shut. Carefully, I lifted a hoof, and the door rattled as I tried to open it. It was still locked.

I let out a breath and sucked in another one. I was dizzy. Sitting down, my saddlebag hit the floor, and a small clinking noise echoed through the empty hallway. Without looking, I reached into my bag and pulled out the envelope.

It seemed so innocuous. Twisting it in my hooves, I thought about how that envelope didn't know what it was really doing, how it might have been used to said a letter to a grandmother or a friend. Now, though, it was being used as a weapon. A cloaked dagger that Soarin' would never see coming. I shook my head and said to myself, "Am I really doing this?"

It didn't feel real. I hoped I was still dreaming. The more I blinked and bit my tongue, though, the more convinced I was that it was real. In my hooves, I was holding a way to get everything I wanted, and all it would cost me was a lifetime of guilt.

I told myself I wasn't making the decision yet. I told myself that I was just checking the mail, and that anything involving a certain outgoing mail slot was eons into the future. Evil, one step at a time. I wish I could say it wasn't the real me, that it was the fire inside and that I'm completely blameless, but, well… Who are we but the pony we become in our darkest moment?

I looked back up at the door and spoke quickly. "Get in, get out, and get on with your life." I sucked in another big breath and fished my keys out of my bag. My hoof tremored, and it took me four tries to get the key into the lock. To my horror, it turned. My head shook. "No… No no no…" All the breath left my body, and slowly, the door creaked open.

Despite what my heart was telling me, everything felt like it was out of my hooves, like I had already built up momentum and was about to either soar to great heights or crash and burn completely. I walked into the dark mailroom, the envelope weighing heavy in hoof. It was time. I was about to make my decision, about to throw away my integrity and my honor and everything else to get what I wanted. I took one more step forward, and in a small, resigned voice, I said,

"I'm sorry, Soarin'."

I flicked the lights. "I'm so, so sorr–" I stopped. My eyes went wide, quickly adjusting to the light, and my knees almost buckled. There, off to one side near my personal mail slot, was a duffel bag labeled with a hoof-written sign that read:

Fan Mail: Fire Steak

I stepped forward, cautiously at first. All on their own, my eyes blinked, and my head shook. It was real. There was a big bag of envelopes, stuffed full, with mail that was all for me. I slid my saddlebag off my back, afraid to breathe and never tearing my eyes away. My bag thumped onto the floor, right next to the outgoing mail box.

For a few minutes, I just stared at it. See, all the mail we get is screened by security first, to make sure it's not coming from some psychopath. They don't open everything, but they check all the names against a register, and anything that wasn't 100% safe was thrown out. That meant one thing: these were all real. Every single one was a letter meant just for me. Soarin' had told me before about the bags of letters he'd get whenever the show went on tour, and yeah, his bags were always bigger, but this… I couldn't believe it. I dropped the envelope onto the floor. With a nervous hoof, I opened the bag and took out a piece of mail.

I twisted it all around, felt the weight of it. It seemed like just a couple pages inside, so much like the letter I'd written, but completely different. I couldn't wait to open it, but it all seemed too perfect, like I wanted to keep it sealed forever. That feeling didn't last long, though, and, swallowing hard, I opened it up. There were two pieces of paper inside. The first one was pink. In sloppy, crayon hoofwriting, it read:

Dear Mister Fire Streek,

Your show was really really super! I liked the fire parts and the part where you and Spitfire did the big loop and the fire and the Wonderbolts picture. That part. Do you get hot when you do that? I'm Northwind, and I'm 6 and a Half, but I'm almost 7. Thanks you for being great. I wanna fly in the Wonderbolts when I grow up!

You're biggest fan,
Northwind

My body felt like it was made of clouds. I was light-headed, and I blinked a few times to make sure the letter was real. It stayed the same.

I quickly cycled to the other page. This one was white, and the words were a lot more legible.

Dear Mr. Fire Streak,

FANTASTIC show this weekend! I brought my daughter Northwind to see the Wonderbolts, and she hasn't stopped talking about it since. She was truly inspired by the work you do, and I think I'm going to sign her up for your Junior Fliers camp later this summer if there's still room.

You sure that was your first show as lead flier? Could have fooled me! Everything looked tight and perfect. Now, I'm not a stunt flier by any means, but hey, if you can make the audience happy, that's what matters, right? You certainly gave us the most fun we've had in months.

I know you probably get inundated with stuff like his, but could you please send a headshot made out to Northwind? It would make her smile, and I know it would mean the world to her. I told her that you get a lot of letters and to not get her hopes up, but it doesn't hurt to ask!

Thanks again for everything,
Stormy Glider

I had thought there was nothing better than a crowd of screaming fans. I'd thought that media attention and fame and feeling like you were the best were the most important parts of being a Wonderbolt, that being in the papers meant that you'd made it. If I'd had any more room in my heart to feel stupid, I would have, but instead, I was overflowing with something else, a feeling of lightness and fullness that stretched from my hooves to the tip of my nose. The world was spectacular, I was weightless, and I had made a filly smile. I still have those letters. I framed them and put them up by my desk, so I can always look at them when I'm feeling blue.

I deftly put that letter back in my saddlebag, and I caught a glimpse of…

…

I put that letter away in my saddlebag and tore into the next one. Then the next one, then the next one. They were all glowing reviews from ponies I'd never met. There were flirty letters and heartfelt letters and letters with requests and letters that asked random questions, but the one message that kept coming up over and over again was this: I'd made them smile.

After a dozen or so letters, I looked back at the envelope on the floor. The fire whispered to me about how I could have all this every day, and Soarin' would tear the team apart, and didn't I want to keep making ponies smile? The visions came back: earning medals, starring in big shows, and becoming co-captain. Getting a statue on the academy grounds, being written about in history books, and being renowned among all future stunt fliers. My mind flooded with feelings of glory and success, and the temptation raged inside my head, harder than ever.

But it wasn't alone. Something else had sparked back to life, a flare of something warm and comfortable instead of wrathful and fierce, something that had been with me my whole life. I remembered all the good I had already done as a leader, all the good that Soarin' had done, and how much that little filly Northwind looked up to us. And as I did, the voice began to fade. It receded more and more, replaced by this new, old feeling.

I picked up my discarded envelope, the one with the last of my integrity inside. I looked at the mail slot, which was easily within reach. Right there. Right in front of me, but now, it didn't seem so menacing. That voice, weak and pleading, kept whispering to me a few moments longer, until I shook my head, calmly said, "No," and snuffed it out.

With that voice silenced, I put the envelope back into my saddlebag, and out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one more letter. It wasn't in the duffel bag, though. This one was in my mailbox.

I stood up and stretched my back. I'd completely lost track of time, but I'd been there long enough to get sore. The envelope was face-down, and as I pulled it out, I examined the lower left corner on the back for my picture.

Sorry, I should probably explain. A lot of fan mail and a lot of junk comes through our mail system. There's a special way you can get mail directly to one of the Wonderbolts, though: draw their code picture on it. Every one of us has one, and we only give out to friends and potential business partners for sponsorships and things. It's a great way for somepony to communicate with you without giving out your personal information. It's also a great way for a particularly thick Wonderbolt captain to mail his best friend when he can't remember my actual address.

And yeah, the symbol was there.

…

Keep it a secret? It's a picture of a barn. Weird, right? But I promise it makes sense. When I was a colt, I was one of the last ponies in my class to get his cutie mark. I was flying home from school one day, when I saw a barn off in the distance that was billowing smoke. I dashed towards it. As I got close, I saw a little filly screaming and crying near the entrance. She said her kitten was trapped inside on the second story, where she couldn't reach them. Without thinking, I dropped my bags and rushed inside, darting around and narrowly dodging falling rafters and debris. The smell of smoke was overpowering, and the flames scorched several of my feathers. I heard a panicked meowing, and through the smoke, I saw a white kitten. I grabbed her – I still have a scar near my hoof where she scratched me, the poor, scared thing – and burst out a window. The filly said it looked like a fireball blazing through the sky, but when she saw it, she knew her kitten was safe. I gave the kitten back, and the firefighters arrived just in time to see a flash of light as I got my fireball cutie mark. Ever since that day, I've known I was destined for flying in extreme conditions.

That barn means a lot to me, and so I use it as my code picture. It had been drawn perfectly on the back of that envelope, and that meant it was from somepony I knew I could trust.

I squinted at it and turned it over. The return address was in Appleloosa. My heart seized up, and my thoughts raced. 'Did he already find out about my letter?' Stupid question, but yeah, it's what I thought. The address was slightly misspelled, but I didn't think anything of it.

I sat down. Slowly, I opened the envelope, and with a delicate hoof, I took out Soarin's letter. It wasn't long. It wasn't intricate. It wasn't even particularly well-written. But it was Soarin'.

Street,

I don't even need to weight for the peppers. I now you killed it. Great flying, Number One.

~Soarin'

I smiled, chuckled to myself, and shook my head at all the misspelled words. "Dumbass," I whispered. "You were drunk, weren't you?" I wish I'd realized the truth sooner, but at the time, nopony knew how serious that head injury had really been.

But he was there for me. Even when he was dealing with all of his own problems and probably distracted by a million fans and a hot stallion, he was there for me, and he'd wanted me to know it. He was there for me. He cared. He was my friend.

And I was a monster. I looked back to my saddlebag, and all the color drained out of me. There was no raging inferno inside me, and that voice that had seemed so persuasive was gone. It was just me and my stupid saddlebag with a stupid letter inside, one that I'd written with my own hooves. I had wanted to destroy my best friend all over a stupid show.

My world felt clearer, like I had taken off a dirty pair of sunglasses. I sniffed hard and looked down at Soarin's letter again. My mouth curled into a frown, and I took a few shaky breaths as my eyes began to water. I wiped away the tears and hugged the letter to my chest. Shaking my head, I screwed my eyes tight, and whispered, "I'm sorry, Soarin'."

With a few deep breaths, I sat up straight, and I felt something behind me. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw Spitfire, wearing her uniform and hiding behind her sunglasses again. I cleared my throat. "Hey."

There are a few things you can expect with Spitfire. She's the first to point out when somepony's late or not pulling their weight. She always has a snappy comeback and a few words of terrifying encouragement, and you can count on her to whip you into shape and make you power through whatever slump you're in, like it or not. At least, that's her reputation.

But maybe you can't always trust a pony's reputation. Spitfire slowly took off her sunglasses so I could see her eyes. They were soft, and her eyebrows were furrowed, but not in an angry way. In a soft voice, she said, "Hey. You okay?"

I looked down at Soarin's letter again. "Not really."

"Do you, um…" I looked up and saw her glancing back down the hallway. "Do you want to…"

I laughed a little. "Yeah, I do." I patted the ground next to me.

Spitfire walked over and sat down next to me. Our backs were at the door, and she glanced behind herself a few times. It got distracting enough that I rotated so we could face the door in case anypony walked by. Her wing muscles relaxed as she turned around, and she asked, "So, what's up?"

I sighed. There was no point in sugarcoating it. "I'm a traitor."

Spitfire raised an eyebrow. "What did you do?"

With a bit of hard work, I was able to glance her way, but only for about two seconds. "I almost sold out my best friend."

There was a long pause.

"Care to elaborate?"

"Well, not really."

Spitfire rolled her eyes. "Streak, you need to get better at this whole talking thing. Celestia knows I won't."

I looked up at the ceiling and sighed. "It was last Friday. Friday was supposed to be my big break." I shrugged. "I mean, jeez, my parents were there, the stadium was packed, and we introduced a whole new array of pyrotechnics, for Celestia's sake! First night being the lead flier and everything."

Spitfire's voice got a little bouncier. "Streak, you did have a great night, and from the looks of things," she said, glancing at the duffel bag full of mail. "…the fans liked it, too. What's wrong with any of that?"

"I didn't get to be famous." I looked back at Spitfire.

She stared at me with a neutral expression for a few seconds. "Is that honestly what you care about?"

I shook my head. "Not really, but I think I had expectations, right? I see how you and Soarin' get to go to big events, everypony's always swarming around you when we're in public, and you get all this love and adoration. You're the faces of the team, and I finally had my chance to hit it big. You can't tell me you don't understand the drive, right?" I shifted in place and looked at her directly. "Every single one of us wants to be in your position. It's the thing that keeps us going and makes us push ourselves: we want to know that we really are the best of the best, that everypony knows we're the best, so we won't have to doubt. So we won't have to be insecure anymore or worry about being cut. Yeah, I know you have to do a lot of extra work, but you can't say it's not worth it, right?"

Spitfire pursed her lips. "I… yeah, I can't."

I blew air out of my lips, and my voice became flatter. "And then Friday night happens, and it seems like everything was going my way and I was going to hit it big." I winced and shook my head. "Tartarus, I'd even planned on getting the freaking front page of the sports section framed. But nopony wanted anything to do with me." I slumped. "They wanted to know about Soarin'. Soarin's the real Number One."

Spitfire looked out into the hallway. "I'm going to be honest, Streak. I have no idea what that's like anymore."

I raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

She frowned and looked back at me. "Streak, I've been in this position for a few years now. You're right. It's a lot of extra work, and I do it because I care about this team, but the longer it goes on, the more detached I get. I told you that the mares don't hang out with me much because they're too intimidated, and as time passes, it gets harder and harder to relate to their postion." She turned to me. "So I appreciate the reality check once in a while, but I still don't see why feeling like this makes you a traitor."

The pit of my stomach dropped, but I didn't hesitate. I wanted that thing out of my life. I reached over to my saddlebag, took out my letter, and gave it to Spitfire.

She raised an eyebrow and examined both sides. "What, you couldn't ask one of the secretaries to write something for you?"

I looked away. "Just read it."

She opened it up, and when she saw that it was five pages long, she mumbled, "Apparently, you had a lot to say." She flipped open the first pages and started reading to herself. "To whom it may concern: I am an insider with the Wonderbolts, and you don't know the first thing about Soarin'. All I want to do is set the record straight and give you the honest truth about everypony's… so-called hero. There are a few things…" She trailed off, and her eyes widened as she quickly skimmed the rest of the pages. "Yeah, I see what you mean."

"Yeah," I said, my head hanging low.

Spitfire shook her head. "Streak," she said in a flat voice, "Tell me the truth. Were you the one that told the media about Soarin' being cut?"

"No," I said without hesitation. I looked at Spitfire's dark sunglasses. "I mean, after the last few days, I guess I wouldn't put it past me, but no, it wasn't me."

Spitfire stared at me for a few seconds, then let out a shallow breath. "I believe you."

"Thanks." I hung my head again and tried to get everything over with. I'd read the bylaws. I knew what was coming. "Silver Lining could probably use a few more shows. Wave Chill's got a good attitude, and he's pretty precise. I'd go with him for a couple weeks. "

"Huh?"

I looked up at her. "You're going to demote me, right? You'll need to replace me."

Her head rolled to the side. "Why would I?"

My head twitched, and I roughly ran a hoof through my mane. "Spitfire, are you serious? I tried to run a good pony's name into the ground over a stupid freaking show!" I stood up and paced, staring at the floor. "What kind of example is that? To have the guy in charge keeping everypony else down? I almost cost Soarin' his entire career!"

Spitfire was quiet for a moment. "But you didn't."

With a sigh, I stopped pacing. "Yeah, but I could have."

"Streak," she said as she stood up, dropping the letter into the trash. She walked over to me and put a hoof on my shoulder. She was gentle. And warm. "I don't care about what might have been. Nopony does. We care about what is, and right now, we've got a team of Wonderbolts in the middle of a scandal that's only going to get worse. We've got a lot of work to do to keep all these ponies together, but that doesn't mean the team's up a creek. Right now, we've got a strong flying squad with a damn fine leader, a young stallion that's stepped up and proven that he has what it takes."

"Okay, but who's to say I won't try–"

"No." Spitfire wheeled around in front of me and removed her sunglasses. She lifted my chin, and my eyes met hers, deep auburn that shimmered and burned as brightly as the fire inside me had. "Streak, listen to me. Yeah, you nearly bucked up. Big time. But you didn't. And I don't want any excuses about how it was a lucky break that I walked in here or anything. You didn't mail that letter, even though nopony would have found out. You're not that kind of pony. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said sullenly.

"Good," she said, dropping her hoof to the ground. She brushed some dirt off her uniform. "So tell me, Fire Streak, what kind of pony are you?"

It caught me off guard. It was a simple question, but I didn't have an answer. "I'm…" I didn't know. Ever since I'd been named the lead flier for the stallions, that title had completely consumed me. I'd chased that dream with everything I'd had, and when it hadn't worked out the way I'd wanted, I'd felt… lost. Without that title and all that fame, I didn't think I was anypony anymore.

Spitfire tapped a hoof. "I'm waiting."

But Spitfire was right. I was a pony that was capable of doing great things. I'd already helped bring the 'Bolts through a tough shake-up of the roster. I'd performed new stunts with only a few days' notice. I'd stopped myself from making a horrible mistake, and most of all…

"I'm a Wonderbolt."

Spitfire smiled again. "And what does it mean to be a Wonderbolt?"

My words came out softly at first. "It means striving to always be better." I got a little louder. "It means enduring when times get tough." Even louder. Bolder. "And it means sticking with my team." I stood up straighter and looked her in the eyes. "I'm that pony, and I'm more than that. I care about this team, Spitfire, and I'm not going to let it fall apart!"

My chest filled with pride and warmth. I felt the fire again, but this time, it was different. I wasn't feeling it just for myself. No, I was feeling it for my team. "Because I'm a Celestia-damned Wonderbolt, ma'am!"

Spitfire nodded and put her glasses on. "Good answer, Fire Streak." She turned to leave. "We should probably–"

"I'm not done yet."

Spitfire looked over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow, then turned back to me. "Then what else?"

My head turned to the side, and I saw Soarin's letter again, right next to the big bag of fan mail. With slow steps, I walked over and picked it up. "I'm Soarin's friend, and that's a hell of a lot more important than getting my name in the papers." I folded the letter up and put it in my saddlebag, then turned back to Spitfire. "I'll have a chance to earn my rank. Soarin's already gotten there, and he deserves to be welcomed back by his own team." I stomped my hoof. "No more distractions. No more chasing fame. The 'Bolts deserve better than that. When Soarin' gets back, I'll be damn sure the squad is ready for him."

Spitfire cocked her head back and smiled. "I knew you were the right choice."

At those words, the fire inside me burned brighter than it ever had. "Thank you, ma'am."

She lowered her glasses and narrowed her eyes. "What did I tell you about calling me that?"

I laughed. "Ha! Okay. Sorry, Spitz."

Her face scrunched up, and she slid the glasses back onto her face. "Good enough. Let's go. The team's waiting for us."

I grabbed my saddlebag and joined her outside the mailroom. The sun was shining in through the big glass doors down the hallway, and as we approached it, I felt something well up in my chest. Maybe it was the confidence she'd given to me, or maybe things were a little clearer with my head back on straight, or maybe I was finally able to just focus on somepony else. Whatever it was, I turned to her and said, "Hey, Spitfire?"

"Yeah?" She swiveled her ears toward me and looked my way.

"I don't think you're intimidating."

She stopped in her tracks. For just a second, I could see past that tough outer shell she always put on, until she smirked and rolled her eyes. "Heh. I don't know if I'm supposed to take that as a compliment or if it means I'm losing my touch."

It… kind of hurt to hear her make a joke about it. We stood there in the silence for a few seconds, and she shifted in place. I could see her eyes darting between me and the door, but her eyes were obscured by the glare.

Without thinking, I reached out and removed the sunglasses from her face and tucked them into her breast pocket.

Spitfire blinked at me a few times, wide-eyed.

I like her eyes. They're deep and fiery and strong, just like her, and it's a lot easier to talk to her when I can see them. "I'm serious," I said, my tail flicking behind me. "I've really liked working with you. I know you said the mares can be a little cold, so…" I felt myself blush. "…wanna hang out sometime?"

She paused, but slowly, a smile crept across her face. "Yeah. I'd like that."

I smiled, too. "Great," I said, holding the door for her. "Just… not tonight."

"Heh, alright. We'll do it tomorrow, then." She walked outside, and as she did, she asked, "But why not tonight?"

"Because," I explained, smiling and walking out into the morning sunlight. "I need to answer my fan mail."