Wings Above my Windsby overlord-flinxChaptersDay 0: Spitfire, My SpitfireDay 1 (Afternoon): How the Other-Half LivesDay 1 (Evening): Fan Ex-PerspectiveDay 1 (Intermission): Captain, My CaptainDay 1 (Morning): Dress to (Un)ImpressDay 0: Spitfire, My SpitfireThink for a moment some of the most spellbinding performances you have ever seen. Perhaps some glitzy display one would find down the Poney Fantastique strip comes to mind; sequins and rhinestones do often hold the eye. Or the humbling styles of the famed Lulamoon and her menagerie of mystifying magics amuse you more. For some, when the idea of truly magnificent performers come to mind, they recall operatic renditions of one Autumn Blaze–the pioneer of musical theatre. All are good answers and could suffice in most cases. However, above them all is perhaps the unanimously adored, world renowned, and uncontested aerial styles of The Wonderbolts. Performers, the world over, that are praised for their showmanship, spectacle, and defying of death on a near daily basis. Synchronized aerial choreography down to the millionth of a second, specialized orchestral backing that commands the heart to raise and set with each proceeding bar, charming personas that carry childish and olden minds alike through an experience few could liken to before or since. Every performance, a treat; every offstage interaction, a treasure. Each and every actor of the troupe carries themselves with the pride of their mantel wherever it is they find themselves; for truly, the world is their stage and they will always have an image to maintain. An image they have always been more than happy to pay upkeep in much the same enthusiasm they would their myriad of accolades; gold or otherwise. If they aren't selling-out entire theatres for their shows in themselves, they're filling out malls or local sport-outlets for public appearances; never a moment's rest–a small tithe to turn in exchange for being the best. Yet above the uproarious cheers, the all too welcomed accolades, or even the far too gracious fan submissions, the Wonderbolts as a whole find their greatest worth in another side of their business; saccharine though it may be. Charity work. All told, not all those wearing the Wonderbolt jumper and logo get the same sense of accomplishment out of their charity work as some others. But what good press and will they receive is a reward they can all unify behind. Shoes for the Shoeless, Toys for Tots, guest appearances on charity streams here, serving at a soup kitchen there: on a bimonthly basis, they offer their brand and services to whatever cause they can find. However, their event sign-up is routinely booked up a year in advance. This of course cannot be avoided, as there are only so many of them and so numerous of causes. Yet, they have always persisted to the best of their capabilities. To do their part for the community at large was a reward in itself; and yet, there could always be found an even grander reward just beneath the surface. The oceanic cry of a crowd cheering, the burning grace of stage lights centering down on her, the ceaseless study of recording equipment waiting on every movement to broadcast worldwide; it could be too much for anyone. But never her. Not when it was as regular an occurrence as stretching. While not the spacious comfort that came with whatever venue the Wonderbolts had booked out she was more accustomed to, a talk-show stage was a close second - perhaps third, behind the familiar comforts of an "autograph table" in some random hotel lobby. Dressed to impress as ever with her black slip of a dress, the chief coordinator of the Wonderbolts lounged back in the armchair she had been offered before the show had started its countdown. 3... The audience was already out of their seats bursting with applause, which the Wonderbolt characteristically waved to with a toothy smirk. If there was one thing she had told her troupe when it came to public appearances, it was to always appreciate your fans. Give them a wave, sign the occasional loose autograph, maybe even take a selfie if the scene takes you. 2... Her shoulders rolled off what little nerves she had left. Though she loved them to no end, the rest of the Wonderbolts lacked a certain level of stage awareness on anything smaller than the open air itself. These sorts of announcements and conferences were best left to her. Amber eyes flittered over to the host as he seemed to sweat over the teleprompter not yet live. Go...! As if completely on cue, the teleprompter flicked on and the host straightened himself with a practiced grin; discarding any such ideas that he may not have been ready a moment before. "Welcome back ladies and gentlemen. Before we took off, we brought out the head of the Wonderbolts, Mrs. Spitfire," the poor man was forced to take a beat as the studio audience couldn't help but roar, "To discuss her team's latest plans. Now tell us, what is on the platter now?" For her own part, Spitfire lounged a leg over the other as she gave the crowd a few moments to calm themselves. "Glad you asked. As I'm sure you're aware, we pride ourselves on giving back to our very generous community," an arrant woot pierced the otherwise silent room. "As such, we have been invited to take part in a sort of 'Big Brothers Big Sisters' program." She was more practiced than the others, but she did on occasion forget to read her own e-mails on the topic. "Big Brothers and Sisters? How does that work? Do you go and give kids of the street noogies and yell at them to stay outta your room?" A few chuckles sounded from the audience, probably not the gut buster he had hoped it would be. "Hah, not so much," Spitfire forced a 'good one' smile, "It's a bit more involved than that. We also spend some time stealing the remote and sitting on them while we watch 'Kissy Show'," that generated more of a response the host had probably been looking for, "But in all seriousness, it's a program where we sort of set a young mind down the right path. Give them a positive outlook in a life they might have not had up until now." "Amazing. What a giving heart you all must have," the 'd'awwws' from the audience might have been genuine, but the glaring red sign telling them to do so cast a shroud on that idea. "Hardly," Spitfire shrugged, "Taking a kid in and teaching them? I do that every day teaching my knuckleheads back home. I welcome the chance to hopefully inspire some form of confidence into a budding youth. Confidence I didn't have a lot of growing up." "Spitfire of the Wonderbolts shy of confidence? Now you're just pulling our legs!" "Believe it or not, I wasn't always the pillar of cool, confidence, and calm you see diving through the air every show." Spitfire smirked playfully. "It took years of encouragement, self-love, and diligence to get where I am now. And if I can pass even a little bit of that down to a kid over the next week? I'd consider all of this 'worth it'." The host offered out a hand which Spitfire accepted, already being couched before the segment on how this would all proceed. "Spitfire of the Wonderbolts, paying it forward and bringing joy to one lucky someone's life; we'll be right back." As the two shook their practiced send-off, uproarious cheers ushering the scene out, the lights upon the stage cleared and someone off stage called for a 'clear'. Both guest and host reclined back into their respective seats, momentarily freed from the gaze of millions of eyes. While the host himself began his muted tirade at who was responsible for that limp-wristed quip, Spitfire allowed herself to slip off stage with not a word more to say. The job was done, the announcement was made, and she had far more important people to hash out with. One of which stood waiting in the wings for her, beaming grin plastered on his youthful face. "Nice!" Soarin through his hand up, waiting for Spitfire to slap him some well earned skin, "You nailed it like, like... like..." A momentary 'slap' echoed against the now busy stage air as couch met partner. "A coffin? I barely kept it together," Spitfire huffed as she worked out those last few kinks in her neck. "I was gonna say 'like a nail gun', but coffins are cool too. Spooky~" Soarin tailed behind Spitfire as she made her way backstage, and hopefully out entirely. "You know what? We'll go with nail gun, I'm being too hard on myself. The point is the actual event, not the announcement, right?", Spitfire prodded. "No argument here," Soarin assured his partner as they made their way out to the chilled autumn night beyond the studio lot. Spitfire felt her skin prick under the soft breezes of the late night air, cursing beneath a single chatter that she wore only the slip of black here and not her jacket. Soarin had to pick up his pace as Spitfire started to jog through the lot towards their car, desperately wanting to escape the cold. "Anyway, we have a busy day tomorrow," Spitfire spoke up, small puffs escaping her lips. "'We'? I thought you said you were doing this one alone?", Soarin tilted his head to one side as he fished his keys from his pocket, clicking a button on the fob to unlock Spitfire's sanctuary. "Not that I wouldn't mind. Love those little bros and bro-ettes." "Sorry to pop you while you're just getting excited, but I am still doing this alone. I just need another pair of hands to help me move them in for the week. Luggage and all," Spitfire slipped into the beaten van Soarin drove them in with as she explained her stance. Soarin merely nodded along, knowing full well that if Spitfire said it was necessary, it must be. In truth, it was a half truth. The paperwork was already drawn up, and what agreements had to be made were settled; Spitfire saw to that weeks ago with her contact's aid. The chances for their charge having bags requiring another pair of hands were slim considering the length of the actual event. What Spitfire was really after was a buffer while she could make an excuse for it. Come next morning, she would have to play the role of a 'Big Sister' to a 'wayward youth'–though by her contact's account, the child was far from trouble–, and that idea settled an odd sensation in the pit of her chest. The headlights of the van flickered on and the warm hearth of the blaring fans melted away any such thoughts lingering in Spitfire's mind. And as Soarin pulled off into the open streets, what ideas remained seemed to be left far behind; waiting for tomorrow to come and be picked up once more. Far flung from the glamour of any studio set, well beyond the dying hustle of Ponyville–a town who's namesake nobody can agree on–, in a nestled corner just beside the town's edge where the streetlights only just narrowly reached stood a humble estate. While its function had shifted with each passing decade to fit in with the evolving times, it found itself to be the lone children's home for Ponyville's lost lambs. While every nook of the estate had long been dimmed for the night, and many a head lain to rest for the coming day; one soul in particular remained alert well beyond curfew's call. Tucking herself firm beneath her blankets and cupping her earbud plugged ears so not a single light or sound would escape to alert anyone, the mischievous child watched transfixed to the display of her phone. That morning she had been given the heads-up to keep an eye out on a certain channel; something she wouldn't want to miss for the world. Dash had been working to set this whole event for weeks, and no curfew would stop Scootaloo from witnessing its final kickoff. The whole of the show was a lot of boring adult chatter about things far beyond Scootaloo's grade; or at least far beyond what she cared to put much thought to. All that mattered was the short segment square in the middle of the stream: where a fiery maned woman humored a balding clown and announced what charity event she'd be participating in. A pause to the screen came with a tap of the finger. Virtual eyes met eyes brimming with excitement, though neither was fully aware of the other. It wouldn't be until tomorrow. Tomorrow where the real excitement would begin. Author's Note There's a tentative "T" on this because later down the road, there might be some more explicit moments. Spitfire is a grown woman, and the context of the story primarily balances between the act of everything. For that, we might change the rating... Or make a side story where that sort of stuff takes place. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Comments ALWAYS appreciated. Day 1 (Afternoon): How the Other-Half LivesBetween the few lingering bits of paperwork that needed to be signed to let this endeavor be officiated—all formality at that point—the soft morning air had crested over the horizon to let the billow of the afternoon's warmth to fill the dales of the city limits. A semblance of relief came as a conciliation with the loss of time, however. In quick order, Spitfire had lost the promised buffer she came with due to vehicular negligence—and she was kicking herself all the way through her finalizing of the paperwork that she hadn't rehearsed what she would say to her newly taken charge. Thankfully, Soarin had since more than made up for his soft abandonment to his captain's plight by occupying Scootaloo with playful chatter as they moved her bags into the car. Soarin had always been the best of them when it came to those things: connecting with anyone off the bat. Children, fans, flirty party-goers, even critics couldn't help but cave at his goofy charisma and blissful aura. Some would go as far as to say it was his most valuable asset, and Spitfire would be hard pressed to disagree. Even on the ride back into town, amidst the city streets and bustling neighborhoods, Soarin continued to have the child well engaged in this-and-that. "Nah-uh!" She would cry with barely restrained glee. "I'm tellin' ya," he'd protest with his usual chilled candor. "No way!" Flopping back in her chair with incredulity; it just couldn't be! "Swear to god," proudly he'd beat his palm against the top of the wheel; he'd not lie about this. He dominated the conversation to the point Spitfire didn't even need to do more than sneak in a few loose chuckles as she remembered the very stories Soarin protested were true. They were. Sans a few embellished details that conveniently put him in less of an embarrassing position than she so keenly remembered. Though he was helping her compose herself, so there was no reason to point out who went in the trashcan and who ended up in the recycling. As Spitfire recalled, it didn't matter either way—they both took a long shower that night. One story rolled into the other, and each childish question fed into the next outlandish answer. Not a moment of dead air could be found in the van from the estate of Mrs. Grace to the labyrinthine roads of Spitfire's own neighborhood. Upon entry into the somewhat lavish neighborhood, Scootaloo's attention had somewhat simmered from Soarin's flights of fancy to that of the grandiose homes that lined the road. Hedge-fences as tall as a home, mansions with movie-star verandas on the second floor, pools built into the ground rather than being a steel tub out in someone's backyard, and one or two homes she could have sworn were the settings of "Real Housewives of Ponyheights". Each new sight was more opulent than the last—more snobby and in turn more exciting for the young girl. It came to a head when she felt the van make a rolling stop into one particular driveway. From her backseat window she stumbled away from so she could look out the front to see where it was she was staying for the next week. Opulence, grandeur, a snobbish aura... This home lacked any of those traits. Yet, Scootaloo found herself awed by it all the more. Sandwiched between two glorious mansions, the sleek black ranch house seemed quaint and cozy. Perhaps the only point of wealth to it beyond its modern shell was the garage dug out beneath the house with a secondary driveway that fed into the small street. But maybe when one lives among the rich, you are expected to have some sort of fancy addition to your house lest the neighbors start talking about your wealth at their next money bath. Or at least that's what ran through Scootaloo's mind. "Aaaaaaaand—!" Soarin let the last bag slump from his arms into the waiting arms of his little partner, "Go!" Scootaloo spun at her heels and down the thin strip of a walkway to the still open door of the home. Eager was too menial a word for what the little lass displayed from the first bag to the last; she kept her energy well beyond the point she beat Soarin running to and from the home. He had hoped to have tired her out to make the rest of the night that much easier on Spitfire, but the vim of youth was something he seemingly forgot. Even so, he still had enough pep to spin on his own heels to meet his captain as she shut the van door. "And now we got one last thing to get in the house!" Playfully prodding at Spitfire, he brought her to swat at him with a mixed expression of joy and annoyance, "But uh... You need me to stay at all? Y'know, help you out?" Spitfire could clock the man's concern a mile away even on the worst of days. Even as she batted the pesky crumbs freshly caught to her suit, she managed an easy turn to her lips. "I got it from here, Soarin. Thank you. Really," Spitfire had many ways she showed appreciation, and this time she she favored for a tight hug at his side, "I know you've got a lot better things to do Saturday—" "I don't." "—And I'm glad you drove me and helped me with this," Spitfire managed her last words amidst a laugh. "Well, alright. But if anything comes up, just give me a ring," Soarin fired off a salute that Spitfire met as he slipped into his van to pull out. As red rear lights faded away down the suburb roads of the late afternoon, Spitfire tucked her hand listlessly into her pockets. Buffer used well, and now it's just you. Even in the small hours of the afternoon, Spitfire could feel a sort of exhaustion slump over her. Or perhaps it was just anticipation for the next few days. Just her and the child—Scootaloo. A promise of 'the best week of her life' already made to set the bar pretty far up. That's why we rehearse. Spitfire chastised herself; it was something she told her troupe day after day, and especially after a bad outing. But here she was, making rookie mistakes out in the field with no net to catch her. The walk towards the house seemed a bit longer than usual, but it only meant she had the much more time to hype herself up. She placed the bar high, so that meant only that she would have to excel that much more. A great week is what she promised... And a perfect week is exactly what Scootaloo would get. The easiest way to a kid's heart is through the deconstruction of predicted norms. Replace what one is conditioned through social and media expectations with subversive activities. -Professor Twilight Sparkle on Behavioral Studies and Social Musings. While Rainbow Dash herself suggested the book, one had to wonder if she read it herself. The wording was a bit too chunky for someone like Dash. Still, Spitfire found some merit to it, even if she could have surmised "kids like doing things they're told not to" from her own experiences. Still, this was going to be a long week, so a little suggestion here or there wasn't something she'd rebuff. The island within the sparse kitchen was playing host to a familiar situation: its master squared up on it by her shoulders, bowl of loops set out before her. Now, however, there was another face occupying its other end; a small, slip of a girl looking over her own bowl of chocolate flakes adrift in milk—which had gradually started to take on the shade of the drifting flakes. Spitfire popped a scoop of her brunch between her lips with a sizable crunch as she watched her charge for any sort of reaction. "Not a Nightmare Crisp gal?" Puffed up cheeks full of cereal nearly lost their prize as Spitfire addressed her guest. At a wince, Scootaloo quickly began to scarf down her chocolaty treat as if she realized she may have looked ungrateful. The small girl lifted the bowl up and took a slurp of the turned-milk just enough to stop herself from choking. "S-Sorry, yeah. No, it's great!" Scootaloo blurted out, "Just didn't expect breakfast for lunch." "Sorry about that, kid," Spitfire's brows furrowed a bit, though her genuine smile held through after swallowing her meal, "time got away from me for the past..." Day? Had that interview. Few days? Was out of town on business. Week? It's been a week since I could go to the store? "Well, the past while. So, haven't really had time to fill the old kitchen up." It was something Scootaloo had noticed when she first moved her bags into what she was told was the 'entertainment room'. The inside was something right out of a magazine. Top of the line technology, sleek, modern furniture, and dimmer switches on every light. But, that was the thing: it looked too much like a magazine and not like someone lived there. No mess at the front door, no fruit left out on the counter to get mushy, even the leather couches didn't have someone's butt print indented in. The house felt almost unlived-in; at least on the first floor. "Buuuut," the atmosphere shifted and Scootaloo's attention was brought back to Spitfire's cheerful, cereal munching expression, "I thought it'd be a fun thing to do tomorrow. You and me shopping to fill this place up with stuff you'd like to munch on. 'Less you feel like eating cereal and power-bars all week." A snort of a laugh from herself broke Scootaloo of her thoughts. "Breakfast for dinner does sound pretty sweet...! But maybe we should get some other stuff too." "Breakfast for dinner sounds awesome, but not cereal. Play your cards right, and I'll make you some pancakes," Spitfire encouraged Scootaloo all the while she began to clean up her end of the kitchen. Pancake brinner made by the captain of the Wonderbolts? Now that was something to be excited about. Where do people normally shop for food? My day's going great, and you? xP Don't be cute. I need help. I'm not cute. I'm scrappy. You're a regular Little Rascal. Okay Grandma. Anyway Wdya? I just lied to the kid and said I planned for us not having food here so we could go shopping for stuff she wants Nice save. But I usually have my stuff delivered here. Fancy-fancy =3 Can you give me help other than smart remarks? Easy-do. There's the public market south-side. They sell it all there. Thanks. The blip of a final message echoed before Spitfire looked around the stairway corner she had ducked into. Sure enough, Scootaloo was lounging in the entertainment room, bowl of what was likely just soupy chocolate at this point balanced on her crossed legs. Breakfast for lunch is cool, certainly. But breakfast for lunch while eating on the couch and watching TV? That's a chain of taboos one rarely gets to indulge in. It was that tantalizing prospect that Spitfire used to distract the girl as she slipped away to handle herself. The dim glow of the phone's screen against her face finally clicked off before a witty follow-up could come, and Spitfire sauntered herself over to Scootaloo's perch. While the other Wonderbolts insisted for her to get the biggest of screens for her entertainment center, Spitfire couldn't recall the last time she actually used it. For that matter, she couldn't recall what service she had: cable, satellite? Given that some show centered around people running through some obstacle course was playing, Scootaloo must have figured it out regardless. A moment passed into the next while Spitfire looked down at Scootaloo from behind her. This whole opportunity is two-fold: to generate good press, and to enrich the child's life. Nothing would make her happier than to end this week with Scootaloo on track for a life of success and optimism that she could pass on to everyone around her. A wealth of change and hope could start here... But that wasn't what mattered, in truth. That was a greater goal; something amorphous to reach for. What did matter more than anything was just sitting watching TV. "Were you in a band?" Spitfire wavered from her thoughts as Scootaloo spoke. "Random question," Spitfire snickered, "Why?" For the longest time, Scootaloo had continued to note the odd atmosphere of the home. The picturesqueness of it, how clean it was, but there were a few notable additions that marked it as something not just in a magazine. Namely pictures framed on walls and atop tables. While she did turn the TV to watch the latest of her 'favorite series' (after of course downloading a few streaming services that Spitfire clearly didn't think to have), Scootaloo's wandering eye couldn't help studying a few of the picture frames around the room. Some she recognized as news-clippings of Wonderbolt articles meticulously preserved, and others she saw assorted Wonderbolts posing together, alone, or with Spitfire. But one in particular seemed to be the most out of place. That one she pointed towards when Spitfire raised her rebuttal. "Oh!" Spitfire followed the gesture and spotted the picture just beside the television. Working around the couch and striding over to meet the point of interest, Spitfire plucked the small frame from its shelf. Careful not to smudge the glass, she took the briefest moment to admire the picture within. The reflection of her own face contrasted with the youthful one laughing back at her, though it only sprouted a greater smile in response. Clear as a summer's day was the memory of that day; of careless teens piling up far too close with little care for the instruments they carried. A keyboard pressed to the point it was liable to break, drum sticks poking into someone's side, and most notably a guitar having someone's hand thoughtlessly pressing hard at the neck and straining the strings. "I've had this since I was just a few years older than you," Spitfire spoke up while walking to settle herself next to Scootaloo, offering her a closer look as well, "It was taken on the last night of this 'Battle of the Bands' thing. Would've won, too." "Would've?" "Yeah," Spitfire nestled in closer unconsciously and brushed her thumb across the picture to one of the supposed band members—a girl with stark-silver hair and eyes aflame with what must have been annoyance, "Before the results, our lead vocalist skipped town." Scootaloo lingered on the vocalist for a moment as a face she remembered but couldn't recall, her head brushing back to rest against the warmth of her caretaker. Before long, her attention diverted back to the young vision of Spitfire herself with a growing look of incredulity. "Wait... You were a guitarist?" "Were? I still am!" A playful push came to Scootaloo's side, making her giggle in her retreat, "Don't believe me? You watch. I'll get you up tomorrow with the wildest solo you've ever heard." With that promise, Spitfire kicked herself off the couch and ruffled Scootaloo's head; leaving a mess of the girl's already somewhat matted hair. Carefully she returned the framed picture to its dust marked place upon the shelf. Her fingers lingered against the frame for a moment, a brief air of nostalgia dancing over her from a more wild time. A time of silly songs, pointless squabbles, and a touch of young love. Maybe she'd call one of her 'sisters' up; it had been awhile since they recounted the good old days. She couldn't help herself from smiling a most genuine smile. It was such a simple way for it to come about, yet she struggled to remember the last time she really felt it. Still, she had to bring herself back to reality. Promising to wake a child up in the wee hours of the morning with guitar music? That wouldn't do at all. Not only would the neighbors have a field day writing all kinds of noise complaints about it, but that couldn't be good form when setting an example. This week has to be calculated, informative, and above all else a good example. She had to remind herself of that at every turn. To keep Scootaloo's best interest in mind. Upon returning to the waking world from her deep thought, she could hear the growing laughter of Scootaloo just behind her. It was only a glance needed to see the small girl matching the same genuine smile Spitfire had but a moment before; a turn to the face she had not seen since they first met. Well... Just for tomorrow we can do it that way. Day 1 (Evening): Fan Ex-PerspectiveMost anyone when asked would tell you the worst part of any stay-over trip ⎯ regardless of length ⎯ is the lugging of suitcases. Lug them from the house to the car, from the car to the hotel, from the hotel to the car, from the car to the house... All the more to be said if you introduce airplanes, stairs, or multiple bags. It’s a chore one would be hard-pressed to find someone enjoying it. But, it’s the part of the process everyone overlooks for the sake of the experience that lies in the space between. Thankfully, said process was not so much an issue for Scootaloo, or rather Spitfire as she charged herself with the duty of relocating her charge’s luggage. Up the flight, down the corridor pass two squarely shut doors, and into the first room on the left. While Scootaloo was beyond interested to see this room her luggage was ferried off to, Spitfire all but demanded with a sly word that she’d just have to wait while she got everything set up. “Well if you look at it now while I’m still moving your stuff in, you won’t get that ‘wow’ moment, will you?” Spitfire had reasoned out. It made sense, perhaps. But, it certainly did nothing for Scootaloo’s mounting eagerness; as well as the dawning shades of exhaustion. Between the anticipation of arriving, the drive in, Soarin’s bouts of play, and Spitfire’s beyond comfortable sofa, Scootaloo was as tired as she was excited for more. Whatever ‘wow’ Spitfire had in mind when showing Scootaloo her room for the week would have to contend with the little one’s want for sleep. Amidst one beat of sleep from her eyes, Scootaloo adjusted herself upright as she heard footfalls descending the stairs. With not a bag more to be seen waiting near the front door, there could only be one option remaining as the older woman rounded the bend. “Right. Come on up,” Spitfire smiled, suppressing her own tiredness from this day. One would think someone of such a petite stature wouldn’t have such heavy bags — especially for just a week’s visit. While reflecting and speculating on just what sort of luggage Scootaloo could have packed, Spitfire was nearly knocked aside as the very same girl scampered from sofa to stairs and up through the dim hall. When she heard the scampering shuffles come to an abrupt stop, Spitfire turned on her heels and started her own way up. “First door on your left,” the call up seemed to be all that was stopping Scootaloo as the scampering immediately returned followed by the click of a handle. Spitfire was nearly twice the girl’s size and favored long strides in her usual movements, but it seemed Scootaloo’s scampering would be something to beat given how quickly she managed her way into the room. When she did finally catch up, Scootaloo was standing in the center of the room taking it all in. For a moment, Spitfire looked over the room herself; while she took care to make sure it was ‘safe’, it did present itself much differently with its new occupant standing at its center. When Dash helped set this entire affair up, one of Spitfire’s main concerns was that her home had only two bedrooms. The obvious answer would have been to just let Scootaloo stay in the guest room as she would be a guest, but the idea didn’t seem very… personable. Anyone could be a guest at any time, but this would be a most special occasion. Luckily, Dash herself had the solution: She and Scootaloo shared a deep adulation for the Wonderbolts Spitfire captained; so what better room to serve as a place of high honor for a special guest than the most honored space in Spitfire’s home? It took some effort to move the guest bed into the trophy room, but Soarin had been all too eager to lend his captain a hand. Though Spitfire would have gladly argued she had the harder task of organizing and boxing up some of her accolades to give Scootaloo more space in the room — which was not much to say as beyond her own room and the living room, the trophy room was by far the biggest room. Even with the cabinets glimmering with silvers and golds, and shelves stacked with plaques and markers, the room was spacious and hosted a desk, nightstand, a set of bookcases stacked with varying books, and of course a bed fit for a king ⎯ or rather queen. Spitfire may have argued it was a tad tacky to decorate a room with not only your own accomplishments but also the memorabilia of your job, but blue and gold was a good color scheme, and the ‘decorations’ were free. To her, it was a nice place to stow away one aspect of her life ⎯ loved though it was ⎯ to keep the rest of her life separate; but to a fan, it was a Wonderbolt wonderland. “So…” Spitfire started as she hoped to break through Scootaloo’s awestruck stupor. “This’ll be your room to do with as you please while you’re here. You can do whatever you’d like, touch whatever you like and place your stuff wherever. I just ask that you don’t break anything and put anything back where you found it.” Scootaloo drifted across the room, perhaps only catching Spitfire’s words in a dull hum. “Bathroom’s just across the hall. I don’t know if you shower or take baths, but...” As Spitfire trailed off with a satisfied chuckle, she started to take a closer note of Scootaloo. Despite her first inclination, it didn’t seem the room itself was what held the girl’s attention. Her touches were delicate as her small digits trailed over the edge of the sheets of the bed. From the foot to the head, Scootaloo ran her palm against the neatly tucked sheets and mattress. There was a certain tenderness to the way she touched it as Spitfire watched, a concern that perhaps if she touched too firmly the whole of it would sink away. “Scootaloo, you alright?” Maybe it was too much. A king-size bed for one pre-teen? Perhaps the Wonderbolt sheets and pillowcases were overboard. There was such a thing as overstimulation, and maybe it was too much at once even for a fan. The list of complications rattled through Spitfire’s head one after the other until a voice pulled her from her own mind. “This is mine, right...?” Cheer was evident in the young woman’s voice, but the slight crack barely hidden within it nearly caused Spitfire to leap from her skin. Spitfire couldn’t see the welling in Scootaloo’s eyes as she kept her back to her mentor-for-the-week, though the tremble in her tone told her everything she needed. For a moment Spitfire stood in the doorway unsure of what to say⎯what to do. “Yeah. Of course. Is that a⎯a problem?” Spitfire’s own sudden uncertainty rang true despite her wish to not give that away. “Totally,” Scootaloo responded, “I’m just used to…” Her arms swiped across her face, letting small stains collect against her cuffs as she brought on a smile and said, “I’m used to sharing a room is all. So, it’s a real improvement.” A pause saturated the air in that moment, still and impassable. A great deal urged Spitfire to step forward and comfort her charge, to set things on a more open path for the coming week. But the words reached no further than her head as she took a measured step back into the hallway, unsure if that was a boundary she had a right to cross just yet. “That’s… That’s great then. I’m sure you’ll really enjoy it in that case. If you need anything the rest of the night, just give a yell or come knock on my door. I’m sure we’re both pretty beat after today,” Spitfire managed her usual tone despite her mounting uncertainty. “Oh…! Uh… Door at the end of the hall. That’s… That’s my room. In case you didn’t… Know… Yeah.” Scootaloo only listened as the door clicked shut and Spitfire’s footfalls drifted away down the stairwell. It took her a good while to finally take her hand from the bed and let her mind truly return to the moment. Her eyes scanned over the room with her head on a swivel; each and every trophy sparked in her a burst of the same realization: this was the trophy room. She could spend hours just eying up each medal, plaque, ribbon and otherwise⎯the scores of what she could only assume where scrapbooks or playbooks on the shelves. And she would… Just, maybe another night. Normally she’d get her pajamas out and really settle in, but maybe just for tonight she’d leave that all by the wayside and let herself crash. There would be plenty of time to unpack: she had all week for that sort of boring stuff. For tonight, her ‘jammies would just have to be what she had on. The bed itself took her a bit of effort to actually get onto, all but having the crawl and tug herself up on. Comfy… Scootaloo nearly clocked out at the first sensation of the mattress beneath her, but she held fast to her senses. If for no other reason but to send off a message before bed. The light of her cell phone lit up her face and oddly helped in lulling her evermore into slumber even as she rattled off a text. Sleepy. But made it. Sleepy too. Don’t wake me. Sorry hah. Want to give you an update. Thanks then. Know what you’re gonna do tomorrow? I thought you were sleepy? I’m up now. So now you have to give me an answer. Fair. She said we could go shopping for food I want. And she said she was gonna wake me up with a guitar solo. :O All I ever get woken up to is a chicken yelling in my ear. Sounds fun. A few more notifications sounded off one after the other, but those were messages that would wait until the morning to be answered. Out like a light and twice as fast was Scootaloo as her head matted against the pillow. For a growing girl the kitchen was sparse of the ‘necessities’, but for an older and ‘refined’ woman, it had all one would ever need. If there was one thing to expect as a gift when you reach a certain prestige that everyone knows your name and would love to shmooze you up, it would always be vintage wines from all across the world; the older and harder to pronounce the more it showed you made it. While Spitfire wasn’t a hearty drinker like some close to her, she did fancy a glass in the most troubling times. Fortunately she had a dozen or so bottles unopened and had a bit of trouble to wash down this evening. A red wine from the mayor for that charity show some years back. What was it called? Donkey Kick? Truly didn’t matter as it went down as smooth as anything else. When the glass clinked against the countertop, Spitfire noted just how quiet the house really was and moreso how it felt. Scootaloo must have passed out shortly after Spitfire retreated downstairs. “Retreated sure is the word for it,” Spitfire mumbled before chasing the words down with another sip. It was a great way to end the day: not knowing how to comfort a child when they clearly had something on their mind. It would be her place to say or do something, wouldn’t it? But who was she to go up and hold a kid she barely knows? The thoughts rattled around and battered at the back of her head, and no swig was dulling that. At least something so weak. Of course the mayor wouldn’t give anything hard. But that still left the problem of her being left with her thoughts. In which case, as she flipped her phone out from her pocket and let it rest against the counter, she may as well not be left alone with them. Question: Is it okay to give a stranger a hug if you know they’re going through something? I like getting hugs. What if it’s a stranger? You’re not a stranger. But what if I was? Then how did you know my phone number, silly? Hm Okay. Is it okay if YOU hug that lady who held Twilight at the bookstore? I don’t know her That’d be weird Okay so it’s weird, right? But if she’s feeling bad, maybe she needs a hug. Helpful. I’ll think about it. No problem. A lot to think about. But, those were thoughts for tomorrow; for the end of the bottle and her head squarely on a pillow. For now, she sat there watching the swill of the wine totter back and forth in the curve of her glass, leaving behind their legs here and there as it went. As restless as Spitfire was awake, she shared that same sensation with the slumbering soul elsewhere in the house. The rested rooms apart, but the silence held them both in their own sense of isolation; awake or otherwise. “Tomorrow will be all about setting things on the right track. You’ll see. You’ll get it.” Day 1 (Intermission): Captain, My CaptainThe twilight hours in the suburbs are not so different from the evenings along the countryside. The same kinds of crickets chirp their melodic calls to their far off friends, the lights of houses off in the distance all flick off one by one so the stars overhead can twinkle in their place, and the cool breeze from an open window still puts someone asleep better than any lullaby. There were still a few differences that could take some getting used to going to or from either, but it's always the similarities that you reach for in those first few nights. Something familiar to wrap your arms around as you slowly let sleep take you to that next exciting day. And while it's not entirely universal, many people—young and old—could tell you that no matter where you are in the world, the distant static or electric hum of a television being left on over the night is a simple comfort. Maybe grandma left it on downstairs before she passed out, or maybe someone just turned it on for their own little white noise. Whatever the case, it hardly ever matters what was actually playing. Just the comfort of thinking someone is 'there' over the night with dim ebbs of light dancing on the walls is enough for some to get that restful sleep. Maybe that's why some channels just run filler content at those hours: to be a calm comfort for those that need it while not wasting much money on the effort. Such as this dimmed evening as a local broadcaster rolls out for the twilight viewers an old series of interviews of the high-flying Wonderbolts. It was a fantastic show at its time some years ago, but now it seemed to only serve as a soothing white noise for those drifting off to sleep. Still... It was a comfort then, and it's a comfort in its own way now. Maybe that's enough. Badum-tzzz... "Welcome back to RD On The Lights," canned studio applause briefly erupted when Rainbow Dash clicked the respective soundboard button, a useful carryover from her radio show, "Today we've got us a real showstopper set of guests. Now, you all know I can be a bit of a... fangirl... from time to time," the neighboring button offered laughter for her own joke, "But I cross my heart and swear on a stack of Daring Dos that I will be nothing but impartial, unbiased, and completely professional..." "Dash, you're an alternate for the team, aren't you?" Vapor Trail leaned in to whisper her question. "You're goddamn right I am!" She nearly kicked over her chair as she threw herself up in joy, arms swung wide with a hoot, "BUT!" Just as quickly Rainbow pulled her chair back and resumed her 'interviewer' stance, "Professional. Unbiased..." The guest just snorted a laugh and nodded. It would be fun either way. "Now Soarin—first off, huge fan—" "Mutual, mutual," the vice captain lounged back in the comfy chair as he just oozed chill. "So tell me, why the Wonderbolts? A guy of your talents and chiseled abs could've probably done pretty much anything. So why stunt performer? Besides the fact it's the coolest, most awesomest thing someone can do." They both ignored the blaring red letters blinking "Unbiased" from off-stage. "Right on the money, no doubt-no doubt. But—nah—see, when I was in school, I was part of the team." "The football team," Rainbow Dash quickly added to flex her know-how. "Yeah. Oh yeah! We went to the same school Duh!" Dash only chuckled nervously at his acceptance of the fact, "So—yeah—I played quarterback, and I just loved all that cheering and hootin'-hollerin' for me! The harder I worked, the more the stands would just go crazy for it. I lived for that hype," A dreamy smile came to his face and he patted his hand on the armrest, "But... Uh... That wasn't really the only reason... Small potatoes compared to the real deal..." "Now Vapor—can I call you Vapor, I'm a big fan." "Uhhh, sure. I don't see why not," Vapor Trail was a little unsure why she even asked since Rainbow Dash called her that all the time, but maybe it was just etiquette for interviews. It wouldn't be a very good look if she bungled her first one. "Awesome. Now, Vapor, you're one of the newest members of the Wonderbolts team. Has that come with any challenges? Any sidesplitting worries? Fears of failure? I know I was pretty sick to my stomach for a few months every time I walked out on stage." Vapor Trail considered the question as a blinking light off to the side read 'Seriously?'. "Well, I wouldn't go as far as all that. But it is a little overwhelming sometimes. You're surrounded by so many 'greats' that it gets to you sometimes, you know? But, I have an amazing support network on and off the stage—loveyouSky—and the team itself has been sooo supportive." "Ohmygosh, they're so great!" Rainbow Dash this time flinched a little when a bright light caught her eye, prompting her to settle back into her chair. "I mean... They are, aren't they?" "They're so sweet. But..." "So, Flee—Uh... you doing alright?" The newest interviewee was a visible bundle of nerves, fits balled tight against her armrests and legs tightly pulled together in a way nobody could possibly be comfortable sitting with. "Totes," the cool word came out like gravel from a grinder. "Hey-hey, this is a safe place, alright? You don't got anything to worry about. I'm not gonna—like—ambush you with some crazy question. This isn't Mixin' it Up with Trixie. Though I'm told she gets better ratings..." Rainbow Dash briefly considered that maybe one ambush would help but decided against it, her credibility was too important, "Either way, we're all friends here, and we're just here to chat and chill." Fleetfoot steadily let the stress exhale from her nose and her body relaxed gradually into her chair. "Thanks for that. I'm just not really -good- at this sort of thing. I do high-flying, death defying stunts to wow millions! I don't really do... Talking and sitting around. I don't really have the 'face' for it. I've got the one face, and I can't really shift it, y'know?" "Totally," she did not. "There's just that trait some guys on the team have where they can do our routines one minute, then come here and do this like it's nothing..." "Thunderlane—must say, massive fan..." "Puh-lease, Dash. If anyone's a fan of anyone here, it's me. Just look at you!" Despite the blaring sign flickering 'STOP' in the corner of their eyes, both continued to make eyes at one another. Rainbow Dash would have to put her hungry gaze aside as she cleared her throat and pulled herself back to the present. "Um—hah—So... You have a little brother! He's gotta be stoked his big bro's on the team of the best performers ever, right? Do you feel like you can be an inspiration for kids like him out there?" He tossed his head back with a laugh and slapped his knee after hearing the sentiment. "Oh man. N-No, not at all. I mean, I love my bro, and I want him to look up to me and everything. I mean, who doesn't want that?" "Truth," she didn't have a sister, but Dash felt that deep in her bones for someone. "But me an inspiration? Nah..." "My baby sis wanted to start up this whole thing, and I was right with her from day one!" "Miss Spitfire is just unbelievably supportive. She's the boss, but... She treats everyone like an equal. It's... Wow." "I-I just don't know how she does it! One second she's the sexiest acrobat you've ever seen, then the next she's buttoned up and making you want to call her 'mommy'... We can edit this, right? It's not live, right?" "She's an inspiration. She's what kids—hell, adults—should be trying to be like." The blaring warning light from the producers could do nothing to stop Rainbow Dash from bursting from her chair, tossing all her cue-cards to the winds as she gave in to her glee. "She's so amazing! She's cool, kind, strict but fair. She's the whole deal! She's everything I thought she was gonna be when I looked up at my Wonderbolts posters! I mean, we went to the same school together, but I never imagined she'd be the hottest thing ever!" Soarin just laughed all the while Rainbow Dash spun into her rant. Behind the pane of glass separating the small studio space and the sound room he saw a pair of onlookers repeatedly hitting a button. With each press, that blaring red light would send another message that Rainbow Dash completely ignored. Nobody besides the camera was seemingly listening to him at this point as Rainbow Dash kept expounding the virtues of the Wonderbolts, so he waved off his interviewer to her fun while he turned to meet the camera. "I owe it all to her. I was pretty terrible as a footballer, honestly. I mean, I could run fine, I could catch fine, but I wasn't ever 'great', y'know? But come the end of my school career, I had a record of never getting tackled and having a perfect pass-completion ratio—whatever that means. You know why?" Soarin got in close to the camera as if he had to whisper this secret for it and the thousands watching to hear alone. "My sis disguised herself as a dude for four years to be on the same team as me. She tackled every guy who came at me, and caught every ball I threw. I came out every game smelling like roses, and she'd come out with broken bones and scrapes. She ate every tackle for me for years just so I could feel like I was a champion... I can't imagine not paying her back every way I can. She's the best." Bzzz-rrmmm... Author's Note It's been a long time away, but it's time for this project to get its attention until completion. I hope you'll share your thoughts and stay with it. This is a passion project of mine, and I intend to hammer away at it over the next few months to see it to its planned vision. For those that are still here, thank you. To new friends, please enjoy. Day 1 (Morning): Dress to (Un)Impress You're being ridiculous! This is important. Sure. But... It's not one of our "galas" or fundraisers. It's a cas thing. SUPER cas. I'm casual. Not cas enough to say cas xP You know what? I'm not letting you get to me. I am going to be casual, and professional, and make a great first impression. You are not going to psych me out. And I'm not letting you get under my skin. I'll call you tomorrow after she's settled in. Late. The occasional thump of tires recoiling against partially unpaved city-limit roads were scored by the furious 'clitter-clatter' of a phone-screen being typed away on. The focused assault by text came to an end when Spitfire lobbed her phone onto the dashboard of the van, allowing her to cross her arms and recede into the passenger seat. Soarin for what he could see at his periphery, had a good guess at how the conversation went, broadening his already proud grin. He didn't take his eyes off from the road ahead of them as he breathed a low chuckle and drummed his fingers on the wheel. "She said something about the suit, right?", chuckled Soarin. "Alright, you know what you two?", Spitfire snapped back, ready to tear out of her seat at Soarin and a woman far beyond the confines of the van, "Excuse me for having some decorum. You know? Excuse me for... for... for not wanting to show up for this looking like a slob, okay?" Spitfire wildly gestured to her compatriot like the prime example she saw him as: slacks, a hoody that didn't match, mustard stain heat blasted into the hem of his collar after years of poor washing. "Come on, don't be like that." Soarin tried to ruffle at Spitfire's freshly styled hair despite her every weave to escape him: "We just want you to hang loose. This ain't like a lot of our other charity things. For once, you get to be chill. Be a Big Sis! Not... this." Even as he wouldn't take his eyes off the road–only imagining the sort of earful he'd get from Spitfire at the pearly gates if he offed them both–he was able to gesture out Spitfire's entire attire: lounge suit and dress shoes. "It's about putting your best foot forward, Soarin. That's something I want to teach them right off the bat. If you put your best self first for everyone to see, nobody'll have room to mess with you." Spitfire reclaimed her phone from the dash before nestling back into her seat. "Ehh. I think you're starting too fast and too hard if that's what you want." Seeing their exit, Soarin played at the turn down the off-ramp. "I mean, I went out looking like this my whole life. Nobody ever messed with me." The midday rays warmed Spitfire's face as she watched the cascading world just beyond her window. In these hours nestled between sleeping and waking, when even the autumn sun had only just roused, a calming peace could always be found. To her own credit, Spitfire allowed herself the briefest moment of calm; only one other could judge her as she let her guard momentarily lower, and it was someone she could always allow. A scoffing 'pft' passed between her lips before speaking only just above a whisper: "Yeah. Not if I had anything to say about it..." A mocking tone far removed from the concise, staunch leader she would maintain in public, only spoken at a hush; only spoken for herself. Is it weird to wanna throw up because you're excited? More weird to tell someone that. Chill. You're gonna have the time of your life! Yeah. Totally. Yeah. That doesn't sound very chill. How can you tell how it sounds? Look* lol If it makes you feel better, I'll check in on you tomorrow. After you get settled in. Thank you. I mean. Sorry. ? You went through a lot of trouble to set this up and I'm being a poop about it. You don't owe me anything. I knew the Wonderbolts were looking for something new to do, and things just lined up. You are sweating it so damn much. DANG* DANG MUCH* No swearing I'm a good influence. :o smh Thanks She was. Even if she did pass on the odd curse or off-color story here-and-there, Dash was a remarkable influence on Scootaloo. Texting out her final bit of appreciation before things carried on too far, Scootaloo drew herself out of bed. On most day she would not even consider getting up so early; there aren't any good cartoons on, nobody's cooking up anything to eat yet, and there is nary a fool to style on with her most epic of stunts. However, what wasn't so unusual for her was starting the day with the clothes she wore the day before. A cursory sniff of her own armpits were about the only checkup she'd grant herself before getting to work. Pickup would be any minute, and she still had a few essentials to pack. As one van door clicked shut, the other sounded in-time. The perturbed coach brushed off a few crumbs clinging to her backside curtesy of Soarin's sloven passenger seat. Her eyes briefly glanced at the purposeful sign aimed to outline the particular spot they had opted to park in: NO PARKING. Violators will be towed. A withering glare shot over the hood of the van as Soarin walked around was all it took to elect a response. "We'll be here, like, ten minutes. Who's gonna call the tow people, have them get here, and hook us up, in under ten minutes?" Soarin tapped a single finger at his forehead; Spitfire half expected there to be a hollow knock as he did so. With any luck, the visit would be over and done with before anyone got wise. Together they sauntered down the small pathway leading to the estate. To either side of them, they could see forgotten toys buried in mildly unmaintained grass; most likely due to what groundskeeper they had being too cautious to risk blending someone's 'favorite toy'. The nature of the front yard coupled with the more rustic shell of the estate itself: it presented a sort of lost charm in comparison to the few apartment complexes dotting the streets around it. As Spitfire admired the estate before her, she nearly missed the front door creaking open to meet them. The pair acted as best as they could to muster their own unique standard of decorum; one certainly more than the other. From the darkened doorway, an elderly woman hobbled her way out and offered a simple wave with what hand did not lay unto her walking cane. Her thin lips worked into a warm smile as she watched the two come to meet her at the stoop. "Mrs. Grace, a pleasure. I've heard so much about you." Spitfire offered out her hand, a sheepish grin spouting at her cheeks: "I am personally very excited to work with you. I can only hope that this will serve to help all of your children in the coming weeks." The matron's supple yet wrinkled palm clasped with Spitfire's, a mutual respect brokered. "You cannot park there." Even as she spoke her warning, her polite smile and honest warmth never faded. Soarin mumbled his discontent more to himself than anyone else as he strode back to his van. Perhaps opting for an act of defiance against the letter of the law, Soarin shifted the van to idle and simple waited in there. A nerve twitched at the corner of Spitfire's lip as she was now thoroughly abandoned at the very gateway she intended to hurry along. So much for a buffer. The thought rang hollow in her head as she watched Soarin pout from behind tinted glass. Despite how she felt, a task was still meant to be done, and she was nothing if not professional. Spitfire turned back to meet the kindly matron with every intention of continuing their meet-and-greet, though her attention was snatched away as she noted the fresh face that had joined at Mrs. Grace's side. Matted hair caked with as many flecks of dirt as crusted gel, mud blotched shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt. Given the care the children were known to be given, it seemed most of that was self inflicted–if the scuffed knees were anything to go by. Dull amethyst eyes shimmered an expectant curiosity as she looked up to meet Spitfire. A breathy chuckle passed through the older woman as she knelt low to meet her would-be-charge. For some, the sort of unsupported kneel Spitfire so effortlessly pulled off may have seemed impressive in itself; it seemed to spark some sort of twinkle from Scootaloo's eye. "Hey there, kid–uhh… Scootaloo. It's nice to meet you." Her hand lofted out, hoping the child would take it. "I'm going to make this the best week of your life. Promise." The moment lingered in the cool morning air. Scootaloo's curiosity and brimming excitement momentarily shifted deep within her as the genuine moment had finally caught up to her. For some time, it was all talk; but here it was, well and truly happening before her eyes. When she could finally catch up with herself, Scootaloo snapped her own hand up to take Spitfire's. "C...Cool!" A squeak was all she could muster. As both were trying their utmost to make this meeting go as smoothly as possible, neither opted to make a comment on how clammy the other's hand was. That would be a secret. Author's Note As we progress, I'm sure you'll pick up the actual story structure. But, since I want to give you a bit of an idea of what you'll be dealing with, let me give a small explanation. Each day will be made up two chapters; morning and evening. Then, between the days, we'll have a sort of interim chapter that will add some context or future prospective done in a sort of different format–if that all makes sense. Some chapters will be much longer than these first two chapters, so get hyped for that. More-or-less, we're just getting things started here; setting into place the bones of what's yet to come.
Day 0: Spitfire, My SpitfireThink for a moment some of the most spellbinding performances you have ever seen. Perhaps some glitzy display one would find down the Poney Fantastique strip comes to mind; sequins and rhinestones do often hold the eye. Or the humbling styles of the famed Lulamoon and her menagerie of mystifying magics amuse you more. For some, when the idea of truly magnificent performers come to mind, they recall operatic renditions of one Autumn Blaze–the pioneer of musical theatre. All are good answers and could suffice in most cases. However, above them all is perhaps the unanimously adored, world renowned, and uncontested aerial styles of The Wonderbolts. Performers, the world over, that are praised for their showmanship, spectacle, and defying of death on a near daily basis. Synchronized aerial choreography down to the millionth of a second, specialized orchestral backing that commands the heart to raise and set with each proceeding bar, charming personas that carry childish and olden minds alike through an experience few could liken to before or since. Every performance, a treat; every offstage interaction, a treasure. Each and every actor of the troupe carries themselves with the pride of their mantel wherever it is they find themselves; for truly, the world is their stage and they will always have an image to maintain. An image they have always been more than happy to pay upkeep in much the same enthusiasm they would their myriad of accolades; gold or otherwise. If they aren't selling-out entire theatres for their shows in themselves, they're filling out malls or local sport-outlets for public appearances; never a moment's rest–a small tithe to turn in exchange for being the best. Yet above the uproarious cheers, the all too welcomed accolades, or even the far too gracious fan submissions, the Wonderbolts as a whole find their greatest worth in another side of their business; saccharine though it may be. Charity work. All told, not all those wearing the Wonderbolt jumper and logo get the same sense of accomplishment out of their charity work as some others. But what good press and will they receive is a reward they can all unify behind. Shoes for the Shoeless, Toys for Tots, guest appearances on charity streams here, serving at a soup kitchen there: on a bimonthly basis, they offer their brand and services to whatever cause they can find. However, their event sign-up is routinely booked up a year in advance. This of course cannot be avoided, as there are only so many of them and so numerous of causes. Yet, they have always persisted to the best of their capabilities. To do their part for the community at large was a reward in itself; and yet, there could always be found an even grander reward just beneath the surface. The oceanic cry of a crowd cheering, the burning grace of stage lights centering down on her, the ceaseless study of recording equipment waiting on every movement to broadcast worldwide; it could be too much for anyone. But never her. Not when it was as regular an occurrence as stretching. While not the spacious comfort that came with whatever venue the Wonderbolts had booked out she was more accustomed to, a talk-show stage was a close second - perhaps third, behind the familiar comforts of an "autograph table" in some random hotel lobby. Dressed to impress as ever with her black slip of a dress, the chief coordinator of the Wonderbolts lounged back in the armchair she had been offered before the show had started its countdown. 3... The audience was already out of their seats bursting with applause, which the Wonderbolt characteristically waved to with a toothy smirk. If there was one thing she had told her troupe when it came to public appearances, it was to always appreciate your fans. Give them a wave, sign the occasional loose autograph, maybe even take a selfie if the scene takes you. 2... Her shoulders rolled off what little nerves she had left. Though she loved them to no end, the rest of the Wonderbolts lacked a certain level of stage awareness on anything smaller than the open air itself. These sorts of announcements and conferences were best left to her. Amber eyes flittered over to the host as he seemed to sweat over the teleprompter not yet live. Go...! As if completely on cue, the teleprompter flicked on and the host straightened himself with a practiced grin; discarding any such ideas that he may not have been ready a moment before. "Welcome back ladies and gentlemen. Before we took off, we brought out the head of the Wonderbolts, Mrs. Spitfire," the poor man was forced to take a beat as the studio audience couldn't help but roar, "To discuss her team's latest plans. Now tell us, what is on the platter now?" For her own part, Spitfire lounged a leg over the other as she gave the crowd a few moments to calm themselves. "Glad you asked. As I'm sure you're aware, we pride ourselves on giving back to our very generous community," an arrant woot pierced the otherwise silent room. "As such, we have been invited to take part in a sort of 'Big Brothers Big Sisters' program." She was more practiced than the others, but she did on occasion forget to read her own e-mails on the topic. "Big Brothers and Sisters? How does that work? Do you go and give kids of the street noogies and yell at them to stay outta your room?" A few chuckles sounded from the audience, probably not the gut buster he had hoped it would be. "Hah, not so much," Spitfire forced a 'good one' smile, "It's a bit more involved than that. We also spend some time stealing the remote and sitting on them while we watch 'Kissy Show'," that generated more of a response the host had probably been looking for, "But in all seriousness, it's a program where we sort of set a young mind down the right path. Give them a positive outlook in a life they might have not had up until now." "Amazing. What a giving heart you all must have," the 'd'awwws' from the audience might have been genuine, but the glaring red sign telling them to do so cast a shroud on that idea. "Hardly," Spitfire shrugged, "Taking a kid in and teaching them? I do that every day teaching my knuckleheads back home. I welcome the chance to hopefully inspire some form of confidence into a budding youth. Confidence I didn't have a lot of growing up." "Spitfire of the Wonderbolts shy of confidence? Now you're just pulling our legs!" "Believe it or not, I wasn't always the pillar of cool, confidence, and calm you see diving through the air every show." Spitfire smirked playfully. "It took years of encouragement, self-love, and diligence to get where I am now. And if I can pass even a little bit of that down to a kid over the next week? I'd consider all of this 'worth it'." The host offered out a hand which Spitfire accepted, already being couched before the segment on how this would all proceed. "Spitfire of the Wonderbolts, paying it forward and bringing joy to one lucky someone's life; we'll be right back." As the two shook their practiced send-off, uproarious cheers ushering the scene out, the lights upon the stage cleared and someone off stage called for a 'clear'. Both guest and host reclined back into their respective seats, momentarily freed from the gaze of millions of eyes. While the host himself began his muted tirade at who was responsible for that limp-wristed quip, Spitfire allowed herself to slip off stage with not a word more to say. The job was done, the announcement was made, and she had far more important people to hash out with. One of which stood waiting in the wings for her, beaming grin plastered on his youthful face. "Nice!" Soarin through his hand up, waiting for Spitfire to slap him some well earned skin, "You nailed it like, like... like..." A momentary 'slap' echoed against the now busy stage air as couch met partner. "A coffin? I barely kept it together," Spitfire huffed as she worked out those last few kinks in her neck. "I was gonna say 'like a nail gun', but coffins are cool too. Spooky~" Soarin tailed behind Spitfire as she made her way backstage, and hopefully out entirely. "You know what? We'll go with nail gun, I'm being too hard on myself. The point is the actual event, not the announcement, right?", Spitfire prodded. "No argument here," Soarin assured his partner as they made their way out to the chilled autumn night beyond the studio lot. Spitfire felt her skin prick under the soft breezes of the late night air, cursing beneath a single chatter that she wore only the slip of black here and not her jacket. Soarin had to pick up his pace as Spitfire started to jog through the lot towards their car, desperately wanting to escape the cold. "Anyway, we have a busy day tomorrow," Spitfire spoke up, small puffs escaping her lips. "'We'? I thought you said you were doing this one alone?", Soarin tilted his head to one side as he fished his keys from his pocket, clicking a button on the fob to unlock Spitfire's sanctuary. "Not that I wouldn't mind. Love those little bros and bro-ettes." "Sorry to pop you while you're just getting excited, but I am still doing this alone. I just need another pair of hands to help me move them in for the week. Luggage and all," Spitfire slipped into the beaten van Soarin drove them in with as she explained her stance. Soarin merely nodded along, knowing full well that if Spitfire said it was necessary, it must be. In truth, it was a half truth. The paperwork was already drawn up, and what agreements had to be made were settled; Spitfire saw to that weeks ago with her contact's aid. The chances for their charge having bags requiring another pair of hands were slim considering the length of the actual event. What Spitfire was really after was a buffer while she could make an excuse for it. Come next morning, she would have to play the role of a 'Big Sister' to a 'wayward youth'–though by her contact's account, the child was far from trouble–, and that idea settled an odd sensation in the pit of her chest. The headlights of the van flickered on and the warm hearth of the blaring fans melted away any such thoughts lingering in Spitfire's mind. And as Soarin pulled off into the open streets, what ideas remained seemed to be left far behind; waiting for tomorrow to come and be picked up once more. Far flung from the glamour of any studio set, well beyond the dying hustle of Ponyville–a town who's namesake nobody can agree on–, in a nestled corner just beside the town's edge where the streetlights only just narrowly reached stood a humble estate. While its function had shifted with each passing decade to fit in with the evolving times, it found itself to be the lone children's home for Ponyville's lost lambs. While every nook of the estate had long been dimmed for the night, and many a head lain to rest for the coming day; one soul in particular remained alert well beyond curfew's call. Tucking herself firm beneath her blankets and cupping her earbud plugged ears so not a single light or sound would escape to alert anyone, the mischievous child watched transfixed to the display of her phone. That morning she had been given the heads-up to keep an eye out on a certain channel; something she wouldn't want to miss for the world. Dash had been working to set this whole event for weeks, and no curfew would stop Scootaloo from witnessing its final kickoff. The whole of the show was a lot of boring adult chatter about things far beyond Scootaloo's grade; or at least far beyond what she cared to put much thought to. All that mattered was the short segment square in the middle of the stream: where a fiery maned woman humored a balding clown and announced what charity event she'd be participating in. A pause to the screen came with a tap of the finger. Virtual eyes met eyes brimming with excitement, though neither was fully aware of the other. It wouldn't be until tomorrow. Tomorrow where the real excitement would begin. Author's Note There's a tentative "T" on this because later down the road, there might be some more explicit moments. Spitfire is a grown woman, and the context of the story primarily balances between the act of everything. For that, we might change the rating... Or make a side story where that sort of stuff takes place. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Comments ALWAYS appreciated.
Day 1 (Afternoon): How the Other-Half LivesBetween the few lingering bits of paperwork that needed to be signed to let this endeavor be officiated—all formality at that point—the soft morning air had crested over the horizon to let the billow of the afternoon's warmth to fill the dales of the city limits. A semblance of relief came as a conciliation with the loss of time, however. In quick order, Spitfire had lost the promised buffer she came with due to vehicular negligence—and she was kicking herself all the way through her finalizing of the paperwork that she hadn't rehearsed what she would say to her newly taken charge. Thankfully, Soarin had since more than made up for his soft abandonment to his captain's plight by occupying Scootaloo with playful chatter as they moved her bags into the car. Soarin had always been the best of them when it came to those things: connecting with anyone off the bat. Children, fans, flirty party-goers, even critics couldn't help but cave at his goofy charisma and blissful aura. Some would go as far as to say it was his most valuable asset, and Spitfire would be hard pressed to disagree. Even on the ride back into town, amidst the city streets and bustling neighborhoods, Soarin continued to have the child well engaged in this-and-that. "Nah-uh!" She would cry with barely restrained glee. "I'm tellin' ya," he'd protest with his usual chilled candor. "No way!" Flopping back in her chair with incredulity; it just couldn't be! "Swear to god," proudly he'd beat his palm against the top of the wheel; he'd not lie about this. He dominated the conversation to the point Spitfire didn't even need to do more than sneak in a few loose chuckles as she remembered the very stories Soarin protested were true. They were. Sans a few embellished details that conveniently put him in less of an embarrassing position than she so keenly remembered. Though he was helping her compose herself, so there was no reason to point out who went in the trashcan and who ended up in the recycling. As Spitfire recalled, it didn't matter either way—they both took a long shower that night. One story rolled into the other, and each childish question fed into the next outlandish answer. Not a moment of dead air could be found in the van from the estate of Mrs. Grace to the labyrinthine roads of Spitfire's own neighborhood. Upon entry into the somewhat lavish neighborhood, Scootaloo's attention had somewhat simmered from Soarin's flights of fancy to that of the grandiose homes that lined the road. Hedge-fences as tall as a home, mansions with movie-star verandas on the second floor, pools built into the ground rather than being a steel tub out in someone's backyard, and one or two homes she could have sworn were the settings of "Real Housewives of Ponyheights". Each new sight was more opulent than the last—more snobby and in turn more exciting for the young girl. It came to a head when she felt the van make a rolling stop into one particular driveway. From her backseat window she stumbled away from so she could look out the front to see where it was she was staying for the next week. Opulence, grandeur, a snobbish aura... This home lacked any of those traits. Yet, Scootaloo found herself awed by it all the more. Sandwiched between two glorious mansions, the sleek black ranch house seemed quaint and cozy. Perhaps the only point of wealth to it beyond its modern shell was the garage dug out beneath the house with a secondary driveway that fed into the small street. But maybe when one lives among the rich, you are expected to have some sort of fancy addition to your house lest the neighbors start talking about your wealth at their next money bath. Or at least that's what ran through Scootaloo's mind. "Aaaaaaaand—!" Soarin let the last bag slump from his arms into the waiting arms of his little partner, "Go!" Scootaloo spun at her heels and down the thin strip of a walkway to the still open door of the home. Eager was too menial a word for what the little lass displayed from the first bag to the last; she kept her energy well beyond the point she beat Soarin running to and from the home. He had hoped to have tired her out to make the rest of the night that much easier on Spitfire, but the vim of youth was something he seemingly forgot. Even so, he still had enough pep to spin on his own heels to meet his captain as she shut the van door. "And now we got one last thing to get in the house!" Playfully prodding at Spitfire, he brought her to swat at him with a mixed expression of joy and annoyance, "But uh... You need me to stay at all? Y'know, help you out?" Spitfire could clock the man's concern a mile away even on the worst of days. Even as she batted the pesky crumbs freshly caught to her suit, she managed an easy turn to her lips. "I got it from here, Soarin. Thank you. Really," Spitfire had many ways she showed appreciation, and this time she she favored for a tight hug at his side, "I know you've got a lot better things to do Saturday—" "I don't." "—And I'm glad you drove me and helped me with this," Spitfire managed her last words amidst a laugh. "Well, alright. But if anything comes up, just give me a ring," Soarin fired off a salute that Spitfire met as he slipped into his van to pull out. As red rear lights faded away down the suburb roads of the late afternoon, Spitfire tucked her hand listlessly into her pockets. Buffer used well, and now it's just you. Even in the small hours of the afternoon, Spitfire could feel a sort of exhaustion slump over her. Or perhaps it was just anticipation for the next few days. Just her and the child—Scootaloo. A promise of 'the best week of her life' already made to set the bar pretty far up. That's why we rehearse. Spitfire chastised herself; it was something she told her troupe day after day, and especially after a bad outing. But here she was, making rookie mistakes out in the field with no net to catch her. The walk towards the house seemed a bit longer than usual, but it only meant she had the much more time to hype herself up. She placed the bar high, so that meant only that she would have to excel that much more. A great week is what she promised... And a perfect week is exactly what Scootaloo would get. The easiest way to a kid's heart is through the deconstruction of predicted norms. Replace what one is conditioned through social and media expectations with subversive activities. -Professor Twilight Sparkle on Behavioral Studies and Social Musings. While Rainbow Dash herself suggested the book, one had to wonder if she read it herself. The wording was a bit too chunky for someone like Dash. Still, Spitfire found some merit to it, even if she could have surmised "kids like doing things they're told not to" from her own experiences. Still, this was going to be a long week, so a little suggestion here or there wasn't something she'd rebuff. The island within the sparse kitchen was playing host to a familiar situation: its master squared up on it by her shoulders, bowl of loops set out before her. Now, however, there was another face occupying its other end; a small, slip of a girl looking over her own bowl of chocolate flakes adrift in milk—which had gradually started to take on the shade of the drifting flakes. Spitfire popped a scoop of her brunch between her lips with a sizable crunch as she watched her charge for any sort of reaction. "Not a Nightmare Crisp gal?" Puffed up cheeks full of cereal nearly lost their prize as Spitfire addressed her guest. At a wince, Scootaloo quickly began to scarf down her chocolaty treat as if she realized she may have looked ungrateful. The small girl lifted the bowl up and took a slurp of the turned-milk just enough to stop herself from choking. "S-Sorry, yeah. No, it's great!" Scootaloo blurted out, "Just didn't expect breakfast for lunch." "Sorry about that, kid," Spitfire's brows furrowed a bit, though her genuine smile held through after swallowing her meal, "time got away from me for the past..." Day? Had that interview. Few days? Was out of town on business. Week? It's been a week since I could go to the store? "Well, the past while. So, haven't really had time to fill the old kitchen up." It was something Scootaloo had noticed when she first moved her bags into what she was told was the 'entertainment room'. The inside was something right out of a magazine. Top of the line technology, sleek, modern furniture, and dimmer switches on every light. But, that was the thing: it looked too much like a magazine and not like someone lived there. No mess at the front door, no fruit left out on the counter to get mushy, even the leather couches didn't have someone's butt print indented in. The house felt almost unlived-in; at least on the first floor. "Buuuut," the atmosphere shifted and Scootaloo's attention was brought back to Spitfire's cheerful, cereal munching expression, "I thought it'd be a fun thing to do tomorrow. You and me shopping to fill this place up with stuff you'd like to munch on. 'Less you feel like eating cereal and power-bars all week." A snort of a laugh from herself broke Scootaloo of her thoughts. "Breakfast for dinner does sound pretty sweet...! But maybe we should get some other stuff too." "Breakfast for dinner sounds awesome, but not cereal. Play your cards right, and I'll make you some pancakes," Spitfire encouraged Scootaloo all the while she began to clean up her end of the kitchen. Pancake brinner made by the captain of the Wonderbolts? Now that was something to be excited about. Where do people normally shop for food? My day's going great, and you? xP Don't be cute. I need help. I'm not cute. I'm scrappy. You're a regular Little Rascal. Okay Grandma. Anyway Wdya? I just lied to the kid and said I planned for us not having food here so we could go shopping for stuff she wants Nice save. But I usually have my stuff delivered here. Fancy-fancy =3 Can you give me help other than smart remarks? Easy-do. There's the public market south-side. They sell it all there. Thanks. The blip of a final message echoed before Spitfire looked around the stairway corner she had ducked into. Sure enough, Scootaloo was lounging in the entertainment room, bowl of what was likely just soupy chocolate at this point balanced on her crossed legs. Breakfast for lunch is cool, certainly. But breakfast for lunch while eating on the couch and watching TV? That's a chain of taboos one rarely gets to indulge in. It was that tantalizing prospect that Spitfire used to distract the girl as she slipped away to handle herself. The dim glow of the phone's screen against her face finally clicked off before a witty follow-up could come, and Spitfire sauntered herself over to Scootaloo's perch. While the other Wonderbolts insisted for her to get the biggest of screens for her entertainment center, Spitfire couldn't recall the last time she actually used it. For that matter, she couldn't recall what service she had: cable, satellite? Given that some show centered around people running through some obstacle course was playing, Scootaloo must have figured it out regardless. A moment passed into the next while Spitfire looked down at Scootaloo from behind her. This whole opportunity is two-fold: to generate good press, and to enrich the child's life. Nothing would make her happier than to end this week with Scootaloo on track for a life of success and optimism that she could pass on to everyone around her. A wealth of change and hope could start here... But that wasn't what mattered, in truth. That was a greater goal; something amorphous to reach for. What did matter more than anything was just sitting watching TV. "Were you in a band?" Spitfire wavered from her thoughts as Scootaloo spoke. "Random question," Spitfire snickered, "Why?" For the longest time, Scootaloo had continued to note the odd atmosphere of the home. The picturesqueness of it, how clean it was, but there were a few notable additions that marked it as something not just in a magazine. Namely pictures framed on walls and atop tables. While she did turn the TV to watch the latest of her 'favorite series' (after of course downloading a few streaming services that Spitfire clearly didn't think to have), Scootaloo's wandering eye couldn't help studying a few of the picture frames around the room. Some she recognized as news-clippings of Wonderbolt articles meticulously preserved, and others she saw assorted Wonderbolts posing together, alone, or with Spitfire. But one in particular seemed to be the most out of place. That one she pointed towards when Spitfire raised her rebuttal. "Oh!" Spitfire followed the gesture and spotted the picture just beside the television. Working around the couch and striding over to meet the point of interest, Spitfire plucked the small frame from its shelf. Careful not to smudge the glass, she took the briefest moment to admire the picture within. The reflection of her own face contrasted with the youthful one laughing back at her, though it only sprouted a greater smile in response. Clear as a summer's day was the memory of that day; of careless teens piling up far too close with little care for the instruments they carried. A keyboard pressed to the point it was liable to break, drum sticks poking into someone's side, and most notably a guitar having someone's hand thoughtlessly pressing hard at the neck and straining the strings. "I've had this since I was just a few years older than you," Spitfire spoke up while walking to settle herself next to Scootaloo, offering her a closer look as well, "It was taken on the last night of this 'Battle of the Bands' thing. Would've won, too." "Would've?" "Yeah," Spitfire nestled in closer unconsciously and brushed her thumb across the picture to one of the supposed band members—a girl with stark-silver hair and eyes aflame with what must have been annoyance, "Before the results, our lead vocalist skipped town." Scootaloo lingered on the vocalist for a moment as a face she remembered but couldn't recall, her head brushing back to rest against the warmth of her caretaker. Before long, her attention diverted back to the young vision of Spitfire herself with a growing look of incredulity. "Wait... You were a guitarist?" "Were? I still am!" A playful push came to Scootaloo's side, making her giggle in her retreat, "Don't believe me? You watch. I'll get you up tomorrow with the wildest solo you've ever heard." With that promise, Spitfire kicked herself off the couch and ruffled Scootaloo's head; leaving a mess of the girl's already somewhat matted hair. Carefully she returned the framed picture to its dust marked place upon the shelf. Her fingers lingered against the frame for a moment, a brief air of nostalgia dancing over her from a more wild time. A time of silly songs, pointless squabbles, and a touch of young love. Maybe she'd call one of her 'sisters' up; it had been awhile since they recounted the good old days. She couldn't help herself from smiling a most genuine smile. It was such a simple way for it to come about, yet she struggled to remember the last time she really felt it. Still, she had to bring herself back to reality. Promising to wake a child up in the wee hours of the morning with guitar music? That wouldn't do at all. Not only would the neighbors have a field day writing all kinds of noise complaints about it, but that couldn't be good form when setting an example. This week has to be calculated, informative, and above all else a good example. She had to remind herself of that at every turn. To keep Scootaloo's best interest in mind. Upon returning to the waking world from her deep thought, she could hear the growing laughter of Scootaloo just behind her. It was only a glance needed to see the small girl matching the same genuine smile Spitfire had but a moment before; a turn to the face she had not seen since they first met. Well... Just for tomorrow we can do it that way.
Day 1 (Evening): Fan Ex-PerspectiveMost anyone when asked would tell you the worst part of any stay-over trip ⎯ regardless of length ⎯ is the lugging of suitcases. Lug them from the house to the car, from the car to the hotel, from the hotel to the car, from the car to the house... All the more to be said if you introduce airplanes, stairs, or multiple bags. It’s a chore one would be hard-pressed to find someone enjoying it. But, it’s the part of the process everyone overlooks for the sake of the experience that lies in the space between. Thankfully, said process was not so much an issue for Scootaloo, or rather Spitfire as she charged herself with the duty of relocating her charge’s luggage. Up the flight, down the corridor pass two squarely shut doors, and into the first room on the left. While Scootaloo was beyond interested to see this room her luggage was ferried off to, Spitfire all but demanded with a sly word that she’d just have to wait while she got everything set up. “Well if you look at it now while I’m still moving your stuff in, you won’t get that ‘wow’ moment, will you?” Spitfire had reasoned out. It made sense, perhaps. But, it certainly did nothing for Scootaloo’s mounting eagerness; as well as the dawning shades of exhaustion. Between the anticipation of arriving, the drive in, Soarin’s bouts of play, and Spitfire’s beyond comfortable sofa, Scootaloo was as tired as she was excited for more. Whatever ‘wow’ Spitfire had in mind when showing Scootaloo her room for the week would have to contend with the little one’s want for sleep. Amidst one beat of sleep from her eyes, Scootaloo adjusted herself upright as she heard footfalls descending the stairs. With not a bag more to be seen waiting near the front door, there could only be one option remaining as the older woman rounded the bend. “Right. Come on up,” Spitfire smiled, suppressing her own tiredness from this day. One would think someone of such a petite stature wouldn’t have such heavy bags — especially for just a week’s visit. While reflecting and speculating on just what sort of luggage Scootaloo could have packed, Spitfire was nearly knocked aside as the very same girl scampered from sofa to stairs and up through the dim hall. When she heard the scampering shuffles come to an abrupt stop, Spitfire turned on her heels and started her own way up. “First door on your left,” the call up seemed to be all that was stopping Scootaloo as the scampering immediately returned followed by the click of a handle. Spitfire was nearly twice the girl’s size and favored long strides in her usual movements, but it seemed Scootaloo’s scampering would be something to beat given how quickly she managed her way into the room. When she did finally catch up, Scootaloo was standing in the center of the room taking it all in. For a moment, Spitfire looked over the room herself; while she took care to make sure it was ‘safe’, it did present itself much differently with its new occupant standing at its center. When Dash helped set this entire affair up, one of Spitfire’s main concerns was that her home had only two bedrooms. The obvious answer would have been to just let Scootaloo stay in the guest room as she would be a guest, but the idea didn’t seem very… personable. Anyone could be a guest at any time, but this would be a most special occasion. Luckily, Dash herself had the solution: She and Scootaloo shared a deep adulation for the Wonderbolts Spitfire captained; so what better room to serve as a place of high honor for a special guest than the most honored space in Spitfire’s home? It took some effort to move the guest bed into the trophy room, but Soarin had been all too eager to lend his captain a hand. Though Spitfire would have gladly argued she had the harder task of organizing and boxing up some of her accolades to give Scootaloo more space in the room — which was not much to say as beyond her own room and the living room, the trophy room was by far the biggest room. Even with the cabinets glimmering with silvers and golds, and shelves stacked with plaques and markers, the room was spacious and hosted a desk, nightstand, a set of bookcases stacked with varying books, and of course a bed fit for a king ⎯ or rather queen. Spitfire may have argued it was a tad tacky to decorate a room with not only your own accomplishments but also the memorabilia of your job, but blue and gold was a good color scheme, and the ‘decorations’ were free. To her, it was a nice place to stow away one aspect of her life ⎯ loved though it was ⎯ to keep the rest of her life separate; but to a fan, it was a Wonderbolt wonderland. “So…” Spitfire started as she hoped to break through Scootaloo’s awestruck stupor. “This’ll be your room to do with as you please while you’re here. You can do whatever you’d like, touch whatever you like and place your stuff wherever. I just ask that you don’t break anything and put anything back where you found it.” Scootaloo drifted across the room, perhaps only catching Spitfire’s words in a dull hum. “Bathroom’s just across the hall. I don’t know if you shower or take baths, but...” As Spitfire trailed off with a satisfied chuckle, she started to take a closer note of Scootaloo. Despite her first inclination, it didn’t seem the room itself was what held the girl’s attention. Her touches were delicate as her small digits trailed over the edge of the sheets of the bed. From the foot to the head, Scootaloo ran her palm against the neatly tucked sheets and mattress. There was a certain tenderness to the way she touched it as Spitfire watched, a concern that perhaps if she touched too firmly the whole of it would sink away. “Scootaloo, you alright?” Maybe it was too much. A king-size bed for one pre-teen? Perhaps the Wonderbolt sheets and pillowcases were overboard. There was such a thing as overstimulation, and maybe it was too much at once even for a fan. The list of complications rattled through Spitfire’s head one after the other until a voice pulled her from her own mind. “This is mine, right...?” Cheer was evident in the young woman’s voice, but the slight crack barely hidden within it nearly caused Spitfire to leap from her skin. Spitfire couldn’t see the welling in Scootaloo’s eyes as she kept her back to her mentor-for-the-week, though the tremble in her tone told her everything she needed. For a moment Spitfire stood in the doorway unsure of what to say⎯what to do. “Yeah. Of course. Is that a⎯a problem?” Spitfire’s own sudden uncertainty rang true despite her wish to not give that away. “Totally,” Scootaloo responded, “I’m just used to…” Her arms swiped across her face, letting small stains collect against her cuffs as she brought on a smile and said, “I’m used to sharing a room is all. So, it’s a real improvement.” A pause saturated the air in that moment, still and impassable. A great deal urged Spitfire to step forward and comfort her charge, to set things on a more open path for the coming week. But the words reached no further than her head as she took a measured step back into the hallway, unsure if that was a boundary she had a right to cross just yet. “That’s… That’s great then. I’m sure you’ll really enjoy it in that case. If you need anything the rest of the night, just give a yell or come knock on my door. I’m sure we’re both pretty beat after today,” Spitfire managed her usual tone despite her mounting uncertainty. “Oh…! Uh… Door at the end of the hall. That’s… That’s my room. In case you didn’t… Know… Yeah.” Scootaloo only listened as the door clicked shut and Spitfire’s footfalls drifted away down the stairwell. It took her a good while to finally take her hand from the bed and let her mind truly return to the moment. Her eyes scanned over the room with her head on a swivel; each and every trophy sparked in her a burst of the same realization: this was the trophy room. She could spend hours just eying up each medal, plaque, ribbon and otherwise⎯the scores of what she could only assume where scrapbooks or playbooks on the shelves. And she would… Just, maybe another night. Normally she’d get her pajamas out and really settle in, but maybe just for tonight she’d leave that all by the wayside and let herself crash. There would be plenty of time to unpack: she had all week for that sort of boring stuff. For tonight, her ‘jammies would just have to be what she had on. The bed itself took her a bit of effort to actually get onto, all but having the crawl and tug herself up on. Comfy… Scootaloo nearly clocked out at the first sensation of the mattress beneath her, but she held fast to her senses. If for no other reason but to send off a message before bed. The light of her cell phone lit up her face and oddly helped in lulling her evermore into slumber even as she rattled off a text. Sleepy. But made it. Sleepy too. Don’t wake me. Sorry hah. Want to give you an update. Thanks then. Know what you’re gonna do tomorrow? I thought you were sleepy? I’m up now. So now you have to give me an answer. Fair. She said we could go shopping for food I want. And she said she was gonna wake me up with a guitar solo. :O All I ever get woken up to is a chicken yelling in my ear. Sounds fun. A few more notifications sounded off one after the other, but those were messages that would wait until the morning to be answered. Out like a light and twice as fast was Scootaloo as her head matted against the pillow. For a growing girl the kitchen was sparse of the ‘necessities’, but for an older and ‘refined’ woman, it had all one would ever need. If there was one thing to expect as a gift when you reach a certain prestige that everyone knows your name and would love to shmooze you up, it would always be vintage wines from all across the world; the older and harder to pronounce the more it showed you made it. While Spitfire wasn’t a hearty drinker like some close to her, she did fancy a glass in the most troubling times. Fortunately she had a dozen or so bottles unopened and had a bit of trouble to wash down this evening. A red wine from the mayor for that charity show some years back. What was it called? Donkey Kick? Truly didn’t matter as it went down as smooth as anything else. When the glass clinked against the countertop, Spitfire noted just how quiet the house really was and moreso how it felt. Scootaloo must have passed out shortly after Spitfire retreated downstairs. “Retreated sure is the word for it,” Spitfire mumbled before chasing the words down with another sip. It was a great way to end the day: not knowing how to comfort a child when they clearly had something on their mind. It would be her place to say or do something, wouldn’t it? But who was she to go up and hold a kid she barely knows? The thoughts rattled around and battered at the back of her head, and no swig was dulling that. At least something so weak. Of course the mayor wouldn’t give anything hard. But that still left the problem of her being left with her thoughts. In which case, as she flipped her phone out from her pocket and let it rest against the counter, she may as well not be left alone with them. Question: Is it okay to give a stranger a hug if you know they’re going through something? I like getting hugs. What if it’s a stranger? You’re not a stranger. But what if I was? Then how did you know my phone number, silly? Hm Okay. Is it okay if YOU hug that lady who held Twilight at the bookstore? I don’t know her That’d be weird Okay so it’s weird, right? But if she’s feeling bad, maybe she needs a hug. Helpful. I’ll think about it. No problem. A lot to think about. But, those were thoughts for tomorrow; for the end of the bottle and her head squarely on a pillow. For now, she sat there watching the swill of the wine totter back and forth in the curve of her glass, leaving behind their legs here and there as it went. As restless as Spitfire was awake, she shared that same sensation with the slumbering soul elsewhere in the house. The rested rooms apart, but the silence held them both in their own sense of isolation; awake or otherwise. “Tomorrow will be all about setting things on the right track. You’ll see. You’ll get it.”
Day 1 (Intermission): Captain, My CaptainThe twilight hours in the suburbs are not so different from the evenings along the countryside. The same kinds of crickets chirp their melodic calls to their far off friends, the lights of houses off in the distance all flick off one by one so the stars overhead can twinkle in their place, and the cool breeze from an open window still puts someone asleep better than any lullaby. There were still a few differences that could take some getting used to going to or from either, but it's always the similarities that you reach for in those first few nights. Something familiar to wrap your arms around as you slowly let sleep take you to that next exciting day. And while it's not entirely universal, many people—young and old—could tell you that no matter where you are in the world, the distant static or electric hum of a television being left on over the night is a simple comfort. Maybe grandma left it on downstairs before she passed out, or maybe someone just turned it on for their own little white noise. Whatever the case, it hardly ever matters what was actually playing. Just the comfort of thinking someone is 'there' over the night with dim ebbs of light dancing on the walls is enough for some to get that restful sleep. Maybe that's why some channels just run filler content at those hours: to be a calm comfort for those that need it while not wasting much money on the effort. Such as this dimmed evening as a local broadcaster rolls out for the twilight viewers an old series of interviews of the high-flying Wonderbolts. It was a fantastic show at its time some years ago, but now it seemed to only serve as a soothing white noise for those drifting off to sleep. Still... It was a comfort then, and it's a comfort in its own way now. Maybe that's enough. Badum-tzzz... "Welcome back to RD On The Lights," canned studio applause briefly erupted when Rainbow Dash clicked the respective soundboard button, a useful carryover from her radio show, "Today we've got us a real showstopper set of guests. Now, you all know I can be a bit of a... fangirl... from time to time," the neighboring button offered laughter for her own joke, "But I cross my heart and swear on a stack of Daring Dos that I will be nothing but impartial, unbiased, and completely professional..." "Dash, you're an alternate for the team, aren't you?" Vapor Trail leaned in to whisper her question. "You're goddamn right I am!" She nearly kicked over her chair as she threw herself up in joy, arms swung wide with a hoot, "BUT!" Just as quickly Rainbow pulled her chair back and resumed her 'interviewer' stance, "Professional. Unbiased..." The guest just snorted a laugh and nodded. It would be fun either way. "Now Soarin—first off, huge fan—" "Mutual, mutual," the vice captain lounged back in the comfy chair as he just oozed chill. "So tell me, why the Wonderbolts? A guy of your talents and chiseled abs could've probably done pretty much anything. So why stunt performer? Besides the fact it's the coolest, most awesomest thing someone can do." They both ignored the blaring red letters blinking "Unbiased" from off-stage. "Right on the money, no doubt-no doubt. But—nah—see, when I was in school, I was part of the team." "The football team," Rainbow Dash quickly added to flex her know-how. "Yeah. Oh yeah! We went to the same school Duh!" Dash only chuckled nervously at his acceptance of the fact, "So—yeah—I played quarterback, and I just loved all that cheering and hootin'-hollerin' for me! The harder I worked, the more the stands would just go crazy for it. I lived for that hype," A dreamy smile came to his face and he patted his hand on the armrest, "But... Uh... That wasn't really the only reason... Small potatoes compared to the real deal..." "Now Vapor—can I call you Vapor, I'm a big fan." "Uhhh, sure. I don't see why not," Vapor Trail was a little unsure why she even asked since Rainbow Dash called her that all the time, but maybe it was just etiquette for interviews. It wouldn't be a very good look if she bungled her first one. "Awesome. Now, Vapor, you're one of the newest members of the Wonderbolts team. Has that come with any challenges? Any sidesplitting worries? Fears of failure? I know I was pretty sick to my stomach for a few months every time I walked out on stage." Vapor Trail considered the question as a blinking light off to the side read 'Seriously?'. "Well, I wouldn't go as far as all that. But it is a little overwhelming sometimes. You're surrounded by so many 'greats' that it gets to you sometimes, you know? But, I have an amazing support network on and off the stage—loveyouSky—and the team itself has been sooo supportive." "Ohmygosh, they're so great!" Rainbow Dash this time flinched a little when a bright light caught her eye, prompting her to settle back into her chair. "I mean... They are, aren't they?" "They're so sweet. But..." "So, Flee—Uh... you doing alright?" The newest interviewee was a visible bundle of nerves, fits balled tight against her armrests and legs tightly pulled together in a way nobody could possibly be comfortable sitting with. "Totes," the cool word came out like gravel from a grinder. "Hey-hey, this is a safe place, alright? You don't got anything to worry about. I'm not gonna—like—ambush you with some crazy question. This isn't Mixin' it Up with Trixie. Though I'm told she gets better ratings..." Rainbow Dash briefly considered that maybe one ambush would help but decided against it, her credibility was too important, "Either way, we're all friends here, and we're just here to chat and chill." Fleetfoot steadily let the stress exhale from her nose and her body relaxed gradually into her chair. "Thanks for that. I'm just not really -good- at this sort of thing. I do high-flying, death defying stunts to wow millions! I don't really do... Talking and sitting around. I don't really have the 'face' for it. I've got the one face, and I can't really shift it, y'know?" "Totally," she did not. "There's just that trait some guys on the team have where they can do our routines one minute, then come here and do this like it's nothing..." "Thunderlane—must say, massive fan..." "Puh-lease, Dash. If anyone's a fan of anyone here, it's me. Just look at you!" Despite the blaring sign flickering 'STOP' in the corner of their eyes, both continued to make eyes at one another. Rainbow Dash would have to put her hungry gaze aside as she cleared her throat and pulled herself back to the present. "Um—hah—So... You have a little brother! He's gotta be stoked his big bro's on the team of the best performers ever, right? Do you feel like you can be an inspiration for kids like him out there?" He tossed his head back with a laugh and slapped his knee after hearing the sentiment. "Oh man. N-No, not at all. I mean, I love my bro, and I want him to look up to me and everything. I mean, who doesn't want that?" "Truth," she didn't have a sister, but Dash felt that deep in her bones for someone. "But me an inspiration? Nah..." "My baby sis wanted to start up this whole thing, and I was right with her from day one!" "Miss Spitfire is just unbelievably supportive. She's the boss, but... She treats everyone like an equal. It's... Wow." "I-I just don't know how she does it! One second she's the sexiest acrobat you've ever seen, then the next she's buttoned up and making you want to call her 'mommy'... We can edit this, right? It's not live, right?" "She's an inspiration. She's what kids—hell, adults—should be trying to be like." The blaring warning light from the producers could do nothing to stop Rainbow Dash from bursting from her chair, tossing all her cue-cards to the winds as she gave in to her glee. "She's so amazing! She's cool, kind, strict but fair. She's the whole deal! She's everything I thought she was gonna be when I looked up at my Wonderbolts posters! I mean, we went to the same school together, but I never imagined she'd be the hottest thing ever!" Soarin just laughed all the while Rainbow Dash spun into her rant. Behind the pane of glass separating the small studio space and the sound room he saw a pair of onlookers repeatedly hitting a button. With each press, that blaring red light would send another message that Rainbow Dash completely ignored. Nobody besides the camera was seemingly listening to him at this point as Rainbow Dash kept expounding the virtues of the Wonderbolts, so he waved off his interviewer to her fun while he turned to meet the camera. "I owe it all to her. I was pretty terrible as a footballer, honestly. I mean, I could run fine, I could catch fine, but I wasn't ever 'great', y'know? But come the end of my school career, I had a record of never getting tackled and having a perfect pass-completion ratio—whatever that means. You know why?" Soarin got in close to the camera as if he had to whisper this secret for it and the thousands watching to hear alone. "My sis disguised herself as a dude for four years to be on the same team as me. She tackled every guy who came at me, and caught every ball I threw. I came out every game smelling like roses, and she'd come out with broken bones and scrapes. She ate every tackle for me for years just so I could feel like I was a champion... I can't imagine not paying her back every way I can. She's the best." Bzzz-rrmmm... Author's Note It's been a long time away, but it's time for this project to get its attention until completion. I hope you'll share your thoughts and stay with it. This is a passion project of mine, and I intend to hammer away at it over the next few months to see it to its planned vision. For those that are still here, thank you. To new friends, please enjoy.
Day 1 (Morning): Dress to (Un)Impress You're being ridiculous! This is important. Sure. But... It's not one of our "galas" or fundraisers. It's a cas thing. SUPER cas. I'm casual. Not cas enough to say cas xP You know what? I'm not letting you get to me. I am going to be casual, and professional, and make a great first impression. You are not going to psych me out. And I'm not letting you get under my skin. I'll call you tomorrow after she's settled in. Late. The occasional thump of tires recoiling against partially unpaved city-limit roads were scored by the furious 'clitter-clatter' of a phone-screen being typed away on. The focused assault by text came to an end when Spitfire lobbed her phone onto the dashboard of the van, allowing her to cross her arms and recede into the passenger seat. Soarin for what he could see at his periphery, had a good guess at how the conversation went, broadening his already proud grin. He didn't take his eyes off from the road ahead of them as he breathed a low chuckle and drummed his fingers on the wheel. "She said something about the suit, right?", chuckled Soarin. "Alright, you know what you two?", Spitfire snapped back, ready to tear out of her seat at Soarin and a woman far beyond the confines of the van, "Excuse me for having some decorum. You know? Excuse me for... for... for not wanting to show up for this looking like a slob, okay?" Spitfire wildly gestured to her compatriot like the prime example she saw him as: slacks, a hoody that didn't match, mustard stain heat blasted into the hem of his collar after years of poor washing. "Come on, don't be like that." Soarin tried to ruffle at Spitfire's freshly styled hair despite her every weave to escape him: "We just want you to hang loose. This ain't like a lot of our other charity things. For once, you get to be chill. Be a Big Sis! Not... this." Even as he wouldn't take his eyes off the road–only imagining the sort of earful he'd get from Spitfire at the pearly gates if he offed them both–he was able to gesture out Spitfire's entire attire: lounge suit and dress shoes. "It's about putting your best foot forward, Soarin. That's something I want to teach them right off the bat. If you put your best self first for everyone to see, nobody'll have room to mess with you." Spitfire reclaimed her phone from the dash before nestling back into her seat. "Ehh. I think you're starting too fast and too hard if that's what you want." Seeing their exit, Soarin played at the turn down the off-ramp. "I mean, I went out looking like this my whole life. Nobody ever messed with me." The midday rays warmed Spitfire's face as she watched the cascading world just beyond her window. In these hours nestled between sleeping and waking, when even the autumn sun had only just roused, a calming peace could always be found. To her own credit, Spitfire allowed herself the briefest moment of calm; only one other could judge her as she let her guard momentarily lower, and it was someone she could always allow. A scoffing 'pft' passed between her lips before speaking only just above a whisper: "Yeah. Not if I had anything to say about it..." A mocking tone far removed from the concise, staunch leader she would maintain in public, only spoken at a hush; only spoken for herself. Is it weird to wanna throw up because you're excited? More weird to tell someone that. Chill. You're gonna have the time of your life! Yeah. Totally. Yeah. That doesn't sound very chill. How can you tell how it sounds? Look* lol If it makes you feel better, I'll check in on you tomorrow. After you get settled in. Thank you. I mean. Sorry. ? You went through a lot of trouble to set this up and I'm being a poop about it. You don't owe me anything. I knew the Wonderbolts were looking for something new to do, and things just lined up. You are sweating it so damn much. DANG* DANG MUCH* No swearing I'm a good influence. :o smh Thanks She was. Even if she did pass on the odd curse or off-color story here-and-there, Dash was a remarkable influence on Scootaloo. Texting out her final bit of appreciation before things carried on too far, Scootaloo drew herself out of bed. On most day she would not even consider getting up so early; there aren't any good cartoons on, nobody's cooking up anything to eat yet, and there is nary a fool to style on with her most epic of stunts. However, what wasn't so unusual for her was starting the day with the clothes she wore the day before. A cursory sniff of her own armpits were about the only checkup she'd grant herself before getting to work. Pickup would be any minute, and she still had a few essentials to pack. As one van door clicked shut, the other sounded in-time. The perturbed coach brushed off a few crumbs clinging to her backside curtesy of Soarin's sloven passenger seat. Her eyes briefly glanced at the purposeful sign aimed to outline the particular spot they had opted to park in: NO PARKING. Violators will be towed. A withering glare shot over the hood of the van as Soarin walked around was all it took to elect a response. "We'll be here, like, ten minutes. Who's gonna call the tow people, have them get here, and hook us up, in under ten minutes?" Soarin tapped a single finger at his forehead; Spitfire half expected there to be a hollow knock as he did so. With any luck, the visit would be over and done with before anyone got wise. Together they sauntered down the small pathway leading to the estate. To either side of them, they could see forgotten toys buried in mildly unmaintained grass; most likely due to what groundskeeper they had being too cautious to risk blending someone's 'favorite toy'. The nature of the front yard coupled with the more rustic shell of the estate itself: it presented a sort of lost charm in comparison to the few apartment complexes dotting the streets around it. As Spitfire admired the estate before her, she nearly missed the front door creaking open to meet them. The pair acted as best as they could to muster their own unique standard of decorum; one certainly more than the other. From the darkened doorway, an elderly woman hobbled her way out and offered a simple wave with what hand did not lay unto her walking cane. Her thin lips worked into a warm smile as she watched the two come to meet her at the stoop. "Mrs. Grace, a pleasure. I've heard so much about you." Spitfire offered out her hand, a sheepish grin spouting at her cheeks: "I am personally very excited to work with you. I can only hope that this will serve to help all of your children in the coming weeks." The matron's supple yet wrinkled palm clasped with Spitfire's, a mutual respect brokered. "You cannot park there." Even as she spoke her warning, her polite smile and honest warmth never faded. Soarin mumbled his discontent more to himself than anyone else as he strode back to his van. Perhaps opting for an act of defiance against the letter of the law, Soarin shifted the van to idle and simple waited in there. A nerve twitched at the corner of Spitfire's lip as she was now thoroughly abandoned at the very gateway she intended to hurry along. So much for a buffer. The thought rang hollow in her head as she watched Soarin pout from behind tinted glass. Despite how she felt, a task was still meant to be done, and she was nothing if not professional. Spitfire turned back to meet the kindly matron with every intention of continuing their meet-and-greet, though her attention was snatched away as she noted the fresh face that had joined at Mrs. Grace's side. Matted hair caked with as many flecks of dirt as crusted gel, mud blotched shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt. Given the care the children were known to be given, it seemed most of that was self inflicted–if the scuffed knees were anything to go by. Dull amethyst eyes shimmered an expectant curiosity as she looked up to meet Spitfire. A breathy chuckle passed through the older woman as she knelt low to meet her would-be-charge. For some, the sort of unsupported kneel Spitfire so effortlessly pulled off may have seemed impressive in itself; it seemed to spark some sort of twinkle from Scootaloo's eye. "Hey there, kid–uhh… Scootaloo. It's nice to meet you." Her hand lofted out, hoping the child would take it. "I'm going to make this the best week of your life. Promise." The moment lingered in the cool morning air. Scootaloo's curiosity and brimming excitement momentarily shifted deep within her as the genuine moment had finally caught up to her. For some time, it was all talk; but here it was, well and truly happening before her eyes. When she could finally catch up with herself, Scootaloo snapped her own hand up to take Spitfire's. "C...Cool!" A squeak was all she could muster. As both were trying their utmost to make this meeting go as smoothly as possible, neither opted to make a comment on how clammy the other's hand was. That would be a secret. Author's Note As we progress, I'm sure you'll pick up the actual story structure. But, since I want to give you a bit of an idea of what you'll be dealing with, let me give a small explanation. Each day will be made up two chapters; morning and evening. Then, between the days, we'll have a sort of interim chapter that will add some context or future prospective done in a sort of different format–if that all makes sense. Some chapters will be much longer than these first two chapters, so get hyped for that. More-or-less, we're just getting things started here; setting into place the bones of what's yet to come.
