Spin The Wheel, Win A Prize
With a single trembling hoof, Spitfire folded her sunglasses closed and lowered them to her desk. She kept her eyes trained like gun barrels on the stallion standing in front of her, shifting his weight between his hooves like he had just barged into the washroom unannounced, as opposed to her office.
“Soarin,” she addressed the stallion. “Do you know why I gave the entire academy a day off today?”
Lieutenant Soarin shook. “Uh… No, Captain. Why?” He shook harder when she put on a smile.
“The building inspector’s coming through today,” Spitfire explained, “and I wanted him to walk through a nice, upstanding, empty building to avoid any hiccups.”
“…Okay.”
Spitfire crossed her hooves. “And I’d like to make one thing clear.”
Soarin gulped.
“The last thing I’d like to be doing on building inspection day… is helping you hide a dead body.”
Soarin tried to make an offended noise, but it came out as just a squeak. “Hey, I’m not asking you that! I just thought you should know,” he said, turning away, “that there’s a body. And that I need your help.”
The phrase, ‘I need your help to hide a dead body’, indeed did not show up in Soarin’s story of his morning. But of course, it was a Soarin story, so the request was hidden inside a mess of utter nonsense that Spitfire had to parse through herself.
The story went something like this: “So, Captain… You know how sometimes I like to take some of the new cadets on a personal tour of the academy? You know, let them spend some quality time with a real, bona fide Wonderbolt?”
To which Spitfire replied: “I don’t want to hear the rest of this story.”
But Soarin continued: “Well, I figured today would be the perfect day since the academy was empty, right? So I invited one of the cadets on a tour, and she”—because of course it was a she—“said she wanted to do something fun and dangerous. And what’s more fun and dangerous than the Dizzitron, right?”
He continued to rationalize this decision for a time, but Spitfire’s thoughts were already spinning in circles of rage, which made it tough for her to hear him. She only came back for the long story short:
“So… long story short, she got launched right into a solid wall,” Soarin finished, slapping his hooves together with a sad smirk on his face.
Spitfire’s mouth shook. “…Huh?”
“Yeah, it was awful. Her whole body kinda folded in on itself. And the sound she made… phew!” Soarin shivered. “Really uncool.”
Spitfire frowned. “But that’s impossible. The Dizzitron is stationed a mile away from any walls. And it’s designed to only launch ponies upwards.”
“The new one is, sure. But not the old one. You know, the one that's stored in the gym?” Soarin put on an impressed frown. “Turns out it still runs!”
“You used a Dizzitron indoors?!”
“Hey, she just wanted to go fast! It was perfectly safe so long as nopony hit the release lever.”
“So, what happened?!”
“I slipped.”
Spitfire’s hooves came within an inch of smacking her forehead. But that might have broken her sunglasses, so at this point, she removed them, which catches us right back up to where we should be.
She stood up from her desk and walked around to her antsy guest, which didn’t help him calm down. She hadn’t broken eye contact for several minutes now. “Soarin, you’ve done a terrible thing,” she pointed out. “You know that, right?
“Yes, Captain,” he conceded.
“I should haul you out by your tail, give you to the authorities, and make sure the prison cell they chuck you in has a nice window”—she paused to draw the imaginary window in between them—”where that poor girl’s family can come see you rotting away whenever they please. Understand me?”
Soarin peered down his foreleg, like a dog pretending the puddle of urine wasn’t really there. “Yes, Captain. Only fair, Captain.”
Spitfire pulled her lieutenant’s head back up to her level. “But I’m not gonna do that, Soarin. Do you know why?”
Soarin’s eyes started to glisten. “Because I’m your best flyer and the Wonderbolts would be nothing without me?”
Spitfire laughed softly and brushed off both of Soarin’s shoulders. “You’re my second-best flyer. No, I’m gonna help you, because your little stunt has now put the entire academy in danger.”
Soarin pouted. “Second-best…?”
Spitfire almost paused to remind Soarin—for the hundredth time—that Fleetfoot was her best flyer, because Fleetfoot was a goddamned professional. But there were more pressing matters at hoof.
“Soarin, focus. This isn't about you or me. This is about the little colts and fillies all over Cloudsdale who have a reason to smile, thanks to the Academy. A goal to aim for. The chance to join a team of heroes. And if the inspector decides to shut down the Academy, then it’s no more smiling children. And we can’t have that. Understood?”
An irrepressible grin grew onto Soarin’s face. It almost made Spitfire crack a genuine smile of her own, but the fake one was a pretty good imitation.
“I said… Understood?”
Soarin nodded. “Okay, so what do I do?”
“You’re going to shut your mouth and do everything I tell you.”
Soarin nodded. “Okay, so what do I do?”
“You’re—”
Spitfire broke off to growl at her lieutenant. After a huff, she continued.
“The first thing we have to do is draw as little attention to the gym as possible.”
“Okay. So... I’m guessing we don’t call for an ambulance?”
Spitfire shrugged. “Well, if she’s dead then there’s no point. That just makes us look bad with no benefit to her.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“Right. Now—”
Spitfire trailed off when she noticed Soarin’s mouth hanging open, a habit of his that came out whenever he had something he felt he should say.
“… What?” she hissed.
The lieutenant bit his lip. “In theory…”
“Soarin, you didn’t!”
“…If I told somepony to call for an ambulance on the way to your office…”
“You perpetual—!”
Suddenly, Spitfire choked on a thought that hit her like six glasses of wine. She stumbled to the side, smacking Soarin’s assisting hoof away. When she recovered, she carefully asked, “Who did you tell to get an ambulance?”
Soarin scratched his chin. “Guy with a clipboard. He a friend of yours?”
Another six glasses came crashing down on Captain Spitfire. She nearly heaved, but she kept her composure. Slinking over to lean against her desk, she slowly re-applied her sunglasses to her face. With a deep breath in through her nose, and a deeper one out through her mouth, she straightened her neck up high and declared, “Soarin, I have a plan.”
Soarin smiled in relief. “Oh, thank Celestia. I am dry over here.”
“If you trust me, we can make this work.” Spitfire approached her lieutenant again, got nice and close, and saluted as tall as she could.
Soarin did the same, pressing the tip of his left wing to his forehead. “I trust you, Captain.”
“Good.”
Spitfire snatched at Soarin’s wingtip and yanked on it.
Three noises followed. The third was an agonized scream that was borderline masculine. The second was Soarin’s body crashing towards the floor. The first was a distinct ‘pop’.
“Captain!” Soarin wailed, “That’s my wing!”
Spitfire stamped her hooves, as if she were the one who deserved to be offended. “Stand up, soldier! You said you trusted me, right? If an ambulance is coming, someone’s gotta be there for it! Might as well be the one who got us into this whole mess!”
Soarin sniffed and sat up. He shuddered at the sight of his wing, hanging limply by his side. He nudged it, and recoiled as lightning struck him at the joint.
Spitfire spoke over her lieutenant’s whimpers. “Don’t worry. Once this crisis has been averted, we’ll pop it back in place, right as rain!”
“But…”
“I can’t HEAR you, soldier!”
“But… I’m the one who asked him to get the ambulance! Why would I be the one who’s hurt?!”
Spitfire bared her teeth, and then abruptly stopped. “Oh. That’s a fair point, actually.”
“If anyone should get their wing pulled out…!”
“Soarin, don’t do anything DRAST—!”
Three noises followed.
The journey to the gymnasium proved challenging. Normally a quick flight of less than twenty seconds, the two beleaguered Wonderbolts were forced to shuffle there over five minutes with perfectly straight legs to minimize body-shake. Their outside wings dragged two parallel lines along the hallway.
Shortly into the trip, they spoke about the victim, Celestia rest her soul, in between all the Ooh’s, and the Aahh’s, and the Ow-ow-ow’s that they mumbled to themselves.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked who it was,” Soarin said pointedly.
Although Spitfire had an idea of the fallen cadet’s identity, she hadn’t asked yet for fear of it becoming true. But in the end, Soarin’s point that she wanted to do something dangerous left only one candidate.
“Lilac Storm.”
“Whoa… How did you know?”
“Because she’s our best cadet.”
“Is she? I don’t usually pay attention to that stuff.”
Spitfire briefly considered tackling Soarin into the wall. Her dislocated wing made her decide not to, despite how tempting his dislocated wing made the idea.
Soarin continued talking: “All I know is that she’s crazy. She actually cackled when she was spinning in that thing, and I don’t say ‘cackled’ unless I mean it.”
“Exactly,” Spitfire sighed. “The best ones are always crazy.”
They arrived at the gymnasium and creaked open the doors to the great expanse inside. The floor was littered with mats, punching bags, and climbing ropes. Every piece of equipment was in pristine condition, as if they had simply appeared there, and the room had never been entered before now. Even the floor was devoid of skid marks. Truly, the gymnasium was a shining monument to the Wonderbolts’ efforts to spend the entirety of their municipal budget, thus preventing it from being lowered in the new year. It literally shined, in fact: the exterior wall was a window extending the full height of the room, glazed with speeding-pegasus-proof glass. And it was an admittedly nice day outside.
But there was one part of the room that didn’t exactly sparkle: the old Dizzitron. The giant hypnotic wheel and its out-dated three-gear design was the only thing that showed a little bit of use. Some peeling paper and some loose metal here and there. The machine sparked fear in Soarin for obvious reasons. But it sparked fear in Spitfire because a stallion had just walked out from behind it. A stallion with a cheap red pen poking out of his mouth and a clipboard in front of his face.
He lowered the board and noticed that he wasn't alone. His eyelids fell half-closed, and he pushed his circular glasses up his nose. Clicking his pen with what could have only been his tongue, he began striding over. The Wonderbolts froze.
“You know what?” the inspector said as he approached. His voice sounded like it was coming from his nose instead of his mouth. “I had a feeling that you were playing the old get-the-inspector-to-call-an-ambulance-so-that-he-kills-time-in-another-room trick on me. I’ve been in the business far too long.”
“You must be Mr. Signage.” Spitfire choked out, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sorry about the… prank, sir.” She extended her hoof out to greet him.
“Psst.”
Mr. Signage eyed her hoof disapprovingly. “What happened to your wings?”
“Captain.”
Spitfire’s eye twitched. She politely drew her hoof back. “They’re resting, sir. Secret… Wonderbolt yoga technique.”
“…Uh-huh.” Mr. Signage—whose first name was Exit—began to leave the room. “I’ll go ahead and continue my tour now… If that’s alright with you two. Is there anywhere I need help getting access to?”
“Captain, her body isn’t here.”
“I’VE NOTICED—!” Spitfire screamed at her companion, before turning back to the departing inspector. “…that all the doors have been unlocked for you.” She grinned nice and wide. “You can go anywhere you like.”
“Hmph.” Mr. Signage turned around just enough to maintain eye contact with the Captain. “…I’ll be the judge of that.”
When he turned away, Spitfire stuck out her tongue. And when he was out of earshot, she muttered, “Freaking municipal workers. They think they’re in the army or something.”
Soarin, meanwhile, took the first chance to sprint towards the lightly used Dizzitron standing parallel to the windows. He inspected the makeup, blotting the wall in the shape of a face, and he inspected the empty space on the floor below it. He scratched his head and gradually turned his attention to the windows. His mouth fell open. “Uh… Captain?”
“And you!” Spitfire whirled around, whimpering in pain as her wing brushed her face. “Is this your idea of a joke?! I should have you—… Oh, Sweet Celestia on High.”
Spitfire joined her lieutenant at the windows. They had a perfect view of the main entrance to the building: a long and wide set of stairs leading out to the edge of a cloud, and a steep drop to the runway where they trained the Cadets far below. Between the last stair and the cloud’s edge was a mare. Both of her wings hung at her side—specifically her left side. Her right hindleg dragged behind her, making a trail in the clouds. Her left foreleg hugged the opposite shoulder. She limped towards the edge, and the aforementioned sheer drop, at a guaranteed pace.
“She… survived?” Soarin said. “That’s…”
Spitfire and Soarin looked at each other. “Ambulance,” they said in unison.
“You go!” Spitfire ordered, pushing Soarin towards the door. “I’ll stop her from falling! And don’t let the inspector see you!”
Soarin crouched backwards to take off, and then watched his wing spool next to him. “Ow…”
“Wait!” Spitfire called back. “Look!”
The risen cadet stood two paces from the drop, or perhaps four paces in her condition. The hoof around her shoulder was now stretched forwards, as if trying to touch the face of god. Her head tilted slightly, and the weight carried her all the way over to her side. In hindsight, she couldn’t have asked for a nicer surface to land on.
Spitfire wiped her brow, though she wasn’t sweating. “Well, that’s a relief.”
Soarin did a double-take. “…What part?”
As if mimicking a funeral procession, the two injured Wonderbolts stood on either side of Lilac Storm, their chins low and furrowed. She was a pretty, if mangled mare. Her body was a pale purple, and her flowing mane was a deeper purple with unnatural blue highlights. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was open, and her tongue was hanging out. She slowly sank into the thin cloud beneath, tongue-first.
“Should we… do something about her?” Soarin asked.
Spitfire scowled. “What, you were just gonna leave her here?”
“I know we have to do something about her,” Soarin shot back. “It’s just… I don’t do so good with zombies. I dunno what I’ll do if she gets back up again.”
Spitfire rolled her eyes and cocked her head forward, catching her sunglasses as they fell. She placed them a couple hoof lengths away from the cadet’s mouth. Soarin watched her carefully, frowning in concern.
“There,” she observed, flicking her shades back on. “No fog. She’s not breathing. Happy?”
Soarin gave his captain an incredulous look. “I can’t believe you just asked me that.”
“I didn’t mean—“
“This is insane! ” Soarin squatted down in the cloud and held his hooves and one wing over his head. “We’re going to get shut down… We’re going to go to jail. We should just confess to the inspector.”
Spitfire grabbed her lieutenant by the shoulders and lifted himself back to standing. “Pull yourself together, soldier!” she spat in his face. She slapped him repeatedly until he looked at her. “We’ve gotten her this far without the inspector seeing us, and he’s busy in there!”
Soarin rubbed his jaw. “She got herself here.”
“Regardless! We just gotta stick to the plan.”
“Oh yeah?” Soarin protested. “And what’s next, huh?”
Spitfire released Soarin and began circling the body. “We can’t just get rid of her. That's too sinister. What we have to do is put her somewhere where somepony will find her, but where it looks like it was an accident.”
“It was an accident!”
“A non-incriminating accident, Dingus! Something that’s completely her fault and not at all yours!”
Soarin huffed. “Or yours!”
“None of this is my fault,” Spitfire stated, rubbing her chin.
“Uh-huh…”
Spitfire held up a hoof. “Hold that insurrection.” She hobbled to the cliff’s edge, ignoring the collective clench of all her muscles as she approached the drop. It had always been oblivion, but for the first time, it actually felt like it.
She took a deep breath and peered down at the runway below, to the staggered clouds leading down to it, and, at the far end of the runway, the state-of-the-art Dizzitron in the grass. Its innovative two-gear design reflected in her sunglasses.
“I’ve got an idea.”
Soarin whimpered.
Spitfire dug her hoof into the machinery behind the Dizzitron. Where the front side had only one colourful wheel and two comically-sized gears—all it needed for flinging ponies—the back side was a mess of gears, belts, weights and counterweights, and other miscellaneous pieces of metal.
“I don’t understand what you’re doing,” Soarin said, standing next to the controls. He listened to the sounds of Spitfire’s mechanical work, but his attention was really on the cadet, strapped into the larger gear. He made sure that the only movements she made were from the jostling of the machinery behind her.
“I’m removing the safety!” Spitfire explained.
“…Is that really such a good idea?”
Spitfire tossed a black piece of metal from behind the towering machine, which landed in front of Soarin and left a divot in the dirt. She slammed her hooves on top of the Dizzitron. “This is the only idea.” She landed next to her lieutenant and put a reassuring hoof on his shoulder, which he cringed away from. “We have to do this. For the smiling children, remember?”
“I don’t think what we’ve done is gonna make any children smile,” Soarin observed.
“That’s because—”
“I think they’d just scream.”
“That’s because you’re too busy looking at the small stuff. See, I’m the one looking at the big picture. And the important thing about the big picture is that the children aren’t gonna see this part. You trust me, right?”
Soarin swallowed firmly and stood up straight. He had yet to take his eyes off the cadet. “Okay… Remind me again why don't just leave her next to this thing and go?”
Spitfire rolled her eyes. "Haven't you ever read a mystery novel? Detectives are no joke, Soarin. They see her without any point of impact on the ground, they're gonna be suspicious."
Soarin imagined being interrogated by a Cloudsdale Detective, and he almost confessed where he stood. "Okay," he agreed. "So... what did you just do?"
“It’s simple, really," Spitfire stated in a self-congratulatory tone. "Normally the Dizzitron needs two things to happen to launch its passenger. The lever needs to be pushed, and the wheel needs to hit the point where ponies will be flung at an optimal direction.”
Soarin gazed uneasily at the contraption next to him, a mess of lights, buttons, and gauges that seemed to mock him for not understanding what any of them meant. “Okay…”
Spitfire glanced up at the body and nodded approvingly. “Now that this is out of the picture,” Spitfire paused to kick the small piece of metal down the runway, “only the first thing needs to happen. Once you pull that lever, she'll be on her way in whatever direction you choose.”
“Goodie…”
“What we need to do is fling her right into the dirt. Just straight down, Soarin. Understand?”
“…How will I time that?”
“I’ll do it for you, okay? On a count of three. And once we’re done, we hightail it out of here, our inspector sees the body on his way out, and all there is to say is a daredevil cadet came, broke the safety off of the Dizzitron, and pancaked herself.”
Soarin squinted at the lever, and then at his captain. “But then who… pulled the lever…?”
“The important thing is that it wasn’t either of us!”
Soarin lifted his hooves and shrank back. “Okay, okay!”
Spitfire’s eyes sparkled in desperation. “This is the best solution I have, okay? I’ve never had to deal with a dead body before.”
“Could have fooled me…”
“What was that?”
“Nothing. I’m… ready when you are.”
After a shaky, uncertain breath, Soarin pressed down on the lever. The cadet’s body slumped from one side to the other, and the machine started to rotate. Soon, Lilac Storm was nothing more than a blurry purple circle rotating in place.
“Alright…” Spitfire breathed. She moved her head forward in a large circle, like she was feeling out a spinning jump rope. “1… 2… 3…!”
Soarin threw the lever.
Spitfire bit her tongue.
Time stretched to infinity.
In the endless seconds between the lever pull and the launch, a hundred memories flooded Soarin’s thoughts. Memories of his time with Spitfire, back when they were first in the academy together. Those important, formative years as Wonderbolts.
He remembered all the effortless manouvers they completed. All the leg-grabs, the turnovers, and the half-in-halfs that they practiced during all those endless mornings. Whenever they needed a countdown, Spitfire was the one who gave it. But it had been a few months since they had performed together. Spitfire was so busy now, after all, being captain. And in that long stretch of time since their duet flights, Soarin had forgotten that she had a very consistent way of counting to three.
She said ‘1’.
She said ‘2’.
She said ‘3’.
And the last part, which was very important:
She always said ‘now’.
As time compressed back down to normal speed, Soarin looked on in horror—much the way Spitfire looked at him—as Lilac Storm was released straight up into the air at a considerable speed.
Spitfire screamed. She spat. She stomped her hooves. But Soarin didn’t hear her. His ears were ringing too loud. In his trance, he could only read her lips. There was only one word he could pick out, because she was using it a lot.
Now.
Now.
Soarin, you’ve screwed us now, Soarin. Soarin, you perpetual motion machine of screw-ups and bad decisions, I always say ‘now’.
Perhaps he could read lips better than he thought.
When Spitfire tired herself out, Captain and Lieutenant gazed up at the sky. The cadet’s body soared almost completely vertically, angling slightly back towards the academy. They thought of flying after her—even if they were both short a wing—but an oppressive, defeating air washed over them and rooted them to the runway. So they simply watched, their heads slowly turning in sync as they followed the body’s journey through limitless atmosphere.
At the top of her arc, just about as high as the office building, Lilac Storm vanished behind a cloud.
Soarin’s hearing returned to him. His mouth fell open, and he exhaled. “Well,” he said, his voice cracking twice in the span of one word. “You wanted it to be an accident.”
Thirty minutes passed. Soarin and Spitfire didn’t move. Eventually, Mr. Signage came down to greet them. His clipboard was under his foreleg, and his pen was snug behind his ear. He flew down to the runway, landed deftly and trotted over.
The Wonderbolts continued watching the sky.
“Afternoon, you two. Er…” he glanced up in the direction of their gaze and saw nothing. “Uh… Whoa!”
When he looked back down, the Wonderbolts were staring at him, mouths agape yet still, like those of petrified zombies.
Exit Signage cleared his throat. “Er… Okay. Um… I don't know if you two know this, but as I was finishing up on the roof, I saw somepony taking a nap on a cloud.”
Soarin and Spitfire inhaled as if coming up for air.
“…Rrrriiiight. Anywho, the girl looked so out cold I had to go make sure she was even breathing!” He took off his circular glasses and gave them a wipe on his shirt. “Used the ol’ fog-on-the-glasses trick. Sure enough, she’s breathing.”
Soarin and Spitfire both squinted. They looked at each other, and then back to the inspector. “…Whaaaaat?” they drawled.
“I don't know if she’s trespassin’ or something. I mean, I figured she was a Wonderbolt since her wings are both ‘resting’ like yours are. A couple of her legs might be too. But I thought I’d let you know either way.” Exit Signage clapped his forehooves together. “Anyways! Inspection’s done. All looks good for the most part.”
Spitfire coughed herself back to the present moment. “…Really?”
“Yep! But you’re being shut down.”
Soarin and Spitfire’s shoulders dropped. “Aw,” they lamented.
The inspector suddenly burst out laughing, covering his mouth and almost doubling over. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Kinda. It’s just a temporary thing until you guys get rid of that old Dizzitron in the gymnasium. Thing looks like it could hurt somepony.” He waited for a response, but it didn’t come. He nudged Spitfire playfully on the shoulder. “I know, I know, what are the chances it even runs? Still. Bureaucracy, am I right?”
Still nothing.
The inspector cleared his throat. “Anyway…” he ripped a sheet of paper off his clipboard and passed it to Spitfire, who took it without looking.
“Thank you, sir,” she whispered. “We’ll get right on that.”
Five minutes after the inspector left, Soarin turned to his captain and asked, “Hey… Do you think the mare he’s talking about is—?”
“Stop talking, Soarin.”
If the trip down to the runway with a dislocated wing was an exercise in withstanding pain, the trip back up was an exercise in not passing out from it. The only rest Soarin and Spitfire had were in the occasional breaks they took on a cloud while waiting for another, higher cloud to drift close enough to use as a platform. And those breaks made for some tremendously awkward silences.
Once they were on the roof, they sat back-to-back—their strong and weak wings mirroring each other. They waited there for a time, and only occasionally glanced at the circling cloud just above their heads—tantalizingly out of reach. For on this cloud slumbered a bright young cadet with an indeterminate amount of broken bones.
Soarin was the one to break the silence. What he said came to him without surprise or filter.
“You didn’t hold them close enough.”
“…What?”
“Your sunglasses. You didn’t hold them close enough to her mouth. I was gonna say something, but I didn’t question you.” His head sunk low in his chest.
“…Oh.”
“Why don’t I ever question you, Captain?”
“Hold on… I think I can…”
Mercifully, the cadet’s cloud meandered just close enough for Spitfire to reach out and grab it. She pulled it in close and lowered it to the roof. Soarin approached beside her, and they gazed down at the sleeping mare like she was their child, just back home from the hospital.
“She looks so peaceful,” Soarin cooed.
Spitfire pulled off her sunglasses again and put them much closer to the cadet’s mouth. A wave of fog washed over them, disappeared, and came back, all in perfect rhythm.
“…Fuck me,” was all she could say.
“Think she’ll sue?”
“Only if she likes money.”
A cough burst from Lilac’s mouth, and her eyes sprang open. Her pupils vibrated in place as she acquainted herself with her surroundings, or rather, failed to do so.
“Where am I…?” she exhaled.
“You had an accident,” Soarin explained briefly. “Paramedics are on their way.”
Her eyes darted to her superiors, and they both flinched.
“…You launched me into a wall.”
Soarin nodded. “…My bad.”
A creeping smile formed on Lilac Storm’s face. “That is so awesome. That is…”
The smile gradually disappeared.
“...I can’t move.”
Soarin shuddered. “Trust me… you can."
“Really? Hang on…” Lilac pressed her eyes shut in concentration. All of her muscles convulsed for a split second, and she exhaled in satisfaction. “Yep, I’m good.” The smile came back, and it made the Wonderbolts shiver. “…What a rush.”
Soarin gasped. Then he gasped again for good measure.
“…What?” Spitfire asked.
The First Lieutenant of the Wonderbolts puffed out his chest and scowled at the crumpled-up cadet. He set off on a tirade.
“That was an incredibly stupid thing you did, Cadet. Captain Spitfire and I are totally ashamed. You’ll have to miss a year thanks to your injuries, and that’s not taking into account your suspension! What were you thinking?!”
It appeared that the muscles in Lilac’s eyebrows still worked. “It’s your fault too,” she pointed out.
Soarin waved the accusation away. “Regardless! Wonderbolts must think for themselves, and not put undue faith in anypony else! This is on you as much as it is on me.”
Spitfire blinked rapidly.
“…Sorry, sir,” Lilac said.
“But!” A devilish smile appeared on his face. “I’m willing to let this one slide so long as you promise me one thing.” He got down really close to the Cadet and bared his front teeth. “…You will never mention this to anypony for as long as you live.”
Lilac thought it over, which was only apparent through random eye-movement. “What’s in it for me?” she asked.
Soarin pulled back and winked at his Captain, who simply watched on in awe.
“I’m glad you asked, Cadet. How would you like an old Dizzitron?”
