1. Setting the Stage for a Night About Her
I adjust the Wonderbolts standard issue sunglasses so they don’t fall down my snout again. The silly things always feel like they’re ready to fall right off my face if I so much as turn my head too quickly.
That would just do wonders for my image. It’d be right up there with Soarin diving face first into a warm apple pie and his shades falling into the darn thing.
Which also totally happened once. I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life.
Ask Spitfire about it sometime. She loves telling embarrassing stories about her little “totally-not-my-boyfriend-we’re-just-friends-stop-smirking-at-us-Fleetfoot-or-you’re-flying-laps-’til-your-wings-fall-off.”
I don’t even try holding back my sniggering as I trot up the walkway toward Cloud Nine, the fanciest, most posh, expensive restaurant in all of Cloudsdale. For normal a regular Joe Schmo pegasus, you’d be lucky if you could get on the reservation list two weeks out.
Fortunately for me, I’m a Wonderbolt, and get a bit of special treatment.
I also put this in, like, three months ago when I finally managed to wheedle Daring’s birthday out of her. She tried so hard to play it off, it’s cute, really. Same as whenever she tries to keep secrets from me.
Every time, she gets this foal in the storm look in her eyes, looks down and away, and tries to give some half-baked excuse, all the while pretending so eagerly that she doesn’t have the most adorable blush spreading across her cheeks while she squirms beneath my almighty smirk and raised eyebrow combo.
I have it on good authority that my smirk-eyebrow combo should be classified as torture of an inequine nature by the Geneighva Convention. Spitfire said so herself.
Either way, I need to make sure my brilliant plan is in place. Her presents are ready—I made sure everything was cleared with Spitfire and the Wonderbolts’ brass before I decided on asking. It doesn’t matter if it’s on base or off, in Cloudsdale or not, I want this for us. Aside from that …
Well, I found a little something on our tour in Saddle Arabia that she’ll love. A little something from their culture that I’m sure she’ll love.
The doorcolt spots me. I sneak a quick glance around to make sure no pony is watching before I pull my hood back just enough so he can see my snowy white mane and lower my sunglasses to look him in the eye.
His ears stand straight up. He nearly trips over himself scrambling to the door and pulling it open for me, then bows his head low and says, “W-Welcome to Cloud Nine, M-Miss Fleetfoot!”
And this is why Wonderbolts wear hoods and shades when we go out in Cloudsdale proper and want to be left alone, mares and gentlestallions. As cool as it seems the first three dozen or so times, and as cute as it is watching younger ponies get starstruck, it gets tiring when you’ve got things to do.
For instance, making sure the fancy dinner reservation you’ve got in place for your beloved, adorable, squirmy, perfect pegasus of a girlfriend’s birthday.
That said, whoever is reading this has my full permission to tell my Darey how utterly adorable she is in all her adventure gear the next time she steps hoof on base. The one requirement is that pictures must be taken in my stead if I’m not present.
Seriously, the way she blushes is so worth it.
I step inside of Cloud Nine and can’t help but let my eyes wander. I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been to some pretty high end places while out on tour, but I’ll eat a lightning bolt and wash it down with a full gallon of liquid rainbow if Bastille’s family doesn’t know how to decorate a restaurant.
It’s breathtaking, really. In my completely unbiased opinion (shut up, I’m very objective and Soarin is a dirty, slandering liar if he says otherwise), Cloudsdale architecture is the tops. Figuratively and literally. Full stop, end of story, thank you for coming.
From what I’ve heard, the family closes the place up for two days each week. One day is to change the architecture a little bit, the other is so they and their employees can all rest and take a day to spend time with their own families.
Right now, Bastille has it set up to look like the ceiling is being held up by the columns of ancient Roam. Shaped and smoothed to perfection, like a newborn foal’s coat, and extending up to support the high arching ceiling’s weight.
To my left, I see a flash of rainbow seeming to pour down from the balcony above into a small pool. I can’t help but draw in a deep breath and swish my tail.
Liquid rainbow is an expensive decorative piece. Even though we pegasi are the sole producers, the bulk of it is strictly for weather purposes. Paying the factory to supply for a fountain like this must’ve cost a fortune.
As I pull down my hood and remove my sunglasses, I let my mind wander a little. Already, I can imagine the blush spreading across her cheeks.
It’ll be the perfect chance to kiss the end of her nose and watch her squirm.
Just have to figure out how to slip it in all casual like. Dear Celestia, I could pass as an evil genius.
Kinda ironic, since I’ve got the best friends a mare could ask for playing that very role tonight.
“Bonjour, Madame Fleetfoot! Comment allez-vous aujourd’hui?”
My right ear flicks at the sound of Bastille’s voice. I turn to face him with a smile and try to think back to my old Prench lessons. I really wish I’d paid more attention in secondary school. “J-Je suis bien, monsieur,” I reply with an admittedly terrible attempt at pronunciation. “Et vous?”
Bastille grins and waggles his ears. “I am well, Madame,” he says without missing a beat. “An admirable attempt at my language, I must say. Though you’re not supposed to pronounce the consonants unless a vowel follows.”
I duck my head, trying to ignore the burn making its way across my face. “I’m a bit out of practice.”
“Pas de probleme.” He waves me off. “How may I help you today?”
Straight to business, huh? I can’t help but wrinkle my snout. Not even a bit of playing around?
Spitfire would probably love promoting him over me, and pointing out how she likes a pony who knows when to shut up and get to work. Fillyhood friend my perfectly toned rump! She just lived for the chance to mess with me!
Naturally, she’s the most perfect best friend anypony could ask for.
I give a casual shrug of my wings, a sharp contrast to the sudden tightening in my chest. I really hope that wife of his didn’t think my request was a joke three months ago, or I might as well just pluck my feathers and take a dive off the edge of the city. “Nothing major. I just wanted to make sure everything was still in order for my reservation tonight.”
His eyes widen just a bit, a small smile spreads across his muzzle. “Ah, of course!” Bastille raises an eyebrow. “With respect, Madame, I do believe it would be rather difficult for me to forget. Although, I must admit, I was a bit surprised to see such a large number of ponies. My wife made it sound like you said Miss Do didn’t have many friends.”
Relief floods my chest. I let out a sigh and relax my wings. “It’s not quite that. She’s got a small circle of friends, but she normally likes to work alone. Not much of a team player unless the world’s on fire, know what I mean?”
“I suppose that makes sense.” He gives a slow nod. “Perhaps she misunderstood your wording.”
Either that, or I didn’t do a good enough job of explaining the totally awesome, yet deliciously adorable mare I’m dating. Whatever the case may be, it’s all going according to plan. Everything is on track.
Bastille, however, has something else on his mind. His eyes flit between the dining area and me, then he says, “I know it isn’t my place to say, but are you absolutely certain that you don’t want us to simply bring out our larger tables? It would make more sense, I think, than to have all the guests sitting separately …”
Uh oh. Looks like he’s not in the loop.
Oh well. I’ve got my reservation confirmed, so everything should be set to make this the best birthday Daring’s ever had.
Until the next one I plan, of course.
I could take a few minutes to explain my totally brilliant plan to reduce Daring to a blushing, squirming pile of mare as she tries to deny her nature as a complete, total, and utter lovey-dovey pansy.
She totally is, by the by.
Putting that aside for a moment (if only because I kind of have to), I move to Bastille’s side and threw a hoof over his shoulders. “Basty, lemme let you in on a little plan I came up with to get a certain girlfriend of mine who hates all mushiness and fancy things to go to a dinner party at the fanciest restaurant in the city …”
Sometimes I think my brilliance should be a crime against equinity. Really, it’s just not fair.
Forgive me if it sounds arrogant, but when you can make the old Prench stallion who’s renowned for taking things with little more than a small smile laugh so hard he has to hold himself up on the host’s counter, you’re doing something right.
And I’m not just doing something right. I’m doing something brilliant. All the military precision drilled into me by Drill Sergeant Typhoon back in basic is being put to use, along with more sass than the world has ever seen.
Just sayin’, Daring is doomed tonight. Doomed to suffer a nice party and a semi-public show of affection.
That said, I should probably have an escape plan ready. I love her dearly, but sometimes it’s hard to tell when she’s going to throttle me or she’s going to hug me.
The former is a real danger. We compared the number of martial arts styles we’d learned once. Just once. Apparently, Daring Do, adventurer extraordinaire, learned a wide variety of things I like to file under “crazy” in order to beat Ahuitzotl’s face into the ground or, alternatively, fold him like origami and combine that ugly mug of his with his hindquarters.
Go right ahead and let that image sink in for a moment.
In the meantime, I’ve got a little meeting with a certain bestest and oldest friend in the whole wide world on the docket.
Gotta make sure everypony’s on board with this, or I’m going to have a pony-shaped hole or two in this brilliant plan of mine.
And I just can’t have that. My plans are airtight all the way until Spitfire (or, in this case, Daring) gets red in the muzzle and starts cursing my name to the heavens in ways that make even Princess Celestia blush. After that, it’s up in the air.
Unfortunately, flying for my life doesn’t quite work with Spitfire anymore. There’s the whole “I’m her subordinate and she can decide my fate anytime she likes” thing working against me there, and Soarin (I swear they’re dating, no pony blushes and looks away that much when you drop a line about the other before spouting denials left, right, and center like that) sits there with that smug grin on his pie-eating muzzle.
Which reminds me of a joke I told a while back—oh, did I ever pay for this one! I can’t help but laugh at the memory. See, what I like to do is hint to Spitfire that Soarin might like to try a different sort of pie that begins with the letter “P” sometime, and hold back on saying “pumpkin” or “pecan” or “peanut butter” until she gets redder than a Red Gala, her ears perk up, her feathers ruffle, and that flame-looking tail of hers starts swishing. Stir the pot a little, set it to boil, and then get the holy hay out of dodge before Mount Spitfire blows her top.
Living on the edge is great fun if you can move fast enough to avoid getting killed or mutilated by your best friend. Though, again, having to follow orders takes a bit of the fun out of things.
Stupid Officer Candidate School.
I see a flash of yellow-orange and navy at the coffee shop ahead. She’s sitting in her spot, across from the pie-eating monster himself, at her favorite hangout in town. Neither of them have their sweater hoods up and their shades are clipped on their collars, an open invitation to come talk while they’re not eating.
We’re not near Cloud Nine, so it’s not like ponies will connect the dots. As long as Daring doesn’t find out through that crazy network of hers—she has one, I’m not joking—we’re all good.
The chance to swing by and buzz the pair of them is rather tempting, but I’ll resist. I can be a good mare every now and then, if only because they’re helping me out.
I lean back to put on the air breaks, landing a few pony lengths away from the small three-seater table. “Hey, guys,” I say, giving both a nod as I take my seat on Spitfire’s left, Soarin’s right. Leaning back, I prop my hind hooves on the table and laid my head in my fore hooves. “Reservation at Cloud Nine is all taken care of on my end. Everything a go on yours, Fire?”
Spitfire looks up from today’s issue of The Cloudsdale Chronicle and nods. “Main squad’ll be there, we plan to meet up a couple hours before so we can change our look a little bit.” Pausing to take a sip of her coffee, she returns to her reading, adding almost off-hoofedly, “Rookie’s down for her part and she said she got a couple of friends to agree to play the parts you asked so long as Bastille didn’t mind fixing a couple steak dinners.”
I waved her off. “Taken care of. Cloud Nine always welcomes griffons, and I figured they’d like a little something for their trouble. Plus it fits the whole ‘spy game’ thing if we have the meeting in a place the ‘bad guys’ can eat and be all villainy.”
Ah, Rainbow Dash, coming through for the home team as always.
I really oughta do something nice for her since she came up with an extra player to this little drama. Well, I owe the whole team big time. Especially if Daring blows her stack when we walk in on their little—ahem—play.
Idly, I recall a certain date we went on in Phillydelphia that went south rather quickly. Daring took me to a museum displaying one of her latest finds—I don’t remember which one, I was way too busy enjoying the way her eyes lit up and shone while she explained its history and meaning to the Sumareic culture—when Dr. Caballeron decided to cut in on what had been a rather lovely night.
To make a long story short, one of his little lackeys sidled up to me and spiked my drink. Next thing I know, I wake up in a warehouse, tied to a chair, and surrounded by Caballeron and his merry band of mercenaries. Something about revenge against Daring, usual villain spiel, we’ve dealt with a few like him on our “touring missions” to foreign countries. Unfortunately, I was still rather zonked out from the little drug cocktail his boy slipped me, so I can’t remember the finer details of his monologue.
What I do remember, though, is how pissed Daring was when she showed up. It was … well, even through the drug-induced haze, it was just about the hottest thing I’d ever seen this side of Daring in lingerie with her whip held in her teeth and a look like she and I are about to experience a little bedroom turbulence.
I’m not gonna lie, I’ve seen Spitfire and Soarin beat a few morons’ faces in, but I’d never seen a pony rip through twenty-odd mercenaries so quickly just to get with one suddenly sweating and stammering stallion. Nor did I realize a stallion could shriek in such a high pitch while Daring served him his own rump on a platter.
Ever heard a coloratura show off their vocal range and break glass with that crazy high note? That’s it. I didn’t know stallions could hit that note so well, but, boy oh boy, did Caballeron hit it.
Of course, that might have had something to do with the way Daring emphasized her—ahem—displeasure by bending his knee the wrong way, breaking it, and then trying her best to fold it until he passed out.
Like I said, this could go sideways rather quickly if she thinks it’s time to knock heads. Daring likes to say she doesn’t do romance, which I call horseapples on—her carrying me to the hospital to get checked out and staying at my bedside the whole time was the most romantic thing anypony had ever done for me.
Well, the most romantic thing this side of beating the utter stuffing out of Caballeron and company. I wonder if his knee’s healed up yet …
I digress.
The Bolts have my back on this, so I’ll owe them later.
That is how these things work. Everypony can say what they want about how much of a sassy little punk I am, but let it be known that Fleetfoot pays her debts in full.
Provided my perfectly toned rump is still in one piece after that.
I really hope she’s too stunned to kill me. Or at least long enough to give me a head start.
Swallowing a lump in my throat, I turn to Soarin. “So,” I begin, “you’re gonna keep Surprise quiet while we do this thing, right?”
He fixes me with a half-lidded stare. “Hmm, y’know, I’m awfully tempted not to,” he says, taking a deep sip of his coffee.
Is he serious right now?
He’s serious right now.
This lightning rutting little—
Why is he playing with me the day of? We have a deal. The deal is in place already, hooves were shaken, vows of silence made, the contract was signed in blood—okay, not really, but we all went out and got plastered afterward so it’s just as good as that.
By Wonderbolt Code of Honor (which is a thing), the only way to make this deal more ironclad would be for Princess Celestia and Princess Luna to have gone drinking with us and heard us discuss terms.
That would’ve probably been fun, come to think of it. I’ll have to save that for our next show in Canterlot …
Nonetheless, I can’t exactly dive across the table at him. I mean, I could, but it won’t work out. First of all, kicking Soarin’s butt doesn’t assure me that he won’t tell Surprise to go nuts.
Second, he’s a lot bigger than me. And stronger. And with our designated team mom-slash-Soarbutt-lover sitting right next to me, I am at a rather decided disadvantage here.
Time for extreme measures.
I bring my hooves together in front of my chest like I’m begging for food. “Soariiiiiiiiiiiiiin!” I whine piteously, giving him my best attempt at a puppy dog pout. “Come oooooooooooon!”
Either he’s a cold-hearted punk (doubtful, I’ve seen him with foals and he’s great) or I abuse my talents a bit too much, because Soarin just sniggers. “Oh, I’m sorry? Is this the same mare who called me fat in front of a line of recruits two weeks ago? The same one who put itching powder in my uniform before I had to go out and leave a big impression on the little punks who came in thinking they were hot stuff?” He turns to his totally-not-girlfriend-just-friend and asks, “Spits, is this the mare who did all that?”
I turn my pout on her, putting all my effort into making my eyes look wider and shine with tears.
Spitfire just turns to the sports page and wrinkles her nose. I’ll bet the Thunder Heralds lost to the dang Rangers again. “Sure is,” she replies, sighing as she turns to the next page. “Same one who put extra strength glue on my pen so it stuck to my hoof for two hours before our da—” pausing, she gives a little cough as she suddenly finds a rather interesting article to focus on while she tries to ignore the way her ear tips are turning red “—development program meeting with Nimbus and Sora.”
Wait. That wasn’t—oh yeah, that one was me.
Classic.
I blink a few times. Hang on, did she just say Nimbus and Sora? Those are Soarin’s parents.
The corners of my mouth pull into a broad grin. Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes.
Spitfire folds the newspaper and slaps it down on the table, fixing me with a glare despite the bright blush gracing her cheeks. “Fleetfoot, if you say one word—”
“Not a thing!” I stand, unfurling my wings as I walk away. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a girlfriend to trick into her own birthday party. You two enjoy your coffee and all, see you at Cloud Nine.” I turn to look over my shoulder, give Spitfire with my most devilish smirk. “Oh, and Spits?”
She ducks her head. She knows what’s coming. We’ve been at this sort of thing since we were in flight school. “Y-Yeah?”
I waggle my ears at her. “Give my regards to your future in-laws! Soarbutt, take care of Cappie or I’ll have to sick her mom and dad on you!” Before either can even think to react, I kick off and take off like a shot.
I break out in raucous laughter as Spitfire’s voice carries to my ears above the rushing wind.
“FLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETFOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!”
Hot dang, I’m good.
Here’s the thing about Daring: she likes her privacy.
It’s kind of an odd thing to say given that she writes about her adventures and sells them, but she does.
I asked about that once. As it turns out, she doesn’t draw that much money from her finds and she’s not paid nearly as much as most professors—oh, I’m sorry. She’s a Doctor of Archaeology.
When I pressed for why, that cute blush colored her cheeks and my Daring Do looked down at her hooves, scuffing them against the ground. Apparently, she has a little bit of an attendance issue at the Royal Canterlot University. Half the time her teacher assistants have to cover her lectures because she up and leaves to go on some adventure for the Idol of Insert Culture Here. Normally, I’m sure that’s not a problem, but while I at least have the decency to slip ol’ Spitty-poo a memo saying “Gone for two weeks to kiss a hot archaeologist on the beach,” Daring has the tendency to go “Whoopsie daisy! I forgot!”
Needless to say, that doesn’t go over too well with the Dean.
I’m working on breaking that habit, though. No girlfriend of mine is going to lose her job because of a few flights of memory, especially when she’s so brilliant in her field.
And, in a far more selfish category, sad Daring means less playtime. Full-blown makeouts get tossed in the closet in favor of cuddling, pep talks, and little kisses on the cheek.
Not that that’s a problem, but I would prefer happy fun times to sad pep talks.
Really, what partner wouldn’t? It doesn’t make me a bad pony, it just means that I would immensely prefer her to be happy at all times. Both for her sake and mine.
Either way, Daring doesn’t like big crowds following her around. Conventions or archeology seminars are fine because she has advanced notice—kinda similar to how Rapidfire would rather take a crowbar to the face than get swamped with fans on his day off.
Random fans in the street? Well, she’s liable to freeze in place before bolting.
It was kinda funny the first couple times, but after the fifth date ruined because I didn’t give her time to change her manestyle or put on those ridiculous glasses and skirt, I realized that it was best to just take a loss on that front and let her put on her disguises.
Plus she looks cute in those disguises, so I’m really not losing either way.
But the thing about Daring is, as mentioned earlier, she has a lot of contacts. Her contacts have contacts. Her contacts’ have contracts, who, in turn, have contacts.
I can only assume that those contacts have contacts too.
She has a veritable network, it’s really impressive.
Anyway, I found this out after that little kerfuffle with Caballero. From what she told me, the minute she came back from the restroom and found a distinct lack of me being right where she left me, she put her network to work finding out if any of her enemies was in town.
Twenty-odd mercenaries and a stallion crying like a foal after having her hooves firmly embedded in their faces suggest that her network is quite extensive and good at what they do.
I swear, if she’s not in or at least connected to Equestrian Intelligence Service, I’ll eat my flight suit whole and wash it down with my goggles.
With that said, I kinda have to be careful here. Daring’s coming to town, as planned, but she’ll probably be a little late getting to my place because she “got lost.”
Cloudsdale’s a big city, but she’s been to my place enough times to know how to get there. It’s right by the dang base, for crying out loud! And I’ve seen the “getting lost” she does. Somehow it always involves talking with seemingly random pegasi in antique shops, Cloudsdale College, or Sky High Museum. Always a visitor, too.
Funny how that works.
Thing about that is, I’ve been organizing this for a while. And while I haven’t exactly been making Cloud Nine a regular hangout, I wouldn’t put it passed whoever-it-is-Daring-knows having caught me going in and out a couple times.
So part one of my brilliant, completely airtight plan is to find Daring before she manages to meet with her contacts. Or one of their contacts.
Come to think of it, Daring has too many contacts who aren’t my contacts. It makes keeping track of her way too difficult, and makes keeping track of me way too easy for her, which is just unfair.
I’ll have to work on that.
I fly up high over the city’s western landing, right on the outskirts of Little Istallia, and scan the crowd of ponies milling about. While wings and feathers are the norm, I can see quite a few earth ponies and unicorns among the throng—some, no doubt, here to see the beauty of our city, others having come to live here due to work or marrying into the flock.
Cloud-walking charms, talismans, and specially made thunderforge horseshoes are very helpful. And why not?
Our city’s pretty darn awesome, and I’ve got no problem sharing it with our wingless kin.
Shaking my head, I refocus. Finding Daring is key for this to all work properly. She likes to wear a set group of disguises whenever we see each other—makes it easier for me to keep track of her in a crowd.
It should also, in theory, make it easier for me to find her before she “gets lost” again.
I’m on a strict timetable here, honey bunch. We don’t have time for you to “get lost” today. So your contacts will just have to suck it up, because tonight you have a birthday dinner-slash-date with me, and I am not sharing. Well, except with the Wonderbolts and that friend Rainbow Dash is bringing, but that’s like bringing you home to see family.
My crazy, athletic, bound to get sloshed at this party family.
I cannot wait.
Now, where, oh where, has my Daring Do gone?
Given that this is April and we’re just starting springtime, I’m willing to guess that she’s gone for something light, but long enough to cover up her cutie mark.
Like a yellow sundress. And doing that pretty gray mane up in a ponytail in a way that makes her look about five years younger. And red-rimmed glasses.
Oh, hey, there she is.
The corners of my mouth tug into a wide grin, I give my tail a merry swish as I loop up and ready myself to sweep her off her hooves and smother her with kisses until she squirms and squeals. Because that is my right and I shall exercise it whenever I see fit.
And I see fit right now.
In short, target acquired.
After I clear the peak of my loop, I fold my wings against my sides and dive straight at her with my hooves outstretched. I might eat an elbow or three until she realizes it’s me, but it’ll be worth it.
The wind whistles in my ears. I see the crowd look up with wide eyes and scramble to get out of my way, leaving Daring alone in the middle of the street, just the way she hates it.
She stops walking and looks around. Her ears stand up straight as she slowly turns to follow their gazes. I see her eyes go as wide as dinner plates, her lips form the words “Oh no, not again!”
Oh, yes, my dear.
Again.
Her hooves slipping, she tries to scramble out of the way, but it’s far too late. I have her in my sights, I have all the speed I need, and I have the element of surprise on my side.
It also helps that she’s seen my face before I catch her, so now she’s slightly less likely to rearrange it. That helps things.
I let out a whoop as I slip my hooves under her legs and lift her clear off hers, pulling her up into the sky with me, holding her close as I spun her around. “Daring, Daring, Daring, Daring, Daring!”
Daring flails her hooves. “Fleetfoot!” she shrieks through her laughter. “Put me down, you crazy mare!”
Too easy! I stop spinning to hover with her as I smush my cheek against hers. “No!” I reply, taking the tone a stubborn foal would use when refusing to eat her vegetables. “My Daring!”
She sighs and lets her shoulders slump. I can feel the resigned smile on her muzzle as she rubs her cheek against mine. “Yes, your Daring. And my Fleetfoot.” There’s a beat of silence, then she coughs. “Now can we please land? We’re making a scene!”
But landing means I have to let go. Or that she can slip away or surprise me with one of her crazy flippy reversals. Both of those things take away the chance to smother her with kisses and make her squirm, which is totally on the schedule.
Letting out a little murr, I kiss her cheek and slowly bring us closer to the clouds. The things I do for love.
I release my hold on her when I feel the fluffy clouds beneath my hooves, but just long enough for her to get four on the cloud before I wrap my wing across her shoulders and pull her close against my side, drawing another sigh and knowing smile from her, along with that adorable blush I’d been so longing to see.
She said to put her down and stop making a scene, there was nothing about not being affectionate in that order.
Fine print is a wonderful thing.
Stealing another peck to her cheek, I lean up to whisper, “I missed you.”
Daring ducks her head and shifts in place. “Yeah. I, uh, missed you too.”
It should be a crime to be that adorable. Punishable by more teasing and kisses. I’m totally unbiased in my reason for thinking that, of course.
Doing a bit of quick scheduling gymnastics, I could probably fit in more time coaxing her into that dress and getting her to believe my little story if I cut out a bit of teasing.
It’s a heavy sacrifice, but it’ll work out in the end.
After a quick nuzzle, I draw back and school my big grin into a more stern expression. The same kind I get to use whenever the rookies screw up and Spits lets me drop the proverbial thunderhead on their sorry rears.
A rather big difference from my usual crabapples eating grin and mischievous look in my eyes, apparently, because Daring draws back and frowns. “What’s wrong?” she asks, concern flashing in her eyes. “You look like somepony kicked your puppy.” She brings a hoof up to touch my shoulder—Celestia, she’s too sweet.
It’s almost going to pain me to have to pull a fast one on her.
Almost.
She’ll forgive me later.
I close my eyes and let my head hang low, staying silent for a moment.
Barely above a whisper, I reply, “Not out here. I need to talk to you about something kinda … kinda close to home.”
Her hoof squeezes my shoulder. “Fleetfoot, honey—” She only says honey when she’s really worried. I guess I’m not half bad at this. “—you’re starting to worry me. Did you get in trouble with Spitfire again?”
There it is. The perfect opening to reel her in.
I fix a hurt look on my face—wide eyes, a frown, basically like mom just said I can’t have cookies before dinner—and look up to meet her gaze.
Celestia, those eyes of hers are gorgeous.
“No, but I think she and Soarin are about to be in a lot more trouble than they realize.” Slowly, I reach up to touch the hoof on my shoulder, squeezing it like I’m desperate for comfort as I ready to deliver my wham line. “I need your help, Daring.”
Her jaw sets, determination flashes in her eyes. “Anything you need, I’ve got your back.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
As I sit on my bed, trying my very best not to break out in a big grin, I have to repeat my mantra to myself:
I’m not going to laugh.
I’m not going to laugh.
I’m not going to laugh.
Really, I’m not. That would ruin the whole game, and I just can’t allow that.
But seriously, the look on Daring’s face right now is pure gold. I desperately need a camera. The way her snout is all scrunched up as she turns, looking from me to the beautiful gray dress I picked out for her as though it were a baby manticore and I’d just asked if I could keep it.
Daring brings a hoof to her forehead, no doubt she’s trying her very best to think of alternatives to this plan.
No, honey, you’re not getting out of this.
“Tell me again,” she says, closing her eyes and massaging the bridge of her nose.
I wait just a moment, playing up the sad mare delivery. “Where do you want me to start from?”
“The beginning.” Daring fixes me with a stern look. “I want to hear it again.”
She’s trying to see if I falter.
Well, then, Your Honor, if it pleases the court, I’ll repeat myself.
Sighing heavily, I nod. “Alright, then.” I hang my head and bring a hoof up to rub my shoulder. “A few months ago, Equestrian Intelligence Services started investigating a leak in our intelligence—“
“Stop there.” She raises a hoof. “First question, how the flaming hay do you know anything about that.”
I wince and let my ears droop like I’ve been trying to hold back a big secret and it’s coming out of the bag. Truth be told, some of what I’m about to tell her is real—all of it pre approved by Spitfire when I rehearsed this with her and Soarin.
Licking my lips, I look up to meet her gaze. “The Wonderbolts have always been connected with the Equestrian Army and Intelligence Services; if there’s ever a need for intel, we’re an option, especially for threats at home or in nations we’re trying to open relations with.”
“The show’s a distraction, and there’s somepony sneaking around?” Daring cocked her head to the side. “Kind of simplistic, but am I close?”
Incredibly simplistic, almost painfully so. But, in the most basic sense, yes. I nod once. “Yeah. It’s kinda like … well, did you ever hear that story about that one magician? Artemis Lulamoon or something—I forget his name, he’s got a daughter, I think—when he went to Yakistan?”
“One of the first Equestrian visitors in two hundred years,” Daring recited from memory. “It’s still tough as dragon scales to get through customs there.”
“Right. So you know that he pulled a little stunt during his ‘escape the box’ trick to go steal Yakistani Army intel?” At her nod, I continue, “Basically that when needed. It’s not too often, but we’ve pulled it a couple times on drug runners in Neighvada and Baltimare, and once in the Southern Griffon Kingdom during the tensions with the Northern Kingdom—that was a trip.”
She wrinkles her nose and steals a glance at the dress laid out on my bed, drawing back as if she expects it to leap off and bite her.
No, but it may try to swallow her in its confines so everypony sees just how pretty she looks wearing it.
That sounded weird. I’m just gonna pretend I didn’t think of it. Think of what? Exactly.
A shudder runs down her spine, all the way to the very tip of her tail.
Celestia, why is she so darn cute?
With a little huff, Daring turns to me again. “So, then how do you figure into this again?”
Oh, right. Story time.
I clear my throat. “Well, EIS approached me a while back and mentioned that they thought they’d found the security leak. Which, hey, great news, right? We can smack the moron upside the head, drag him off to prison, and see how much he’d sold to other kingdoms, everything should be good. ‘Course, I wondered why me too—same as you—and then …” I let my voice trail off, I look away from her and grimace. “Then they showed me pictures of Spitfire and Soarin meeting up with this griffonness and swapping files for sacks of gold. And these were some dang big sacks.”
Holding my hooves out about as wide as a melon, I add, “Think of about six of ‘em about yay big, and that’s what they were getting paid.”
Daring lets out a low whistle. “Dang. Don’t need to be a math whiz to know that’s a lot of gold.” With a shake of her head, she walks over to sit down beside me. She sighs and lets her ears droop. “So, you got the call from EIS and now you’re gonna burn your best friend and that boyfriend of hers you’ve told me about?”
“I don’t exactly have a choice. They’re selling state secrets to a foreign agent.” I hold my hooves out in front of me, close together like they’re bound. “My hooves are completely tied on this, Dare. Spits and Soarin have made their bed, and now I get to deal with the mess because I’m the go-between for the Bolts and the EIS.” Giving a fake laugh, I force a smile. “Lucky me, huh?”
She grimaces. “Luck is a word. Don’t know if I’d use it right now, Fleety.” Drawing in a deep breath, she runs a hoof through her mane, then wraps me up in a hug. “I’m sorry. It just came out of nowhere and … geez, Fleety, I had no idea you guys did all that.” Daring pulled back just enough to nuzzle my nose. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be on you.”
I try for false humor, as is my usual. “Kinda like when Rosetta Stone tricked you into helping her translate the rest of the Scroll of Whatchamacallit and passed it off to Caballeron?”
“That’s different. I knew Rosetta for three years before that, Spitfire’s been your friend since you were a filly.” I feel her lips brush against mine as they pull into a smirk. “And I rearranged Caballeron’s face for that one, too.”
“You rearrange his face all the time. It’s like saying Princess Celestia’s going to raise the sun tomorrow.” I pause a beat, then add, “But the time you did it for me was sweet.”
Smirking, Daring plants a quick kiss on my lips. Far too short for my taste. “I’d do it again, too.”
How very sweet.
And to think she says she’s not a—what was it? Ah yes!—mushy, romantic pansy.
She totally is. I mean, really, pummeling morons’ for drugging your girlfriend and then sticking by her side from the second you untied her all the way until about a day after doctors cleared her?
All I was missing was a bouquet of flowers and breakfast in bed.
Daring releases me from her embrace and turns to look at the dress again. Frowning, she pokes it with a hoof. “So … you’ve figured out that those two are meeting with their buyers tonight at some fancy shmancy restaurant?”
I bob my head. “Right.”
“And you want me to dress up and go with you because why?”
Ah, here’s where I’ll need to implement a bit more verbal gymnastics.
Clearing my throat, I give my practiced answer, “Because you’ve had a bit of experience dealing with some of this stuff before, so I could use any backup I can get.” After a beat, I rub my shoulder a little. “Also, Spits and Soarin kinda know that we’re dating—”
“You told them?” she asks, almost whining. Her ears lay flat against her scalp as she tries to make herself small.
Uh, why wouldn’t I? Hot girlfriend also happens to be a butt-kicking adventure-slash-Doctor of Archaeology, yeah, I think I might brag a little about that one.
“Well, yeah. I mean, Spits is my oldest friend and Soarin’s attached to the hip with her, and they’re cool ponies.” I feign a wince and slowly look down and away from her.. “Or … I thought they were.”
I flick my ear at the sound of her taking a deep breath. She’s thinking it over. I’m tempted to look, but this part requires complete and total devotion to the “reluctant Fleety spying on her friends and about to out them as traitors.”
And to be honest, I’m pretty sure she’s gritting her teeth as she takes one more glance at that dress, torn between her want to help and her hatred for fancy affairs, which’ll just kill me.
I hear her let out a groan before sighing. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll do it.”
Letting out a gasp, I whip my head around to beam at her. “Really?”
Her mouth is set in a thin line as she nods. “I hate dressing up and doing the whole fancy thing, but I’m not gonna leave you in the lurch when you’re dealing with something like this.” She gives me a half smile and winks. “Just means your butt is mine when we get done with them!”
A shudder runs down my spine. Oho, she’s dang right my butt is hers after this! There’s no debate on that!
There’s never a debate whose butt belongs to who in this equation. The only answer is “yes.”
Just a lot more emphatically and usually conveyed somewhere along the lines of “Oh, Celestia, yes.”
Must … resist … urge … to lick lips … dang it, Daring!
If she keeps this up, I might have to object and make her butt mine.
Almost regrettably, I force myself to refocus. I still have a part to play.
Which means I’m completely obligated to sweep her up in a tight hug and plant kisses all over her cheeks while I thank her repeatedly.
I totally am. It’s in the contract.
Besides, I skipped out on it while we were out in public, so I have plenty of time to collect now.
2. A Plan So Perfect, It's Practically Made to Fail
I may have stolen a few extra minutes in my allotted time for Daring kisses, but, fortunately, I factored for that when I came up with this whole scheme.
Spitfire is quite fond of telling me that, if I would just behave and not be so flippant with her when I’m on duty, I could be a surefire candidate for OCS because of how organized I am. “If you’d stop being such a little smart-flank, I’d recommend you in a heartbeat,” she likes to say.
It’s probably true, and I usually try. But that lasts about three days before I get bored and decide that going into her office before she sits down with new recruits and rigging one of her drawers to shoot icing at her face is a good idea.
I mean, it is and it isn’t, but it’s a definite disqualification when she’s asked “is this mare responsible enough to be an officer” and has to grit her teeth and fill in “Yes, but …” in the space provided.
“Yes, but …” is not a good recommendation for OCS. The OCS board does not like “but” on their forms. They want “Yes, and Senior Airmare Fleetfoot would be the ideal candidate for an officer because x, y, and z.” No “buts” allowed. Which, frankly, I find silly. I mean, how can you have a pony go to OCS and not allow butts? That’s part of our biology, dang it, and I did not put all the work into my perfectly toned rump to leave it behind.
I brought that up with Spitfire once. She stared at me, glanced at the clock, sighed and said “Oh, screw it, it’s five somewhere” and reached down to open up her “secret liquor stash.”
And then she promptly took about three cans worth of silly string to the face.
I’d forgotten I set that one up or I’d have warned her.
Not really, but I’d have at least had the grace to keep a towel handy for her.
That aside, my brilliant planning has us right on time for our reservation. I steal a glance at Daring and can’t help but linger.
The dress is just perfect for her. It goes so beautifully with her mane, and contrasts her coat so well.
And her eyes …
A girl could happily get lost in those eyes of hers. They’re this really pretty red-purple, not quite magenta but not really blood red color. Cerise, I think is what Rainbow Dash told me. Got the name from that designer friend of hers, Rarely or something.
Come to think of it, Rainbow and Daring have similar eye color. I wonder if they’re related somewhere down the line.
Then again, we ponies are all the colors of the rainbow, so there’s a chance it’s just coincidence.
Wait, why am I thinking of Rainbow? She’s cute, in a rookie-ish sort of way, but she’s not a mare like my Daring.
I let my eyes wander over her form. The dress really shows how fit she is, how streamlined her barrel is all the way down to her flanks, widening out to hug tight against her hips.
Mmm, those hips …
Bad Fleety! Down! Not until later!
Blinking my eyes a few times, I shift my gaze up to her mane. She wouldn’t let me come near her with a brush, sadly. Apparently, messing with her manestyle is not within my authorization yet.
I thought I had Full Clearance, dang it! How is it that I’m cleared for bedroom turbulence, but styling my girlfriend’s mane is off limits?
Not fair. I’m filing an appeal.
“Would you stop your pouting?” she scolds me with a huff. “I’m wearing the stupid dress!”
“That dress is nice and I was going to make your mane look pretty!” I retort, flicking my tail.
“My mane is perfectly fine the way it is!”
“Nah uh! I can still see the helmet-mane!”
“It’s a pith, not a—why am I doing this right now? We have a job, Fleetfoot! One you asked for my help on! Get your head in the game!”
Dang it, she’s got me there.
Huffing, I fix my gaze on the restaurant up ahead and school my expression. Stupid plan. I have to be professional or everything gets ruined. Which means no teasing Daring until we’re “acting” or she’ll start asking questions.
Screw it, her butt is mine after this. I’m pulling a coup d’état on whose butt is whose tonight. I know her weaknesses.
My eyes flit to her ears and I allow myself a sly smile. Oh yes, I know her weaknesses alright.
Two of them are perched atop her head. And they’re just begging to be nibbled later. Maybe even licked. Definitely in need of being kissed until they stand straight up while Daring mewls and arches her back.
Mmm, good Fleety.
I wonder if I can get her to bite on it being all about her tonight since it’s her birthday. It’ll make it easier if I don’t have to whittle down her resistance before I make her squeal.
Later, Fleety. Those thoughts are for later.
Now if only I could get my tail to stop swishing and my hips to stop swaying.
Actually, that fits the couple on an innocent night out “act” that we’re pulling, so my tail and hips are free to do as they please.
Along those lines, I’m perfectly justified in wrapping my wing over Daring’s shoulders and pulling her in tight as we near the front door of Cloud Nine. I turn to kiss her cheek, and whisper in her ear, “Remember, playing like we’re on a romantic night out!”
Playing. Right.
Daring rolls her eyes, but fixes a smile on her face as she turns to give me a quick kiss. “Yes, I know. We went over this already.”
“Just making sure,” I reply with a bright grin and another kiss. I’m stealing every one I can while she’s here, we don’t see each other nearly as often as I’d like during our tour season.
Off season is much easier, thankfully. Canterlot isn’t even an hour away. Thirty minutes, depending on the headwind.
It’s just tough because I don’t know when Daring’s going on her trips, really. I completely respect what she does, but the couple times I’ve gone to visit and found her house empty were a bit upsetting.
She doesn’t mean to, of course, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t cry the first time that it doesn’t hurt a little to show up with flowers and plans for a nice night out, and then end up having to fly home and spend the night mostly alone.
I say mostly because Spitfire usually catches me and drags me along to the bar with her and Soarin. It’s nice, but I feel bad that their “not a date” gets ruined for me.
Note to self: plan birthday surprise for both.
Second note to self: maybe lay off the pranks for a little while.
Which brings me to why this dinner date is happening the way it is: I know full well that if I told Daring that we’re going to a nice restaurant to celebrate her birthday with a group of ponies who are basically my family, she’d dig her hooves in and dare me to try and move her.
I mean, sure, with a bit of coaxing, some kisses, and a lot of me begging her to finally come meet my friends, she’d give in, but that would’ve added a solid hour to our preparation time.
These plans were made three months ago, I’m not showing up even a minute late for this.
If Daring doesn’t like it at first, she can chase me around and try to kick my butt to her heart’s content if she catches me. I say “at first” because she’s gonna love my team. They’re great ponies.
I mean, cirrus, they put up with me.
As we cross the threshold into Cloud Nine’s lobby, I see Bastille, dressed smartly in a white button down shirt and tie, waiting at the host’s desk to greet us. At his side is a rather pretty young mare with a peach dress that matches her mane, and lovely pink eyes.
She’s not Claire de Lune, but she sure looks like her. Similar cheek structure.
Their daughter, maybe?
“Bon soir, mesdames,” Bastille greets us with a sweeping bow. “A reservation for Fleetfoot, non?”
I can feel Daring giving me a sideways look. “Intel, remember?” I whisper out of the side of my mouth before turning to reply. “Yes, thank you.”
“Excellente, we have your table prepared.” He swept a pair of menus off the mid-level stack behind him and passed them to the mare. “Ma fille, Coquette, will be your waitress tonight.”
The young mare dipped at the knees, accepting the menus and regarding us with a bright smile. “If you’ll follow me ladies,” she says, her voice holds the lightest touch of a Prench lit. Nowhere near as present as her parents’, but it’s there.
Kinda cute. I’ll bet Bastille’s gotta fight hard to keep all the studs away from her.
Better him than me.
She steps out from behind the counter and guides us toward the dining room. I smile as I see all the tables set up exactly as I’d asked—not that one expects anything less when you call for a reservation like this at Cloud Nine, but it’s just another sign that this is all going well.
Having Daring here, actually present at my side for this, is just that much sweeter. All the work put into make this happen is finally going to pay off, and she’ll get a nice evening to celebrate her birthday.
Even if she needs a little bit of a push to have a good time.
I can already see everypony sitting in their places, all in collared shirts and dresses, with their manes styled just different enough that you’d have to look twice and really squint to tell that Misty Fly and Slipstream are debating on appetizers two tables over. Nimbus, Cirrus, Stratos, and Cumulous are at the table to our right, bantering with one another and laughing about an rather old story about Stratos’ late grandmother sneaking him cookies before dinner, much to his poor mother’s chagrin.
Surprise is, mercifully, right between Spitfire’s younger brothers, Rapidfire and Firestreak. Which means those two will have no problem yanking her back into her seat (by the tail, if need be) and stuffing a roll into her mouth if she tries shouting.
Soarin is a saint. A smart-mouthed, pie scarfing punk, but a saint.
He may have just earned a prank free month. Maybe two. Depends how magnanimous I’m feeling.
Speaking of which, I can see him and Spits sitting in the lounge. I know that flaming mane anywhere, and oh, would you look at that! She’s laying her head on his shoulder, and—my, oh my!—do I see sky blue feathers trailing along her back? And is that a little fluff in those well-preened yellows, and a swish in that orange-red tail?
Whose birthday is it again? It feels like mine right now.
Coquette places our menus down on a two-seater table in the middle of the dining floor. Not exactly good positioning if you want to be discreet, but with no other tables available except the big one where Spits, Soarin, and our special guests will be, there’s nowhere else to go.
Judging by the way Daring eyes the table and the room around us, she’s thinking through possible exits if things go south. Basically, she’s picking out which window she might break open with one of my teammates’ faces. Not that she knows it’s them, but … yeah, I’ll just make sure that doesn’t happen.
I move as though to pull Daring’s chair out for her, but, surprisingly, she’s quicker. I can almost feel the smugness radiating off of her as she slides gracefully in my path and pulls a chair out for me, then fixes me with a smirk.
Excuse me, whose birthday is this? That’s right, hers. She’s going against the rules here.
It’s sweet, though, so I guess I’ll let her off the hook.
With a smile, I sweep into the chair and nod in thanks as she moves to take her seat across from me. Coquette places our menus on the table between us. “Can I get you anything to drink, ladies?” she offers. “We have a fully stocked wine cellar, red and white wines, of course.”
Daring’s ear flicked toward me. “Uh … I don’t know if—”
“Ask Bastille what he recommends,” I cut across her a bit louder than I intended. At Daring’s confused look, I give a wide, toothy grin. “I mean, why not indulge a little on a nice night out together? We don’t get to do this very often, right honey?”
She flinches, sucking in her lips as though to hold back a smile, but she can’t hide the light tinging in her cheeks. I’ve got her backed into a corner on this one—she can’t say no, or we look odd to everypony in the restaurant. If she says yes, she knows, correctly, that I’m going to take advantage of this.
With a resigned sigh, she nods. “Sure,” she says. “Just, nothing too strong, please.”
Coquette bows her head. “Of course. I’ll have a word with papa and see what he says. Feel free to take your time looking over the menu, and let me know if you have any questions.” Turning on her hooves, she scooted off to go collect her father. The sound of her calling “Papa” floats to my ears, even over the dull roar of my teammates’ chatter.
The familiar sound of Surprise’s laughter draws a flinch. I lay my ears flat and force my lips into a fine line as I pick up the menu, flipping through and quickly scanning the options. It’s a good thing I’ve learned Prench over the years, or this would be an adventure. At very least, I can keep Daring away from the more exotic foods.
Then again … I glance up at her, watching as she lays the menu flat and furrows her brows in concentration while she reads through. She always does this when she reads; her brows knit together and her eyes just get so intent.
It’s almost like she’s trying to coax the meaning out from hiding so she can observe it and croon over what a wonderful piece of lost culture it was—but in this case, just a menu.
If artifacts or ancient texts could blush, though, Daring Do would be the mare to make it happen.
“So,” I begin casually. “What’re you thinking of having?”
The wrinkle in her nose intensifies. “I’m not entirely sure. I know … surprisingly little about Prench cuisine. Modern at least.”
Chuckling to myself, I shake my head. “Oh, why am I not surprised?” She ducks her head, quailing and squirming in the face of my ever-brilliant smirk. With a playful roll of my eyes, I glance back at my menu and give a mock sigh. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to order for you, then.”
She draws back, staring at me with wide eyes. Her cheeks flush pink. “N-Now, hang on just a minute, here!”
“Nope!” Quick as a flash, I cover her mouth with my hoof, sticking out my tongue at her as I waggle my ears. “Don’t you worry, pookie, I’ll make sure it’s something you enjoy!”
The sound of poorly restrained sniggering from the other tables reaches my ears. I do my best not to join in, favoring to revel in how Daring puffs up her cheeks and crosses her eyes to glare at my hoof, like she expects me to just leap back in fright at a mere look. I’ve gotten way worse from Spitfire, and with her there’s an actual danger that she might smack me around for covering her mouth like this.
Almost as if I’d cued her, Coquette chose that moment to appear at my side, with a bottle of wine sitting in an ice well and two wine glasses, all perched atop a tray she was balancing on her back. She doesn’t even blink at our little staring contest. “Ladies,” she says, turning sideways to present Bastille’s selection to us. “Papa recommends la Bénédiction des Fondateurs, a favorite brand of his.”
I perked my ears up. Pulling out a favorite for us? I guess setting it up so the entire restaurant is reserve earns us a few perks. He knows he’s making bank on this, so why not throw in a bit of his own personal flare.
Smart stallion.
With a rather impressive display of dexterity, Coquette slides the tray off her back and onto her right hoof—the glasses don’t even so much as move—and sets everything in front of us with her left. Then, she folds the tray under her wing and picks up the wine bottle. In one quick jerk, she pops the cork, then sets about pouring our drinks. “Have you had a chance to look over the menu?”
“We have!” I say loud enough that Daring’s indignant “Mmph!” goes unnoticed. “We’ll both have the soupe a l’oignon to start and … oh, I think we can split a flamiche for the main course.”
“Soup a l’mignon and flamiche,” she repeats to confirm. “I’ll put that in straight away. Your soups should be out in just a few moments.” Sneaking a sideways glance at Daring, she brings a hoof to her mouth to stifle a bout of laughter before sweeping away to put our order in.
Daring’s nostrils flare. She brushes my hoof away and glares. “Jerk.”
I laugh. “Maybe so, but I’m the one who knows more about Prench stuff.”
Huffing, she crosses her hooves over her chest. “I know plenty of things!” she retorts, looking away as she lets her ears droop just a little. “Just all in the past, and mostly about culture and battles and stuff.”
“Well, if we ever get on a game show entirely about ancient history and artifacts, I’ll be sure to let you answer all the questions, dear.”
“And the next time there’s some jerk’s butt to kick,” she reminds me, raising an eyebrow.
It’s my turn to huff. I’m supposed to be the teasing pony here. “I could’ve taken them!”
With a sickly sweet smile, Daring reaches across the table to tussle my mane. “Of course you could’ve, darling. Drugged out after taking a drink from a strange stallion, tied up, and barely cognizant, but you could’ve taken them with one hoof tied.” She pauses a beat. “It makes one wonder how you got the you-know-what from you-know-who.”
Gritting my teeth, I glance away. She has me there. On both fronts, really. I sincerely doubt I’d be the pick for EIS contact if this were a real thing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Spitfire and Soarin move to sit at their table, the latter carrying a briefcase full of “state secrets.”
If they listened, it’s the thing that’ll make Daring want to kick my butt into next Tuesday. If not, Soarin probably stashed a pie in there so he can snack while he watches her kick my butt into next Tuesday.
Either way, my perfectly toned rump is probably getting kicked. The things I do for love.
I turn back to Daring and bob my head toward them. “Don’t stare, just glance. Show’s about to start. Keep smiling like nothing’s wrong.”
Her smile falters a little, but she keeps it up admirably as she glances at them. “Wow,” she says. “You weren’t kidding back when you told me they trained like crazy ponies. I think that stallion’s muscles have muscles.”
“Yeah, well, he’s gotta work off all that pie he eats somehow.” I shrug. “Not gonna lie, I’d probably take a shot if he weren’t chasing Spits’ tail, and if I didn’t have you.”
Snorting, she smiles. “Nice save.” Eying him a bit longer, she shrugs. “Yeah, I’ll give it to you. Everyone’s got that one they can’t help but look at, right? As long as I’m number one on the list.”
I leer at her. “Daring, babe, if I looked at you the way I wanted all the time, I’d never be able to fly without running into walls.”
Daring turns away to hide a wobbly smile.
Oh, I don’t think so.
“So, if everypony has ‘that one,’ who’s yours?”
She stiffens. “Remember Rosetta Stone?”
Wincing, I duck my head. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. She’s not that nice to look at now. Not just because she’s a bottom-feeding piece of slime, either. ” After a beat, she adds, “I promise, not all of my relationships ended with me pounding my girlfriend’s face in. Just that one.”
Okay, let’s steer away from this and get back to the thing we’re actually here for.
I steal a quick glance toward the main entrance, just in time to catch sight of a pair griffonnesses’ crests flit into view. The bigger one, with brown plumage and white head, almost towers over Bastille—which is quite a feat in and of itself—and has a rather gruff look about her, kinda like she’s just begging for a fight to break out. Her eyes flitted over to our table, I see her beak curve into a cocky smirk and the muscles in her wings flexing in silent challenge.
Oh boy. Keeping an eye on her might be a good idea, or at least making sure she and Daring don’t actually get near each other.
Rainbow better have told this friend of hers that tangling with Daring just isn’t a good idea, or this is going to be a really messy affair.
“I think their buyer is here,” I tell Daring, jerking my head in the griffon’s direction. What even was her name again? Something with a G. “Remember, we’re not here to take them down. We don’t—”
“Do anything unless we’re found out,” Daring finished for me. “I got it the first three times you said it, Fleet.”
“Just making sure.” I pick up my glass and rotate it a bit to swirl the wine around. I’m no connoisseur—or would that be connoisseuse?—so it’s not the whole coloration test thing I’ve heard about.
I just like seeing wine swirl about. It’s pretty. I like how the less dense colors separate out if you do it right.
“I have no idea if we’re supposed to toast wine every time we drink it,” I begin. “Any ideas, Miss Culture?”
She snorts, but picks up her glass all the same. “You only toast wine when it’s a special occasion, you dingus. Not every time you drink it. You’d run out of things to toast.”
“Fair enough.” I’d love to point out that it is a special occasion, but I’ll wait. Not for long, though.
At the moment, smiling and drinking with her were good enough. She looks happy even though the scenario I’ve crafted for her is so tense. What was it she told me before? Something about feeling at home with her heart pounding in her chest while she sits in a room full of her enemies, her mind racing as she worked to find a way to beat them again?
My gift to her, then. A room full of friends disguised as enemies, and a situation she can’t get out of.
We raise our glasses in unison and each take a sip. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Bastille leads the griffonnesses into the dining hall, the big brown and white one leads, carrying herself with confidence. So she’s playing leader, good to know. There’s a few other ponies milling about out there—a few other teammates helping to set up the lead in to Rainbow Dash’s part in this.
Excellent. And just in time for Coquette to bring us our soups.
She doles them out to us with practiced ease, and Daring and I set about unwrapping our silverware, perking our ears up so we can hear the conversation going on a couple tables over while we begin eating.
“Captain Spitfire,” the griffonness greets in a rather gruff tone, “Lieutenant Soarin. Good to see you two again.”
“And you as well, Miss Gilda,” Spitfire replies. I see both her and Soarin rise to exchange hoofshakes with their counterparts. She tilts her head to the side as she eyes the other griffonness. “Forgive me, ma’am, but our mutual friend didn’t tell us she’d be bringing a guest. I’m Spitfire, Captain of the Wonderbolts. And you are?”
The other griffoness bowed her charcoal gray head. “My name is Greta, Captain. It’s an honor to meet you. Gilda’s told me that both you and Lieutenant Soarin have been quite friendly to the griffons.”
“Well, Gilda’s been very kind to us, and the griffons are rather big fans of anypony capable in the air,” Soarin says, motioning to the table. “Why don’t we sit and eat together? We can get to know each other over a meal.”
Gilda nods. “You’d make a good griffon, Lieutenant. The only better way would be a good tussle outside.”
“Soarin, please. We’re all friends here.”
“Of course.” She took her seat first. “I trust you brought some reading material for us? The last few novels you recommended were quite enjoyable.”
I can’t help but smile as I sip at my soup. It tastes rather nice, actually. I might have to see if I can swipe the recipe.
Oh, and the idea that they’re reading books is just a gem. Points to Gilda for improvising that one for a bit of authenticity. Especially given the way Daring just flicked her ear toward them.
Very nice.
Spitfire raises a brow. “You think I’d shortchange a girl on some good reading? Got all your favorite books right here, Gilda.” She unfurls her wing to brush her feathers against the briefcase. “Question is, did you bring Soarin’s pie money? I can’t fund his cravings on my salary, even if I’m the highest paid captain in history—the boy’s gonna eat me out of house and home at this rate!”
“And I do like pie,” Soarin says, winning the understatement of the year award in a unanimous vote.
Gilda fixes them both with a glare. Neither so much as bat an eye.
Without breaking eye contact, she motions to Greta, who lifts the top of a large burlap sack into view. “One bag here,” Greta says. “The rest is in the chariot, under watch by a few of our guards.”
“Don’t trust us enough to bring it in?” Spitfire asks. “I’m hurt, Gilda.”
“Not at all, Spitfire,” Gilda replies smoothly. “But on the off chance somepony might be tailing you, I felt it best that we make sure we don’t put all our eggs in one basket.”
“Us? Followed?” Soarin scoffs. “We’re Wonderbolts, Gilda, not amateurs. What do you take us for?”
Gilda’s beak curves into a rather wicked smile, her eyes flash with a knowing gleam. If I didn’t know what was coming—and I’m rather fortunate that I do, or I’d probably feel a chill running down my spine—I’d be worried right about now.
Judging by how Daring’s wings tense and her jaw sets, Gilda’s doing a bang up job acting.
“Just taking precautions,” Gilda says, with a light bow of her head. “Forgive me, but one can never be too careful. So, tell me, how has my old friend Rainbow Dash been doing lately?”
Brilliant segue. I love it, and not just because Daring just sat bolt upright.
Naturally, I play my part. “Easy,” I say. “She’s just making conversation.”
“You don’t know that,” Daring hissed. Her breathing comes short and ragged, she’s not even touched her spoon.
Dear Celestia, mare, for all your experience doing crazy things, I’d like to think this should be an easy gig.
You’re flipping out way too early. Wait a little longer. Like, a half hour, if you wouldn’t mind.
I haven’t got the signal that Claire’s got the cake ready yet, dang it.
“Uh, yeah, I do.” I fix her with a wry look. “I just saw her running drills earlier today on base.” Still nothing. She keeps glancing over toward the table, her shoulders tense up like she’s ready to leap into action and maul Gilda.
What the hay has gotten into her?
“Daring? Darey? Darey, calm down, please.” Whatever it is, I need her off this little kick of hers. I take her wine glass in hoof and push it toward her. “Take a sip and a deep breath. Let’s talk.”
“I know her,” she says, a hint of worry in her tone.
“Huh?”
“I know Rainbow Dash, Fleety.” Her eyes flit to mine. “She’s a kid. A bit annoying, and maybe too much of a fanfilly at times, but she’s a good kid.”
Oh. Oh, right. That thing with the sun ring gizmo.
Yeah, I forgot about that entirely.
Still, nothing confirmed yet. I need to play up the agent angle a little more. “Daring, I’ve known Rainbow a bit longer than you have.” It’s true! I have! I had to hear about Gilda from somepony, didn’t I? “She told me about Gilda being a friend of hers back in flight school. They were practically joined at the hip since fillyhood!”
Daring doesn’t bite. “Friends change, Fleet. We’re looking at one example sitting across from her.” She nods to Spitfire, I can’t help but flinch.
Crud, crud, crud!
“Look, we can’t jump until we know anything!” Think fast, Fleety! “If Rainbow’s in any danger at all, we’ll move, okay?”
She blinks. “You’re serious?”
Well, duh. Even if this was a real thing, Bolts don’t leave each other behind.
Just whimpering enemies.
I nod once. “Screw orders. If Rainbow Dash is in trouble, I’ll be right beside you to help her out of it. Until we know for sure though, we have to wait.”
Daring grits her teeth. For a moment, she stares down at her soup in silence. Then, slowly, she reaches out for her spoon. “Okay.”
Oh, thank Celestia.
I let out a breath, reaching for my glass with a shaking hoof. “Okay, good. Sweet.” I feel my coat standing on end, all my teammates are watching.
I’d be surprised if they didn’t hear most of that, but they’re not the ones I’m trying to trick, so I don’t care. They’re just waiting to see what my call is.
To that end, I let my left hoof hang down and make a gesture like I’m stroking a cat. Our silent command to relax and see how this plays out.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Soarin rubbing his nose and Spitfire tilting her head as if to pop her neck.
They saw it and acknowledged the order.
Good. Very good.
Why in the hay is my heart racing? I’m in control of the situation.
A few deep breaths are what I need. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Everything’s fine.
Just dandy.
I take a deep sip of wine, faster than I’m supposed to drink it, but I need something to take the edge off. I have everything planned out to make this perfect once I get the call from Coquette and Bastille. Then everything can go as sideways or diagonally as it wants.
As long as the dang cake is ready soon.
My glass is emptied before I’ve even finished half of my soup. Somewhere, I’m sure my mother feels the urge to slap me over the head.
Coquette left us the bottle—thankfully—but I’d best eat a little before going for more. The soup is quite good.
That said, Daring should eat too.
“Eat,” I order her, giving a weak smile. “Can’t have my pretty mare going hungry because of a little gossip.”
Her ears twitch. She frowns. “I know what you’re trying to do, Fleetfoot. It’s not helping.”
“I’m not trying to do anything, Darey.” I tilt my head to the side and give her my saddest look. The smile all but melts from her face. “I just want you to eat up so you keep that beautiful figure of yours, and so you can get all your work done after we finish up here.”
Daring blinks, the blush returns to her cheeks before she looks down at her soup and finally begins eating it. “You’re just saying that to get me to think of something else,” she mumbles. “You never have anything to say when I talk about ancient tombs or cities. You just smile and stare at me until I’m done. Like you’re just drifting right off …” Stopping a moment, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault that stuff is boring, most ponies don’t care for the actual details either. They just want the adventure without all the work that went into it, just like my books.”
Is that what she thinks? Oh, baby, no.
No, baby.
I’m not waiting until you’re done at all. And I do want to hear about all that work. Just like you listen to me talk about flying.
Honey, why didn’t you say anything before? Now I feel really bad. Especially that you’re sad.
You’re not supposed to be sad on your birthday. You’re supposed to be happy … and, in a few minutes, wanting to wring my neck until you realize that I put it all together because I care.
Please don’t be sad.
“I want to hear every bit of it,” I say. “And I don’t stare because I don’t have anything to say.”
She snorts. “Yeah right. Do you know what my publisher said when I turned in my first ever draft?” I don’t get a chance to respond, she just bites down on her spoon hard enough to make me wince at the sound of pewter scraping against enamel. “Cut out the boring archaeology stuff and hype up the adventure. Hype up the adventure! Like I just go running off into nowhere and then, suddenly, tombs and curses and fighting happens! No pony actually wants to read about some mare sitting and reading through a bunch of old—”
“Yes I do!” I slap my spoon down on the table. “And I don’t stare at you because I’ve got nothing to say or because I’m waiting for you to finish so we can move on or anything like that!”
Screw being quiet. Couples argue and they have tender, feely moments in restaurants.
If anything, this would just be a way of throwing suspicion off of us.
I reach out and take her hoof in mine. “I stare because your eyes light up whenever you talk about that stuff. Every time we get to meet and you’ve got some new thingamajig you’ve translated or an artifact you think you’ve found, you get as excited as I do whenever Spitfire gives me a new routine.” This is a bit different of a feel than I want tonight to go, but it’s just as important. Every mare should know she’s appreciated.
Daring even more so. Because she’s my mare. And she’s beautiful. And perfect.
And mine.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. “I don’t know the slightest thing about what you actually do,” I admit. “If you start talking about actual methodology, I feel like I’m a newborn trying to listen to—well—Daring freaking Do. But you get so passionate about it that I don’t even care how much of it goes over my head, because it makes you happy to tell me about it. I get to see how much you love it all.”
By the time I’ve finished, her face is beet red. Seriously, I’m surprised she hasn’t passed out, there’s no way she has enough blood circulating.
Slowly, I see her wings begin to twitch. Her feathers fluff up.
“Y-You really like listening to me?” she asks in a rather small voice, like a filly seeking a parent’s approval.
Honey, I’m fixing to leap across this table and sweep you into a hug if you need further proof.
I give her a crooked smile. “Hey, I used to sleep through history. You make it interesting, and you actually look alive when you tell me about it.”
She sucks in her lips to hide a smile, but I can see the corners of her mouth tugging upward. The tips of her ears are starting to match her cheeks.
Must … not … nuzzle …
“If you, um—” Daring fidgets in her seat “—if you ever don’t understand something, you could just tell me. I don’t mind explaining in less … scholarly terms.”
Much better.
I lean forward and smirk at her. “That your way of saying you don’t mind dumbing it down for me?”
Her spoon falls to the table with a clatter as she quickly claps her hooves over her mouth to stifle a bout of laughter. Her shoulders shake, her eyes squeeze shut as she tries in vain to reign in her mirth.
We’re back on track for a happy evening. Victory is mine.
“I’d like that,” I say after a moment, pausing to take up my spoon and finish off the rest of my soup. “Of course, you know this means I’m going to start bugging you to come away from those books and join me in bed, right?”
She ducks her head. “We don’t live together, though …”
Resist the urge to spill on that present. Flirt instead.
Fixing her with a half-lidded stare, I incline my eyebrows. “Daring,” I say in a husky tone.
Her ears stand up straight. She knows this tone.“Y-Yes?”
“Did you bring your books?”
She nods slowly.
Excellent.
“When we get home, I want you to put them away and then come to bed.” I make a show of fluffing up my feathers to let her see how well I’ve preened. “Got it?”
This time, she can’t fight the smile. She just ducks her head and nods shyly.
“Good.” I put my hooves on the table and lean across to kiss her nose. She squirms. “You’re too adorable, Darey!”
“Sh-Shut up!” she says, her tone a stark contrast to the command. “I’m not adorable!”
“Yes you are!” I have to say it now. This is just the perfect time. “You’re my adorable little—”
“Don’t you dare!”
Oh, honey.
Of course I dare.
“Pansy!”
It’s rather hard to describe the way she reacts to that whenever I say it. Truth be told, I don’t know if one can actually put it to words. The sound she makes is somewhere between a happy squeal, a frustrated groan, and a squeak—an odd combination, but she pulls it off and it’s adorable.
But, really, how could it be anything other than adorable? She’s my Daring Do.
My adorable little pansy, who loves to be nuzzled and hugged and kissed and doted on no matter how she denies it.
I hear Soarin snort and cough. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Greta and Gilda squeezing their eyes shut and holding their beaks closed while Spitfire’s shoulders shake in silent laughter.
They didn’t believe me when I told them I could make her do it. None of them did.
This is why my brilliance should never be questioned.
Glancing over Daring’s shoulder as she tries to formulate a reply, I see Coquette’s head poke around the corner. Our eyes meet.
She reaches up and taps the side of her snout twice.
The cake is ready.
Right on time.
I drum a quick cadence on the table—the first bit of the drum part for “Blue and Gold ‘Till Gray and Old,” our team anthem.
At her table, Spitfire nods.
It’s time for everything to go sideways.
“You know, I just remembered,” Gilda says, tapping a talon against her head. “About that crack you made, Soarin. What was it again? You guys aren’t amateurs, right? You’d never let yourself be tailed?”
I hear Soarin scoff. “Of course not. C’mon, Gilda, how many of these buys have we had go through without a hitch? We’re flying smooth here.”
“Are we?” Gilda snapped her talons.
On cue, four more Bolts disguised as mercenaries walk in, pushing a cart with a dinner tray and metal cover toward their table.
Spitfire’s brows furrow in confusion, she looks from Gilda to the tray. “The hay is this supposed to be? Some sort of joke?”
“Not at all, Captain,” Gilda all but purrs. She takes hold of the cover, smiling innocently. “I just thought, since we’re all friends here, that the four of us might share a little something together from home. In this case—”
In one smooth motion, she yanks the cover off to reveal a trembling, yellow mare with a disheveled pink mane.
“—I thought we might share a bit of griffonian tradition. Call it, what happens when we catch a mare eavesdropping and snooping around our chariot.”
Spitfire wrinkles her snout. “She’s not one of ours,” she says with a scoff. “Not a bit of muscle on this one.”
“Kinda cute though,” Soarin says, earning a sideways look from Spitfire.
My boy just earned himself a little bit of couch patrol, methinks.
This mare, though. The one they’ve got trussed up and gagged—and she’s doing a bang up job playing the terrified damsel, might I add—I know her from before, of course. I’ve seen all of Rainbow’s friends, but I’m just terrible with names. Actually, this is the really shy one, so I wonder how much of this is acting for her.
Now what was her name? Something that rhymed with butter …
Daring draws in a sharp breath. “Fluttershy!” she whispers, her eyes wide with horror.
There it is! Fluttershy!
Wait a minute, how does Daring know her? Rainbow, I get, but this one? I’m tossing up a flag here.
“You know her from somewhere?” I ask, just managing to keep my voice even. Not going to lie, this is rather intriguing. From what I’ve heard, Fluttershy is, like, the complete and total opposite of Daring.
Maybe not completely and totally opposite. Both do have rather nice rumps, and I wouldn’t mind nuzzling into those wings of hers. Or just nuzzling both mares’ wings at the same time. Y’know, if Dash were a couple years older and not so starstruck, I might say bring her in too.
Nah, Daring’s enough for me. A mare can dream, though. As long as Daring is my number one, it’s totally okay. She even said so herself.
“She was there with Rainbow Dash,” Daring says, jolting me out of a rather nice though of the two of us in a nice, big cuddle pile with Dash and Fluttershy. “Back when I was trying to keep the Ring of Destiny away from Caballeron and Ahuitzotl, Rainbow and her friend helped me out. Fluttershy was one of them.”
The Ring of—oh! That was the thing! That was what Rainbow helped her out with and helped earn Daring’s respect. Wait, if Fluttershy was there …
Oh. Oh, so that’s why she looks like she’s half a step toward caving Gilda’s face in.
Crud.
I really hope Rainbow’s watching and waiting for her part, because I’m gonna have to call a quick audible here. It’s a simple call, thank Celestia: I just pin my ears back and fold my hooves across one another on the table.
Please, please, please let this rookie be watching! Or at least one of the squad!
To my surprise, Surprise, of all ponies, comes to my rescue. She starts coughing, bringing her napkin up to cover her face.
Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I see Spitfire and Soarin flick their ears toward us. They heard.
Good. Oh thank goodness. Rainbow, I hope you’re on point, kid, or I’m going to have to try to wrestle down a rampaging Daring.
Daring leaps out of her seat and tears her dress off in one motion—it’d be really hot if I wasn’t praying for my teammates’ lives right about now.
There’s a big discrepancy between Daring when she’s working on her own and when she’s looking out for a friend (or girlfriend). From what I’ve heard, her books cover how she works on her own pretty darn well, but she has to make up banter for whenever she had friends or temporary allies in trouble.
It’s not that the well of her witticisms dried up, it’s more along the lines of Daring’s “going to beat the utter stuffing out of somepony” dial being cranked up to eleven. Once the joking stops, bad guys usually know it’s time to start running.
She didn’t even bother giving them a threat. The only warning they got was the sound of her slamming her hooves against the table and snarling as she flared her wings and leapt at them.
I rise from my seat, praying that Rainbow gets here in, like, half a second or I’m going to have to grab Daring by the tail.
Spitfire’s eyes go wide, she glances at me for just an instant before kicking out of her chair and pulling Soarin into the air with her. Without so much as a hint of hesitation, their hooves are up and ready to defend themselves.
They’re going to need that combat training if Daring gets ahold of them before—
A hoof loops around my neck and pulls me in close, light glints of the cold steel suddenly being pressed against my neck.
“Hold it right there!” Rainbow cries, her voice cracking. I can feel a bit of a tremble in her hoof.
She’s only extremely excited to play her part as villain here. And I’m thrilled she made it right now! Thank Celestia this mare can improvise!
Her making it means less teammates getting mauled. For the time being, at least.
Daring flares her wings to put on the air breaks. Her jaw drops. “Rainbow Dash?” She lands nimbly on the floor, blinking in confusion as she looks from the knife to Rainbow. “Kid … what do you think you’re doing right now?”
“What do you think she’s doing?” Spitfire asks, landing with Soarin. She buffs a hoof on her chest. “The kid’s with us, Daring. Best recruit we’ve ever brought up!” Her eyes flit to me, a wicked smirk crosses her muzzle. “Pretty big step up from the scrub you came in with, really. Then again, she’s always been the odd mare out.”
That would sting a little more if we hadn’t gone over this, but damned if Spitfire doesn’t make it believable. “You piece of flying trash!” I snarl. “You think you’re gonna get away with this?”
The knife presses tighter against my neck. “No lip out of you, Fleetfoot … er, ma’am.” Dang it, Dash. I told you to play this up! Why do you have to be so dang finicky? It’s a game!
Wait. I can make this work. I just have to—hang on. Is this the cake knife?
It’s the cake knife.
She’s threatening me with the freaking cake knife.
Okay. Fine. I can wing this.
But, really, must I do everything around here?
“Rookie—Rainbow, think about this a minute.” Let’s play up the nervous angle a little bit, shall we? “I know you wanna be a Bolt, but these two—” I gesture to Spitfire and Soarin “—they’re selling secrets to another country, secrets that keep you, me, and everypony we love safe. I know you, you’re better than that. You got on this team without any shortcuts. You did it the right way!”
She hesitates. Out of the side of my mouth, I hiss to her, “Roll with it!”
The knife pulls away from my neck for an instant. “I … I am a Wonderbolt, and I did it the right way.” Her grip on my neck tightens—ack! “Unlike you, I actually follow orders!”
Beautiful.
Daring recoils as if she’s just been struck. “Orders? Kid, think about this a minute!”
“Oh, she’s made the right choice.” Spitfire tapped her hoof against the table twice. Just as we planned it, every Wonderbolt in the restaurant stands, each mare removes her jewelry, ready to fight if needed.
More an act, but image is important too.
Soarin sniggers. “Didn’t you wonder why Fleetfoot was the contact, Miss Do? I mean, really. Maybe she’s not told you all her disciplinary issues, but you’ve dated her long enough to know that she couldn’t be trusted to run a lemonade stand, let alone ops for the EIS!”
Ouch.
Okay, I know I told him to lay it on like he’s the Master of Evil or something, but he could tone it down a touch. I could run the hay out of a lemonade stand. An ice cream stand, though, might be a little much.
“Because she’s not enough of a Bolt, simple as that.” Spitfire sighs and shakes her head. “Shame, really. I love ya, Fleety, and I tried. I really did. If you’d have just listened and put in the work, I could’ve brought you into the fold and we’d all be relaxing together instead of all this.” She pauses a moment, shrugging her shoulders. “What the hay? You’ve been a great friend, always at my side since we were fillies. I like you. I suppose you could stand another shot.”
Greta snorts. “Giving mercy to a pony who’s trying to burn you? And after all the bumbling this one does?”
Hey.
“Wasn’t she the one you said nearly wrecked the Academy when you let her watch for a few days?” Gilda put in.
Hey! What is this? Take potshots at Fleetfoot day? Methinks not!
Spitfire fixes her with a glare. Her eyes flit from Greta to Fluttershy and back again. “I don’t tell you how to deal with your problems. You let me deal with mine.” With a sniff, she picks up the briefcase and turns to trot toward us. Her eyes bore into mine. “One last chance, Fleetfoot. Tell me you’ll follow orders for once. Tell me you’re going to report to EIS that their intel was wrong, and that this was nothing but a meeting to set up our next show in the Northern Kingdom. All I need is a ‘yes, ma’am, Captain Spitfire,’ and we can let this all go away. Otherwise …” She glances to Daring and smirks. “Well, you really shouldn’t have brought your girl here.”
Daring grits her teeth. “Why don’t you put that down and we’ll see who’s pony enough to run their mouth?” She paws at the ground, carving a deep gash in the cloud floor. “Free dental work’s on me, fireball!”
“Don’t make a move, Daring!” Rainbow calls.
I almost pity her when Daring’s eyes lock on hers. “Oh, don’t you worry,” she says, her voice surprisingly even. “You’re next in the chair, kid! Ring of Destiny or not, you’re on my list!”
My ears flick as Rainbow swallows a lump. “Holy hay, you weren’t kidding!” she whispers. “She’s freaking pissed!”
This is so not the time. Can she fanfilly later? I’m pretty sure she can fanfilly later.
Spitfire clears her throat, trotting past and cheekily flicking her tail across Daring’s nose. “If we’re done posturing, I believe I asked Senior Airmare Fleetfoot a question.”
Oh, Celestia, if looks could kill I’d be short one best friend.
I can almost hear Daring’s teeth grinding from here.
“If you lay one hoof on her …” she growls.
An orange eyebrow arches. Spitfire stops just within hoof’s reach, looks over her shoulder at Daring, then back at me.
I see the corners of her mouth tugging upward, her cheeks puffing out. She’s trying not to laugh. As much as she loves to preach rules at me, she loves playing with fire just as much as I do.
Slowly, she raises a hoof and reaches out to poke my nose. “Touched,” Spitfire says casually. She flicks her ear toward Daring. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”
Nothing. Daring’s face, though … yeesh. I really might be in for it.
I tap a hind hoof against the floor. It’s wrap-up or die time.
Literally.
“I thought so.” Dang it, Spitfire, don’t spike the ball! She smirks at me, her hoof cups my chin and forces me to look into her eyes. “Ease up a little, Rainbow. Give the mare a chance to answer her captain.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The knife pulls away just enough for me to relax.
How nice of her.
Spitfire, meanwhile, is still struggling not to laugh. Keep it together, Spits! Just a couple more lines!
“Well, Fleetfoot?” Her eyes dance with mirth. “Are you going to be a good mare?”
We sort of discussed how I’d answer this question. Nothing we came up with seemed cool enough for our tastes—well, Dash’s tastes, really. Something about not meeting the standards Daring had in all her books. And that’s fair enough. I won’t lie, she’s got the gift of gab when it comes to this stuff.
That line about proposing to Ahuitzotl in her book is a classic. Same as the free dental work thing.
I’m a tease and a flirt. Threats? Epic acts of defiance? Not in this situation. I’m more of a funny mare.
So, really, I have only one reply. Fortunately, I told Spitfire this was coming and she accepted—albeit after a bit of eye rolling.
But the look on her face as spit slowly rolls down from between her eyes to the end of her snout is just classic. Grade A acting.
Oh, hey! I have a line!
“Guess I just live to disappoint you, Spitty-poo.”
She sucks in her lips and looks away to hide a smile. Over her shoulder, I see Soarin, Gilda, and Greta covering their mouth and beaks respectively and shaking in silent laughter.
After a moment, Spitfire draws in a deep breath and wipes a hoof across her face. “Okay. Alright, fine. I guess I can respect your dedication to being a complete pain in my backside ‘till the very end. I’ll make sure they put that on your epitaph.” With a disappointed sigh, she turns away from me. “It’s almost sad, girls. You’re going out like this and we’re about to walk away rich—well, richer.” She lays one ear flat against her scalp, the other perks up straight. “Oh, what the hay? I’m feeling generous. Gilda? How would you like a live reading of Equestria’s secrets from an award winning author? Call it dinner and a show.”
Gilda swallows her laughter just in time. “Sure. I love a good story.” She reclines in her seat, taking a glass of wine in her talons. “Always wanted Daring Do to read to me herself.”
“Well, call me the Element of Generosity.” Spitfire pops the locks on the briefcase and tosses it over to Daring. “Start reading.”
Silence hangs thick over all of us, save for my lovely, furious girlfriend’s heavy breathing. I know that look in her eyes. I remember it, through drug induced haze and grogginess.
That’s the look she had in her eyes right before she ripped through Caballeron’s mercenaries.
“If you think I’m going to read what’s in there—” Daring’s eyes flit to the briefcase laying at her hooves “—I’m afraid you’re dumber than you look, Spitty-poo!”
“You’ll do it,” Spitfire says, her voice taking on an edge I know as her ‘recruit is about to die’ tone. “Or we’ll see which is faster: Rainbow’s knife work or your wings.”
I need to get ahold of somepony in Hollyhoof. Spitfire would be perfect for a villain role.
Daring looks at me, then the knife at my throat. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.
“Daring! No!” Cheesy, but it’s kinda required.
“Read it,” Spitfire repeats her command.
With a sigh, Daring hangs her head and pulls out a sheet of paper. I recognize Spitfire’s pointed script, the message she copied so Daring wouldn’t realize until she read through.
She turns away from me, facing the four at their table as she brings the paper up before her.
And now, everything’s up in the air. Rainbow lets go of my neck, the pair of us take a big step back.
An action that, funnily enough, I see most of my team copying in earnest.
Daring takes a deep breath and makes as if to start reading. But she stops short, tilting her head. Her ears pin back. “Sorry for all the trickery, Darey, but I know how you hate parties and public displays,” she reads with a mix of incredulity and utter fury in her tone. “Hope you have a nice time meeting all the ponies I’ve come to call friends over the years, and have a happy birthday. Love from …” she trails off. I hear her take a shuddering breath.
“Go on!” Soarin eggs her on, leaning against the table. His vibrant green eyes lock with mine. He winks. “Love from whom?”
She turns on the spot, her tail flicks through the air like the bullwhip she so loves to use. “Love from Fleetfoot?” she shrieks, fixing me with a heated glare.
I feel everything seem to slow down as our eyes meet. There’s all the indignation I knew would be there, if only for a bit, and, of course, the signs of a rant just waiting to happen. But there’s something I hadn’t counted on.
Tears. Angry tears gathering in her eyes.
Uh oh.
Okay, no more games. I hold up my hooves in surrender. “N-Now, honey, I can explain!” My throat tightens. Dang it, this is not the time. “I just—um—well …” I see Gilda sniggering with Greta as they cut Fluttershy’s bonds, even she gives me a little half smile, the kind you give somepony you know is about to get exactly what they have coming.
Huh. I really should’ve thought this through better.
With an enraged shout, Daring leaps at me, hooves outstretched and ready to wrap around my neck.
Now, funny thing about me. Well, more specifically, how my parents named me. They didn’t name me right off the bat. Something about my mom’s family having a tradition of waiting a few days to see what the foal was like.
I happened to be incredibly quick, both on my hooves and in air. Thus, mom named me Fleetfoot.
So, I really hope mom wasn’t kidding, because I could really use all that speed and grace to escape my beautiful, lovely, utterly furious, practically spitting fire and shooting lasers from her eyes girlfriend.
I leap to the side just in time to let her overshoot me and bowl over Rainbow, who yelps and tries to scramble away in fear of retribution.
No, rookie, you’re fine. Me? I’m dead.
Without looking back, I take off. “I’m sorry!” I call over my shoulder. “It was just supposed to be a thing to get you to come to your birthday party!”
“I’m going to freaking murder you! Do you have any idea how terrified I was?”
I can hear her voice cracking. Oh, geez, I’ve really done a number here. “I didn’t think you’d freak out when you saw Fluttershy! The whole thing was supposed to end with them bringing out a cake and singing and—”
My hoof catches on something, sending me sprawling. I glance back and see a rather familiar yellow leg rubbing innocently against another as Spitfire slides out of the way to lean against Soarin.
Both fix me with matching smirks. They’ve just signed my death warrant.
Oh, crud.
Before I can even roll over, Daring’s on top of me, pinning my shoulders to the floor. Her breaths come in ragged gasps, washing over my face. The angry tears are still gathered in her eyes.
I let my ears lay flat. I’ve really botched this one.
Closing my eyes, I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Darey …”
“Sorry?” she snaps. “You put all this together, you had one of my friends act like she was going to cut you with a knife—”
“It’s a cake knife!” Rainbow cuts in helpfully. “I’d have to run it against her, like, really hard. And really long.”
Whipping her head around, Daring jabs a hoof in her direction. “You shut up until I’m good and ready to deal with you!”
Rainbow ducks her head low and hides behind Rapidfire.
Daring turns back to me. Quick as a flash, she pulls me up by my shoulders and shakes me like a freaking maraca! “I am going to beat the utter hay out of you, you big, fat, stupid, inconsiderate, jerk!”
Two sets of hooves—sky blue and yellow—wrap around her and pull her off of me. She flails and makes to lash out at them, but they hold her tight.
“Alright, alright, relax!” Spitfire chides her. “Look, this went south because we didn’t think you’d flip out when Fluttershy was brought in.”
Nostrils flaring, Daring jerks herself out of their hold and brings herself nose to nose with Spitfire. “Do I look like I care right now?”
Spitfire doesn’t even blink. “No, but there’s a mare who cares an awful lot about you who put together a big thing where we had you ‘surrounded’ so we could sing for you.”
If I didn’t feel so bad, it might be comical how Daring blinks and seems to deflate. She looks over her shoulder at me, then back to Spitfire. “What?”
Rolling her eyes, Spitfire sighs. “Long story short, your girlfriend’s a great planner, but she has a tendency to let that go to her head sometimes.”
“Hey!”
In almost practiced unison, everypony—even the griffons—call out, “Shut up, Fleetfoot!”
I’m pretty sure I picked up Fluttershy’s voice in the mix, along with the phrase “If you don’t mind.”
Either way, Spitfire continues. “She put together this whole thing where we have you surrounded and stuff, and then Claire de Lune—” with a wave of her hoof, she draws everypony’s attention to a short, portly mare wheeling in a rather large cake with chocolate icing “—would wheel that in so we could all subject you to the absolute worst torment in the history of Equestria.” Her brows flatline. She heaves a sigh and steps back until she’s right beside Soarin.
Daring just stares. “Huh?”
The Blunderbolt himself grins and waggles his ears. “Our singing voices! Duh!” Then, he reaches up to rub at his mane. “Buuuuuut since you kinda flipped out, we called, like, eight audibles on the fly and just made something up. It went … really bad.” Ducking his head, he gives a crooked smile. “Didn’t think a prank would go over so poorly. In any case, though … happy birthday. And thanks for putting up with our team idiot. It takes a load off us.”
I puff my cheeks up and cross my hooves. “I am right here, you know!”
Suddenly, Daring’s ears stand up straight. She turns, I feel my coat stand on end as she fixes me with a blank stare. Slowly, a cold smile works its way across her muzzle. “My birthday party, huh?”
Huh, why are my lips suddenly dry? And why do I feel like I should just run for the hills, change my name, and never return?
“Y-Yeah,” I find myself saying. “S-Surprise, honey!”
“I see.” She closes her eyes tight, the smile never leaves her muzzle.
Turning sharply, Daring strides over to Claire de Lune and holds out a hoof. “I hope you don’t mind, but—” without so much as a warning, she lashes out, swiping a rather large piece of corner from the cake “—I need this for something.”
Claire looks like she’s just been slapped across the face, but she nods quickly, forcing a smile while Daring begins to make her way toward me again.
Daring stops right in front of me. “Stand up.”
There’s something about the look in her eye …
Slowly, I stand. “Uh …” I glance from Daring’s face to the piece of cake in her hoof. “Honey?”
Stars burst from behind my eyes. I topple over in a heap, covering my face with my hooves.
Okay. Ow. That’s a mean right cross, but I deserved it. And probably more, but—hang on.
I feel something sticky. And flakey.
It clicks.
I wipe my hooves down across my face, then hold them out in front of me. She just slapped me in the face with her own birthday cake.
Our eyes meet again. Beautiful cerise seem to dance with amusement, a single tear runs down her cheeks.
Ducking my head, I cringe. “Still mad?”
“Furious,” she replies, giving a tight-lipped smile. “But a little touched by the gesture, even if it is stupid.”
My ears perk up. “Really?”
“You’re still in trouble.” Her eyes harden. She leans in close enough to whisper, “You’re lucky I’ve missed you and this is sorta sweet, or you’d be sleeping alone tonight.”
“Sorry, Darey.”
“Oh, you will be. Later tonight.” She draws back and gives her tail a swish, her tongue runs along her top lip.
There’s a big part of me that wonders if running might be a good option.
The gleam in her eyes is almost a dare to try it, and a reminder that, while I might fly fast for a living, she hunts treasure and thrashes bad guys for hers.
So, I’ll just sit here and be in trouble tonight. Like a good Fleety.
Daring reaches out with one hoof and pulls me up, holding me tight against her side. She turns her head to nose against my cheek, sneaking close to my ear again. “Until then,” she whispers, “I think I know what I want for my birthday …”
Why do I have the feeling that I’m doomed?
As if on cue, Daring turns to Spitfire and grins. “So, how about a customized, weird party game for this customized weird party?”
Spitfire raises an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
Daring’s grip on me tightens. “Whoever can tell the most embarrassing Fleetfoot story wins a round of drinks on me.”
Twenty faces light up like a bunch of foals on Hearths’ Warming Morning. Their ears stand straight and tall, their tails swish back and forth.
Oh …
My teammates cheer and rush forward, each babbling at top speed as they try to get their favorite tale out and claim their prize.
That would be because I am doomed.
