Deep breaths, Bluebird.
“Mares and Gentlecolts!” The stadium announcer boomed over the loudspeakers.
Soarin took a deep breath and let his stress ebb away. He shook himself and felt the tension in his body loosen up.
Just let everything fade away.
“Let me introduce our one stallion showstopper!”
Soarin blocked out the roar of the crowd and the stomping of hooves. From his vantage point high up behind the bleachers of the Baltimare Arena, he took in the wide open space.
It was the second largest stadium behind Manehattan at half the size of Canterlot Castle. A glorious stage for the Wonderbolts to perform upon.
When you feel pressured or nervous, always remember, Bluebird.
“A stallion of perfect execution! A stallion of dynamic flight! I give you-”
Soarin moved his goggles down to cover his eyes and braced himself for launch. He closed his eyes and focused on the thumping of his heart. A steady rhythm that kept him in the zone.
He waited for his cue, his anticipation reaching a breaking point.
Flight is, first and foremost, joy.
“SOARIN!”
Soarin jumped off the edge of the platform and dive bombed towards the center of the field. The split second before he would burst through the cloud floor of the arena, he unfurled his wings and rolled forward.
He brought himself into an upright position and gave a roguish grin to the audience.
It was met with the typical loud cheering and stomping hooves.
It was a bittersweet feeling. On one hoof, the cheering gave him a rising feeling of elation as he felt energized from the roar of the crowd. On the other, he couldn’t give the crowd what they wanted.
What they needed.
And you can’t. Right, Soarin?
Regardless of his feelings on the matter, he was ready.
It was time to give the crowd a show.
Soarin started his routine with a spiral upwards. At the peak, without wasting any momentum, he tilted himself and spun through two successive hoops in a perfect execution of a Spiralling Torpedo.
From there, it was move after move, stunt after stunt. He dove and swooped through the air. Not a single feather misplaced.
It was, in a single word, perfection.
For his final maneuver, Soarin flew as high as he could within the confines of the stadium. At the peak of his ascent, he let himself fall back, and plummet. He spun as he fell to build up the wind around him.
The audience waited with bated breath as Soarin spun faster and faster and plummeted towards the ground.
Before impact, Soarin righted himself with a roll forward, and unfurled his wings sharply to immediately stop his descent. A gust of wind billowed out from under him as he released the air he had stored up from his fall. It whipped his feathers and mane around in the ensuing gale.
He landed lightly on the stadium floor and gave his best charming grin.
The crowd went delirious in applause and cheers.
At least, that’s what Soarin told himself.
He trotted out of the arena through the gate nearby. A security guard gave him a grin and a ‘good work as always!’. Soarin felt his grin become strained as he replied with a simple thanks.
He trotted around backstage looking for a private place to continue watching the show. Soarin didn’t have anything more to do.
He had, as he always did, performed technical perfection. The same routine he performed at every show.
The exact same.
Perfectly.
Soarin felt a twitch as he struggled to keep his ever present grin, when he received a standard ‘congrats’ from another guard. As if he done something spectacular.
He wished somepony would fill him in on what.
He soon found the spot he was looking for. A long corridor with windows that looked out over the arena. He could still hear the announcer and roar of the crowd even with the thick glass separating him from the rest.
Soarin settled himself down and waited for the next routine. He could watch it from backstage or the VIP seating, but then he couldn’t be by himself.
With others he had to keep up the grin.
Here he could frown and nopony would complain.
He knew the congratulations were real. That the ponies who said it sincerely meant it, but that’s all it was. Congrats. Good as always. Perfect.
Never interesting.
Never awe-inspiring.
Never wondrous.
It was the same routine. He did it every time at every show with technical perfection. Everypony always applauded him as the most ‘perfect’ flyer. The one with the best professional record. The best technical aptitude.
And to him, the most boring.
“... And Mares and Gentlecolts let me introduce you to... the Wondercolts!”
The Wondercolts. The stallion-only half of the Wonderbolts to its sister WonderMares. His team. At least, was his team. He couldn’t even remember when he had last flown with them. He had found out pretty fast that he was part of the third side of the Wonderbolts known simply as ‘Soarin’.
It’s what happens when a pony resigns as Captain with no reason as to why.
Soarin watched with an appraising eye as the six best flyers of the Wondercolts launched themselves from their positions and swooped into the arena. They glided into the centre and passed by each other, looping over head in an arc, and racing out of it with the Wonderbolts’ signature thunder streak.
It was a standard opening move and something Soarin had never done as Captain. That stunt had existed since the founding of the Wonderbolts. It was overdone and frankly uninteresting. Why would they use the same routine over and over again?
Hypocritical from a pony that performed the same routine every show.
He watched as the flyers started their routine and Soarin allowed himself the most rare of his expressions.
A sneer.
Everypony was off. Two of the flyers clearly needed more wing strength training, and another was noticeably a painful two seconds behind through the entire performance. Soarin didn't even need his degree in fitness to know that Silver Zoom was struggling to finish due to a severe lack of stamina.
The worst offender by far was the Captain. A dull orange mane with white streaks and one size bigger than any of the other flyers.
Fire Streak.
The show boater came out of his dive and flashed a sleazy grin at the audience as the other team members streaked overhead.
Figures Fire Streak would make a point of making himself the focal point of the entire show.
Sick of having to watch this farce of a show, Soarin stuck an easy grin back on his face and trotted towards the locker rooms.
He had better places to be.
Scritch scratch.
Soarin sat by the window of his luxury, upscale hotel room. It was a kind of luxury only the most distinguished of celebrities were allowed to have and something Soarin didn’t care for.
Scritch scratch.
He looked out on the cobblestone streets of Baltimare. Ponies flitted about the narrow streets and tall buildings. Canals ran through and under the streets. In the distance, the sun was beginning to set along the horizon bathing the entire scene in bright orange.
It was beautiful.
And completely irrelevant to what Soarin was focused on.
Scritch scratch.
In front of him was a simple sketchpad. He was drawing the portrait of a smiling mare feeding the birds in a nearby park. She sat happily on a bench, throwing breadcrumbs to the pigeons that darted about.
Using the charcoal in his right wing, he sketched out the subtle curve of her muzzle in a single stroke and began to add cross hatching to define her chin.
He noted to himself mentally that he would need to shower before heading to the inevitable party later that evening. Charcoal and graphite were a pain to remove from wings, but he had gotten proficient after years of messy sketching.
Besides, it wouldn’t do to look less than perfect for the optional after party he would be asked to attend. Despite the fact that he would be chewed out for missing it.
Knock knock.
Soarin paused in his work and perked his ears towards the door. He glanced askance at the clock sitting on the nearby end table. 18:30 hours. The show would have ended only half an hour ago and the only pony he could think of that would skip the usual fan schmoozing following the show would be the only pony he cared to talk to.
Maybe this time will be different.
He quickly sketched out the remainder of the mare’s features, enough that he could finish the piece from memory, and threw his pad in a duffel bag lying nearby.
He trotted to the door and swung it open while plastering a cheesy grin on his face.
In the doorframe was a yellow pegasus mare dressed in a Wonderbolts flight suit with a fiery mane and classic, dark-lense, aviator glasses.
“Hey, Spitty,” Soarin greeted cheerfully as he trotted back into his room, “What’s up?”
Spitfire trotted into the room, and closed the door behind her with a single kick. She looked idly around the room and eventually settled on Soarin, who had chosen to lay down on the bed.
She scowled. A signature look for the Captain of the Wondermare division of the team.
“You weren’t at the show,” Spitfire stated.
Spitfire always had a way of stating things with no room for argument. The entire team always found it difficult to refute her. Soarin had long since found a way around it by taking the literal meaning and throwing random garbage technicality words at it.
“I was,” Soarin grinned, “If you had been watching the whole show, you would note that I did in fact perform my usual routine. You know, as Soarin; The ‘One Stallion Showstopper’.”
“After which you left,” Spitfire retorted.
“Not right away,” Soarin cheekily replied, “I saw the Wondercolts perform, or whatever the equivalent was of what they actually did.”
“Soarin,” Spitfire growled.
“Spitty,” Soarin grinned.
Spitfire continued to glare as Soarin rolled over onto his back. He knew what she wanted to hear, but he was determined to postpone admitting to it until he had too.
Once enough time had past that Soarin began to fidget, he finally admitted, “Fine, I left shortly after the Wondercolts started. I do that every show now, you know this.”
“You need to stay for the whole event,” Spitfire said, “Not just the parts you have to or want to.”
“And why’s that?” Soarin quirked an eyebrow questioningly from his position upside down on the bed.
“You might need to-” Spitfire gave a disgusted scrunch of her muzzle, “Can you please flip right side up?”
“I don’t want to,” Soarin pouted playfully, “Besides, I’m not showing off anything you haven’t seen before in the locker rooms.”
“Soarin, we are having a serious conversation,” Spitfire gritted her teeth, “Can you at least pretend to be listening?”
“I don’t see the big deal,” Soarin replied as he wiggled a bit to get into a more comfy position, “Also, why should I care about staying for the whole show again?”
“You-I-Gragh!” Soarin smirked, “You might be needed if a member of the team is out of commission.”
Soarin laughed uproariously, “Are you serious, Spitty?” Soarin looked at Spitfire’s glare and snorted, “Oh sweet sun, you are. Look, Spitty. Fire Streak would put an earth pony from the audience in the air show before he would even consider me.”
“He would,” Spitfire muttered under her breath and then louder, “But you still need to be present,” Spitfire stomped her hoof, “It’s your job. The fans need to see the whole team together, not just the ones that felt like showing up.”
“The fans don’t care,” Soarin laughed, “Have you seen my numbers recently? I’ve been on decline for months now.”
“You wouldn’t be, if you actually put in more effort with being part of the team instead of holing up in the hotel and doing whatever it is you do when you’re alone,” Spitfire said frustrated.
“‘More effort on being part of the the team?’” Soarin replied with an insufferable grin, “I would have you know I have a perfect record.”
“‘Perfect record’ doesn’t mean crap if you don’t stand with the rest of the team!” Spitfire shouted.
“Oh, you mean in the back where I can continue to be ignored, instead of on a comfy bed I can lounge on,” Soarin replied.
“No, so the team-”
“That also doesn’t care if I’m around,” Soarin interjected.
“- Can be seen as one cohesive unit,” Spitfire gritted her teeth.
“Right, so we can at least keep the appearance of all getting along,” Soarin laughed, “Spitty, you’re a riot today. Any good reason I should stay behind?”
“Because I need you there!” Spitfire cried out.
“Oh, the great Spitfire, Captain of the Wondermares, needs the washout ex-Captain Soarin for help?” Soarin rolled his eyes, “Seems ridiculous, don’t you think?”
“Why do you insist on never taking anything seriously?” Spitfire yelled.
“Why do you keep trying to make me?” Soarin retorted.
“Because I want you to be part of the team!” Spitfire pleaded, “Because we’re better when you’re with us.”
“Oh really?” Soarin frowned, “‘Us’? Are you sure you don’t mean ‘me’?”
“No!” Spitfire said exasperatedly, “I really do mean the team. We were best when you lead them. When you-”
“Were the target?” Soarin interrupted.
The room went quiet. Spitfire took off her aviator glasses and stared at Soarin with sorrowful orange eyes. Soarin, for his part, just looked back with a neutral expression.
They’d had variations on this conversation so many times over the last few months. Some devolved into shouting matches, others were just heated. They always had a common denominator though.
It always ended with Spitfire giving him the same sad expression.
Unfortunately, Soarin had long since gotten past the point of caring.
Instead of replying, Spitfire took a slip of paper from her flight suit pocket and hoofed it over to Soarin.
Soarin grabbed it with a wing and looked at the paper. It was a yellow VIP ticket for a wrestling match between two ponies named Golden Victory and Mason Crusher.
“Wrestling?” Soarin asked incredulously, “You got me wrestling tickets?”
“You’re not obligated to attend the after party tonight,” Spitfire put her glasses back on, “Figured you could use a change of pace. Maybe get your groove back.”
“I’ll have you know on good authority that I have the best groove and have never lost it,” Soarin grinned.
“On whose authority?” Spitfire quirked an eyebrow in question.
“Mine,” Soarin replied, “The best authority.”
Spitfire rolled her eyes and trotted out of the room, “I expect you to stay for the entire show tomorrow.”
“Alright, Mom,” Soarin called out after her.
Once the door clicked shut, Soarin rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. He still needed to remove that charcoal from his wings.
And settle down from his latest argument with Spitfire.
He turned his gaze to the bathroom counter and noticed that he had forgotten to eat the raspberry he’d put there earlier.
Soarin popped the raspberry into his mouth and grimaced.
He hated raspberries.
Author's Note
Hello ~!
This was hard to start writing since Soarin is actually super cynical which is a far cry from the hyperactive Flash. It was kind of hard to write him properly but I think I managed to do what I wanted.
The next chapter should be up by the end of September.
Thank you so much for reading and hope you enjoy the story~!
P.S. The raspberry is inconsequential and most definitely pointless and not set up for something later.
Soarin squinted through the dim lighting of an overhead streetlight. He was discerning the writing of a metal plaque hammered into the stone wall of what appeared to be a large warehouse. In a bold, no-frills font was the address of the building.
He looked down at the ticket in his wing.
Yep, this was the place.
Baltimare had an expansive system of back alleys and canals underneath the main streets. Stone bridges crossed overhead and the entire area was lit up by a series of dim streetlights.
The area wasn’t dangerous per se, it was heavily patrolled by the local law enforcement to ensure nothing bad ever happened, but the alleys gave a feeling of being trapped with how narrow they were.
Unpleasant for Pegasi with an aversion to being grounded.
Soarin scowled to himself. He would have to have a word with Spitfire later about sending him through dark, cramped alleyways late at night, especially with no warning as to having to travel through said alleyways.
Soarin looked to the right of the plaque. There was a nondescript, metal door set into the wall. This served to amplify the sketchy vibe Soarin was getting from the place.
He looked at the ticket again and paid close attention to the smaller font on the bottom. It said “No Holds Barred”, which some would assume is a marketing ploy.
Soarin knew it referred to the highly illegal practice of an unregulated sport. “No Holds Barred” in a wrestling ring usually meant somepony was getting slammed into the ground hard and might not get back up again.
This brought up the question of how Spitfire got the tickets since she was rather uptight about not breaking rules.
It also explained the nondescript warehouse since the owners would not want to advertise this place too much.
Soarin was now about 60% sure this place was probably legit. The other 40% assumed he was about to get scared out of his mind by a prank set up by Spitfire as revenge for not staying for the show earlier in the day.
Well, 30%. Spitfire wasn’t much for pranks. The last 10% percent was actually betting on him getting ganked.
Soarin gulped and trotted up to the door. He opened the door with a quick twist of the handle and was met by a wall made of very large Stallion.
“Ticket,” the wall stated gruffly.
Soarin paused then passed over the ticket wordlessly.
The stallion took the ticket and looked it over. Soarin took notice that the Stallion was an Earth pony with stone-grey fur, dark grey mane, and a cutie mark of a brick wall.
Very appropriate considering the situation.
“You Soarin?” The Stallion asked as he continued to look over the ticket.
“Yeah,” Soarin put on his winning grin.
“The Wonderbolt?”
“The one and only.”
“Right then.”
Soarin’s grin faltered momentarily, “Do you want an autograph or something?”
“No, don’t care,” the Stallion tore the ticket stub off and hooved it back to Soarin whilst stepping to the side, “Head on in.”
Soarin grabbed the ticket from the Stallion with a strained grin on his face and trotted through the door.
That hadn’t hurt his ego at all.
Not. At. All.
After some walking, the corridor abruptly exited into an extravagant lounge area. The walls were draped with velvet curtains and the floor was lined with plush rugs. On the other side of the room were several open arches leading to the show or at least that’s what Soarin assumed.
On Soarin’s right was a long wooden bar with an extensive collection of liquor in a glass cabinet behind it. In front of the bar was a stiff earth pony with a dusty mauve coat dressed in a standard waiter’s uniform.
“Can I get you anything, Sir?” The waiter asked.
“A Grape Gin if you have it,” Soarin replied automatically, “Mister …?”
“Step In Time,” The pony replied, “Your drink will be ready for you soon. Please make your way past one of the arches to your seat.”
Step In Time gestured with one hoof towards the open arches.
Soarin nodded and made his way through the nearest arch.
The first thing he noticed was the roar of the crowd. It was deafening. A chorus of hundreds of ponies cheering and screaming. He felt the familiar tingle of excitement from when he would start his routine during the Wonderbolt’’s show.
Once he could properly see the full arena, Soarin was astounded by the size of it. For a shady “underground” wrestling ring, it was massive.
The arena was easily the size of, if not bigger, than the Wonderbolt’s stadium. Spectators crowded the stands in a circle around the central ring, a square platform surrounded by thick, black cables. A single bright spotlight overhead lit up the area.
Magic displays hung in each corner of the stadium displaying the words Golden Victory VS. Mason Crusher.
He saw two big display entrances on either side of the ring. One was all gold and designed to look like a Las Pegasus light display: gaudy and impossible to ignore. The other was a large brick wall with a smashed through hole in the bottom.
Soarin stood on a balcony overlooking the entire area. Several lounge chairs were set up nearby. He was alone on the overhang. Surprising considering the crowds.
“Your drink, Sir.”
Soarin turned to see Step In Time carrying a tray with a glass filled with a light purple concoction. Soarin offered his thanks and grabbed the proffered drink with his left wing.
Step In Time blinked at him. He opened his mouth as if to say something before closing it when Soarin gave him a single quirked eyebrow.
“If you need anything, Sir, I will be at the bar.”
Step In Time left and Soarin went to lay down on a lounge chair. It was comfy.
“Ponies!” An announcer screamed, “Are you ready?”
There was a loud collective cheer from the audience.
Soarin noted that the announcer sounded like a Minotaur. They all had this guttural undertone that made everything they say sound serious and over the top. A rare voice to hear in a pony dominated Equestria.
A nice change of pace.
“I said,” The announcer paused, “PONIES, ARE YOU READY?”
Soarin grinned and joined in the near-deafening cheer of the crowd.
“Then let me introduce the crusher of stone, smasher of bricks, breaker of pony bones; MASON CRUSHER!”
From the display with the brick wall, an earth pony ran out into the ring to a fanfare of cheering and fireworks. She had a reddish-brown coat with a blonde mane braided into a long ponytail and a cutie mark of a smashed in brick wall. She was built like a brick house with bulging muscles all over her body.
That kind of build took real dedication. Soarin was impressed.
Mason did a lap around the audience as she called out to them in a deep, raspy voice. She took her time riling them up and talking smack about how she was going to smash her opponent.
The crowd cheered her on as she trotted to the centre of the ring and reared up on her back legs with a triumphant whinny.
She was an egotistical showboater. Just like himself.
He gave her a 7 out of 10 on the bangability scale because a showboater doesn’t like to share with another showboater.
“In the other corner,” The announcer began, “The flying pony of victory, the reigning champ of the Equestrian Underground Wrestling Circuit, the one, the only,” The announcer paused, “GOLDEN VICTORY.”
The crowd went delirious. He hadn’t even entered the ring.
Who is this guy?
Fireworks exploded as Golden Victory trotted into the ring from the other display entrance. He was an Earth pony with a golden blonde mane and matching tail. He wore a gold and yellow jumpsuit that hugged every heavy curve of muscle on his body.
The spandex left nothing to the imagination and Soarin was enjoying the show.
He gave him an 8 out of 10.
Golden stomped on the floor of the ring with his front right hoof. The entire stadium went quiet.
Soarin re-adjusted his figure to 9 out of 10. Anypony able to quiet an entire stadium with a single floor stomp deserved a bump.
“Before we get this match started, Golden Victory has an undefeated 20 win streak,” The announcer called out, “You know what that means everypony.”
“Time for this match’s streak killer!” The audience cheered, “Turn towards the screens and we’ll see what we got tonight.”
Soarin looked up at the screens as the announcer directed. They now showed a simple animation of a spinning roulette wheel. After a few seconds, the wheel began to slow until it finally stopped on an image of an hourglass with a 2 inscribed on the front.
“And tonight’s streak killer is to end the match in under 2 minutes!” The announcer cried out, “This one is going to be a hard one for Golden Victory.”
The audience roared its approval. Soarin looked to Golden Victory who seemed impassive to the decision. Mason Killer looked disappointed. An odd feeling for a competitor who was just given an enormous benefit.
“Now, we just need to know if Golden Victory agrees with the streak killer. Well, Golden? Are you taking the constraint?” The announcer’s voice dropped in pitch, “Or are you taking a penalty?”
Golden Victory was silent as the audience waited with rapt attention. As the tension neared its peak, Golden shook his head. The crowd roared. Mason Crusher’s face split into a wide grin.
“Oh, what a twist, ponies!” The announcer yelled, “Golden has chosen to take the penalty. Let’s see what he’s got!”
The screen did a simple flip animation and showed a stylized depiction of a wooden chair. The crowd was losing it.
“And here comes the chair!”
Before Soarin could figure out what the announcer meant by that, a unicorn wearing a white and black striped shirt ran into the ring with a wooden chair in their magic.
They pulled back.
Swing.
Soarin was pinned to the edge of the balcony. The chair shattered into wood pieces against Golden’s head, which were quickly swept up by the unicorn’s magic.
Golden Victory through the entire ordeal stood stock still without so much as a twitch. Mason Crusher was grinning wildly with a crazed spark in her eyes.
“And that’s our Golden, ponies,” The announcer called out, “Now, Let’s. Get. Ready. To. RUMBLE!”
Mason leaped forward into a tackle against Golden. Golden did a quick side step and countered with a punch to her stomach. Mason stumbled back. She looked up at Golden with a feral grin.
Golden tensed readying for Mason’s next assault.
She rushed forward and swung. Golden ducked, but Mason was ready to bring her swung punch down on his back. Golden went down, but quickly got up and moved back.
Mason took the opportunity to go in and pelt him with a flurry of blows to his head. Golden went on the defensive. He was pushed back to the cable.
Mason reared back to give a heavy blow to Golden. Golden took the opportunity to duck under, flip around, and back kick Mason under her chin.
Mason growled and readied to slam him into the ground with her hooves, but Golden was ready. He sidestepped from the blow and tackled her in the side. Mason stumbled and smashed into the cables.
Mason roared at him.
Soarin couldn’t remove his eyes. For what seemed like hours, but was only mere minutes, both fighters ducked, weaved, and traded blows. There were moments of true violence. Mason took a blow to the head that had her spit blood, Golden took a blow that made him hit the ground. Hard.
It was exciting. It was incredible. Soarin’s heart was racing. He felt the exhilaration of the fight. The excitement of the crowd.
This was how you put on the show.
This was how Soarin was supposed to put on a show.
His wings were flapping at a rapid pace. He fought the urge to drop down from the balcony and join in the brawl. He could feel the primal urge to get into the fight. The need to feel alive in the heat of the moment.
His mark ached.
Golden hit Mason with a heavy blow that made her stumble back dazed. Golden stopped and moved towards the outer ring cables.
“It’s time ponies!” The announcer roared.
The crowd cheered. Soarin leaned forward. Golden pulled back on the ropes with his body.
“Golden Victory’s signature move!”
Soarin was enraptured, he couldn’t look away if he wanted to. Golden released his body’s hold against the cables. He was flung forward, high in the air.
“FLYING-”
Golden twisted in the air and angled his body with shi front hindleg in an angled position.
“-VICTORY!”
Golden slammed into Mason. She crumbled to the ground. Golden rolled away and back onto his feet.
The unicorn from before rushed into the ring and began a countdown of 10. Through all of it, Mason stayed down.
As the ref called out 1, there was an audible pause.
Golden sat back on his back legs and raised his hooves in the air.
The crowd cheered.
“Ladies and Gentle Ponies, that is Golden Victory’s 21st consecutive win!”
It was amazing, exhilarating, thrilling-
“Sir,” Soarin heard a polite cough from behind himself, “I would ask that you do not fly whilst inside the confines of the stadium.”
Soarin looked behind himself at Step In Time. He was looking at him from the balcony. Soarin looked down and noticed he was hovering just outside of the confines of said balcony.
“Ah, sorry about that Step,” Soarin landed back on the landing, “Got a little, uh, excited there.”
Step In Time nodded and left promptly.
Soarin turned back towards the ring just in time to see Golden Victory exit to a send-off of fireworks.
Soarin collapsed on a nearby lounge chair exhausted.
He hadn’t felt so alive in months.
He made a decision.
He was going to meet Golden Victory, pony to pony.
Or die trying.
Author's Note
Hi, I'm back sort of. I got the motivation to write again and I'm starting with this chapter as I was already halfway done it.
We'll see if I continue! I am currently not promising anything, but I am working on Side B as well as this story at a minimum.
