“Two hundred thirty million, six hundred twenty seven thousand, four hundred and eighty five dollars…” Spitfire sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That’s how much your bird costs, and I’m not even getting into the estimated damages to the buildings.”
The woman dragged her hand down her face before placing it on her desk. Her eyes intensely focused on the woman opposite of her, clad in her flight suit, head wrapped around and around with gauze, making her all-white hair nothing short of a mess.
“How the fuck did this happen Fleetfoot? The maneuver was one you’ve done hundreds of times.”
“I can explain,” Fleetfoot started. She paused, the gears in her head chugging and turning and overheating in an effort for a proper thought process to form. That, or she was digging around for an excuse. “In… about five minutes. Maybe ten.”
Spitfire let out another deep, frustrated sigh. “Look, Fleet…” she began, making her counterpart shuffle in her seat. It was rare that Spitfire addressed her like that. Usually it was only when she was pissed beyond all words. “I could maybe forgive the jet, and if I managed to pull something out of my ass I could do something for the buildings, but…” she paused, taking off her glasses as she rose from her desk, slowly, methodically approaching Fleetfoot with a terrifying military stoicism that could put even the most elite guards in Canterlot on edge.
“You injured two fellow pilots! Soarin almost died because of you, and thank Celestia in Canterlot that those buildings were cleared before you crashed, one of them was a goddamned preschool.” Finally she stopped, leaning over to stare Fleetfoot square in the eyes. “Whatever reason you have for the accident, it better be a damn good one.”
Fleetfoot was pretty sure at this point an entire puddle of her own sweat had formed around her feet. She couldn’t even look Spitfire in the eye. All she could do was purse her lips and hold onto the edges of her seat with all her strength. A faint whisper passed from her lips, so low that not even Fleetfoot herself could hear it.
“You’re gonna be that way, huh?” Spitfire asked letting out another deep breath before standing tall once more and walking back to her side of the desk and looking over files on her desk. “If you really don’t have anything to say, the door’s right behind you.”
“I was hungover!” Fleetfoot practically shrieked, covering her mouth immediately and blushing up a storm of red.
Spitfire’s eyes slowly rose from the paper she examined, burning with an intense fury that only years of military experience could contain. “You flew one of our nation's most expensive pieces of military equipment… drunk?”
“Technically I had been drunk the night befo–”
“Shut the fuck up!” Spitfire snapped before Fleetfoot could continue. “You knew damn well that you had training in the morning, you knew damn well that the policy is absolutely no alcohol for twenty four hours before flying AND you still fucking did it anyway? Seriously? What the FUCK was going through that thick as fuck skull of yours! You could’ve killed close to one hundred people because of this Fleet! What… were… you… THINKING?!”
“I… uh, wasn’t really thinking. I got my schedule mixed up and thought training was put off until Wednesday. But when Soarin woke me up for drills, I just, uh, went with it.” Fleetfoot shrugged, her knees buckling together. “I knew if I told you I was hungover, you would have blown a fuse. Like, um, right now, actually.”
Spitfire sat back in her chair, seething in rage, but still somehow managing to maintain a sense of calm, which honestly made her all the more threatening. “You’re right,” she said simply with a shrug of her shoulders. “I would’ve been pissed, but I also wouldn’t have had to file a report explaining that close to three million in damages to the surrounding buildings alone, was caused by the complete and utter incompetence of someone that I thought was one of the finest examples of a pilot that the Equestrian Air Corps has ever produced. All because she was afraid that her boss would yell at her and give her a quick slap on the wrist.”
“You’re… not seriously going to put that in the report, right?” Fleetfoot’s eyes went wide when Spitfire offered no response. “Spitfire, please, that’ll murder my career! I can kiss my entire future goodbye!”
“The way I see it, the knife is in your hands.” Spitfire replied, pulling one of her pens out of her uniform. “You also know that I never leave anything out of a report, you have a Medal of Valor because of that.”
Fleetfoot looked at the pen. It might as well as been a sword for all she could care. “Spitfire… please, there has to be something I can do to make up for this. Cleaning the latrines for three months. Volunteer work. Drilling halfwit grunts until I lose my voice. Anything at all! Just… please.” Fleetfoot gulped hard at her last word. “I don’t want it to end like this.”
Spitfire froze, looking up to the desperate woman that sat before her. A few silent, tense moments passed before she finally laid the pen on the desk. “You remember exactly how you won that Medal of Valor Fleet? Maybe you should remind me before I sign this and send it higher.”
“When the Taurian Empire invaded we flew dangerously close to their forces to provide air support to the ground troops. Your jet was hit by AA fire and I had to push it back to base so we could refuel and continue the air support. I still had some shrapnel lodged in my shoulder, I can remember.” Fleetfoot instinctively touched her right shoulder, the ghost paints still there. “At the end of the day, Taurian forces were pushed back and Equestria was saved. Or that’s what they told me. At the end of the day I was shoved into a hospital bed and fed so many pain killers I couldn’t even remember my own name for an entire week.”
“You saved an estimated three thousand lives that day,” Spitfire nodded. “Mine included.” She took the file before her and gave it a quick once over before opening the closet drawer on her desk. “I still don’t think I’ve paid back my debt…” Spitfire tossed the report into her desk, closing it with a loud slam. “I could say that you missed something in your initial pre-flight checklist.”
Tears appeared at the edges of Fleetfoot’s eyes. “Spitfire… for real? Oh thank you, thank you so much! I can’t even believe you’re doing this for me.”
“But…” she interrupted, “even if I say it was something as benign as that, there still needs to be an investigation as well as a competency check, those two together should take close to four months to be done properly.”
“Four… four months?” Fleetfoot blinked. “You’re telling me I’m going to be investigated and harassed for four entire months because of this?”
“Would you rather it be your other option?” Spitfire asked, arching a brow. “If so, the best I could do for you is to try to get you in a cell that keeps you as far away from the men as possible, and even then, I can’t say much for the women.”
“Can’t you, um, I’dunno? Shove me off somewhere? Like some town or something for training purposes?” Fleetfoot tapped her chin. “Like, I’m pretty sure I won’t have any military deskjockies tracking me down to some village in the country, right?”
“Well, it’s not really standard procedure, and I would have to disclose your location in case you do in fact need to be brought in for questioning,” Spitfire shrugged, looking through the window blinds, “but I’ll see what I can do. Oh, the transfer, due to the investigation that’ll be put on you, is strict no-pay, so you’d have to find a job instead of relying on Luna to sign your checks every two weeks.”
“A job?” Fleetfoot repeated. She sunk in her seat further. “What type of job am I supposed to get? Flipping burgers? Taking out the trash?” Fleetfoot shuddered. “I’m definitely not gonna be some asshole’s maid, that’s for sure.”
Spitfire couldn’t help but let out a laugh, “You didn’t seem to mind that one Nightmare Night when you offered to ‘spit shine’ that one Marine’s belt buckle.” She smiled, tapping her chin. “What was his name again? Boulder something? Bou–”
Fleetfoot held her hand up while she stared at the floor with a red face. “Please, don’t go any further. I couldn’t look that guy in the eyes for weeks after that. Plus, he kept on asking for my number for even longer.”
“Alright, alright, keep that skin tight suit of yours on,” Spitfire smiled as the doors to her office opened, revealing two men dressed in uniform. “That’s your cue to leave Fleet, I’ll brief you in a few hours after these gentlemen and I sort something out.”
Fleetfoot got back to her feet and saluted, a few tears still brimming around the edges of her eyes. “Will do, captain! And… thanks.”
“Of course,” Spitfire saluted back. “See you when we’re done here.”
