Spitfire eyed her reflection in her morning cup of coffee, trying to envision how the next forty eight hours would play out.
She sat at a squat, round table in the lone conference room of the team’s rented hotel in Appleoosa, on the tail end of their annual Equestrian tour. The conference room had no air conditioner, in keeping with the rustic theme of the town. Spitfire could feel the sweat beading on her neck and peeling down her back. It made her shiver despite the heat.
Across the table sat the Wonderbolt’s show designer, a slight purple pegasus mare named Startup. A bad crash many years ago left Startup with a permanently bent left wing, which Spitfire was afraid to look at for fear of seeming rude.
“I don’t understand,” Spitfire said. “Why do you want to change the routine now?” She paused to take another look at the manilla envelope full of brand new show blueprints detailing the proposed changes. “We don’t even have a dozen shows left.”
“Our numbers aren’t where we want them to be,” replied Startup. “We’re just not getting enough butts in seats right now.”
“So we up the danger to sell more tickets,” Spitfire said. “Is that right?”
“I don’t think it’s right any more than you don’t think it’s right. But that’s what command requires.”
“I won’t ask this of my fliers.”
“You will. You’ve been ordered to. They all knew the risks when they signed up.”
“These changes aren’t risky. They’re stupid. They didn’t sign up for a suicide detail.”
“Don’t be so unreasonable.”
“It’s not unreasonable at all. When a Wonderbolt signs on, they acknowledge there’s a five percent chance of catastrophic failure at any given moment in the routine. Not one percent more.” Spitfire waved the envelope in the air. “This is not five percent.”
“What percent would you say it is, then?”
Spitfire paused to crunch the numbers in her head. “Ten. Fifteen if there’s inclement wind or rookies in the formation.”
“I would never argue with your intuition, Spitfire. If you say it’s ten percent or higher, I believe you. But our ticket sales don’t lie. It happens every year. The last ten shows, we see a dip. Then the last two or three make up the difference. But at the rate we’re going, we’d need to sell three times the max capacity of the last five stadiums just to break even.”
“Is this all about finances to you?”
“The Wonderbolts do not exist to break even. We exist to raise money and awareness for the Royal Guard. If we’re not doing our jobs, they’re not getting the funding they need. If we break even, somepony else down the line goes wanting, and we’ve failed.”
Spitfire leaned back in her chair, scowling. They were at least in agreement on one thing--breaking even was not an option.
“Design us a different trick,” Spitfire said. “Or recycle an old one. I’m not against switching up the routine. I’m against this element.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“This would be risky if we had a whole summer to prepare it. Learning this on a day’s notice is impossible.”
Startup shook her head. “I never thought I’d hear that word coming out of your mouth. This element is gonna put butts in seats. Get it done.” Without another word, the older mare stood up and walked out of the room. Her one bent wing stuck out above her back when she folded it against her side, giving the strange impression she was waving goodbye.
Spitfire kept her but planted in her seat and her lips glued shut until the conference door swung shut.
Then she overturned her seat onto the dusty floorboards.
“You cockamaney little weasel,” she shouted at the door. “I’m gonna break your good wing in the other direction, so every time you take off all you’ll do is cockscrew right back into the dirt where you belong, you ugly, dried out groundbody!”
Just then, she heard a floorboard creek from the other side of the conference room. She whirled around to find a caramel-brown earth pony sneaking towards one of the other exits.
As their eyes met, the earth pony froze in terror. He put on a wide, freaked-out smile and said with a drawl so slow it could make a snail impatient, “Howdy there, miss Spitfire.”
Spitfire glared right through him. “Hello.”
“I was just checking in on you and your cohort to see if you needed anything. Water or coffee or anything for your room.”
“We’re fine.” She glanced back at the door, then back at the earth pony. “I think our meeting’s over.”
“Outstanding! I’ll just--leave you to it then.” He dove for the door.
“Wait.”
He froze, hooves on the door handle.
“Do you have some more coffee already made?”
“Sure do.”
“I’d like another cup, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Come around to the bar area and I’ll get it for you.”
“Thank you. That will be all.”
The earth pony flung the door open and bounded away. Spitfire sighed and wiped a fresh bead of sweat from her forehead. Her gaze drifted back to the manilla envelope with the details for the element Startup wanted added to the lineup for tomorrow evening’s performance.
Spitfire had heard of the element before, but never saw the blueprints of it before. The name made her shiver like somepony had pressed an ice cube right onto her spine.
The title of the element as listed on the envelope was called, “The Buzzcut.”
Envelope tucked safely beneath her wing, Spitfire found her way out of the conference room and over to the bar. It was only seven thirty AM local time, but already the area was crowded with Wonderbolts eager to get their fix.
As Spitfire rounded the corner, somepony shouted, “Cap’n on deck!”
Every Wonderbolt in the bar leapt to their hooves. There was a colossal sound of hooves clattering against hardwood, then dead silence.
“As you were,” Spitfire said. The sound of pleasant conversation returned.
Spitfire made for the far end of the bar where an old-timey coffee percolator sat gleaming in the light. There she found the earth pony from the conference room cleaning the dust off a porcelain mug.
Whatever fear from their previous encounter had melted away, replaced with the molassasy easygoing charm that ran in the blood of all young stallions from this region.
“You’re not selling alcohol this early, are you?” she asked him.
“Only coffee and food until four PM.”
“Good. I’d trust these ponies with my life, but not with a cider.”
The pony laughed and went to work firing up the percolator. “The whole town’s excited for your show tomorrow.”
“I hope they all come out. The Guard has deep roots in this region.”
“I know. Lotta cousins and aunts and uncles took the armor. All the vets are comin’ down to see it.”
“Are you a guard vet yourself?”
“Nope. Guardin’ was never my style. Mostly I farm. I work here in the orchard’s off-season to help the family.”
“Very good of you. Those orchards sure are important to this town.”
“Miss, you have no idea how right you are.” The percolator let out a happy little whistle. The stallion filled Spitfire’s mug up and slid it her way. “I’m Braeburn.”
“Spitfire. Pleased to meet you.”
She reached for her coin purse, but Braeburn shook his head. “Coffee’s on the house. Your gang bought enough cider last night to put us into an early retirement.”
“Sounds about right.”
Braeburn beamed. “Can I get you anything else?”
Spitfire’s mind returned to the day’s plan. In an hour, she and her flying team had a four hour practice block, followed by half an hour of lunch, then another four hour block, then dinner, then a third four hour block. All their gear was already being staged by their road team at the training grounds outside of town.
“Actually?” Spitfire said. “It’s a bit of a time sink to fly all the way back to town for lunch. Is there a caterer in town I could hire to make some bagged lunches for the team?”
“You just happen to be looking at Appleoosa’s premiere party caterer. I’ll get you fixed right up.” Braeburn drew up a hasty bill of sale, then scrawled his name on the bottom. “If you’d just sign here.”
Spitfire paused. Sharing a pen with another pony wasn’t impolite outright, but it did imply enough familiarity that you were okay with swapping secondhand spit with them.
But whatever. Spitfire wasn’t afraid of a few germs. Or Braeburn. Or the fact he was definitely overcharging this catering bill.
Once she signed the paper, Braeburn pocketed it and flashed a toothy smile. “I’ll be seein’ you around, miss Spitfire,” he said, and went off to serve the other Wonderbolts seated at the bar.
All the levity left her lungs as that day’s tasks resettled onto her shoulders. Command was a crushing weight, but it could be shouldered in just such a way that left her with enough room to breathe.
Today, that margin was very small, and growing smaller.
The practice field the Wonderbolts would be preparing on was little more than an empty stretch of desert just north of the town’s staple apple orchards. Despite the rocky terrain, it was shielded from wind on three sides by tall outcroppings and shielded on the fourth side by endless rows of apple trees.
It wasn’t amazing, Spitfire noted. Dust would play a factor today for sure. But they’d done more with less.
Before warm-ups began, Spitfire called her team together at the edge of the field.
“I had a chat with Startup this morning. We’re adding a new element into tomorrow’s routine.”
A murmur went around the circle, then all went quiet again.
“This element is gonna replace the thunderhead maneuver. It’s a full-team maneuver with a small margin for error. It’s called the Buzzcut.” From beneath her wing, she produced a manilla envelope full of copies of the blueprints and passed them out. “We’re going to spend the last hour of first block, all of second block, and the first two hours of third block getting this one up to speed.”
“Pardon me, ma’am,” one of her subordinates, a pastel-orange mare named Stryker, spoke up. “Are these blueprints correct? This has two formations flying at each other, then through.”
“That’s right. We split into two diamond forms of four, then fly through each other at a hundred and sixty degrees. We’ll be trailing smoke as we do it, too.”
The murmur returned, this time louder. “We’re playing high-speed chicken,” Stryker surmised. “Is Startup trying to kill us?”
“That’s enough,” Spitfire said. “This is nothing we haven’t done before. Our margin of error is small and our time is short. When are flying conditions ever ideal, amen?”
“Amen,” the team replied in unison.
“Now I don’t want to hear another word about this element unless you’re calling out areas for flyer improvement. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they said.
Spitfire eyed Stryker. She was a rookie, a firebrand, and a show-boater. Typical Wonderbolt material.
She’d have to keep her eye on her in case she started mouthing off again.
With that, they took to the sky to begin their morning practice block. Stretches, basic formation, and preening dominated the first hour. Then came a full run-through of their show, minus the thunderhead maneuver, followed by ninety minutes of breakdowns where they rehearsed individual turns and small-group moves. Everything went smoothly. Each angle was crisp, each turn was precise, each flier looked impeccable.
Then it came time to learn the Buzzcut.
The learning phase, where the group mimed their way through the Buzzcut at half-speed, produced several close shaves in the first few minutes alone, followed closely behind by one frightening full-on collision. Stryker predictably wobbled out of formation by just a hair’s length, enough to catch the shoulder of another flier as they crossed.
The two spiraled to the ground, only gathering enough wind beneath their wings to glide to a stop at the last possible moment.
Spitfire was first on the scene, helping the two dazed fliers up.
“You blew it!” she screamed into Stryker’s face. “If we were running this at full speed, we’d be picking your head out of those trees like an apple. What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Stryker said, still somewhat shaken. “I thought my line was good.”
Spitfire growled, “Get some water and run it again. That effort won’t cut it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Spitfire, being the lead flyer for one of the diamond formations, was in charge of setting the line the other formation would fly through. Her job was to keep the formation set at a perfect one hundred and sixty degree angle, at an exact speed of eighty forty lengths per second, and abort the stunt if she thought anyone was out of position.
So Stryker’s failure was hers, too.
The hour went by at a nervous crawl. By the time lunch rolled around, the two formations were exhausted.
As they retreated into the shade of the orchard to grab some shade, Spitfire noticed Stryker lagging behind.
“Hurry up, private. This isn’t free time. It’s lunch time.”
“Yes ma’am.” Stryker kicked off at a trot to match pace with Spitfire. “I’m sorry for my mistake today.”
“It’s fine, just trust the process and you’ll get it.”
“I’m also sorry for mouthing off this morning. That was extremely unprofessional. I have absolute confidence in myself and my team.”
Spitfire nodded and patted Stryker on the shoulder. “I know you do, kid. But that kind of talk sows discord, even in wing-draggers like us. We have to be one mind up there. There’s no room for doubt.”
“Understood, ma’am.”
“Thank you for your apology. Now go eat.”
Stryker trotted off to join the rest of the team in the shade. There, she found a box filled with brown bag lunches of apples, protein shakes in screw-top mason jars, and green salads.
Braeburn hadn’t stuck around. That was a pity. The team couldn’t stop talking about how nice the meal was.
Spitfire took up a perch in one of the nearby apple trees, munching on her apple while looking over the blueprint of the Buzzcut in detail.
The more she looked at it, however, the more she realized Stryker was right. The Buzzcut cut it too close for comfort. Somepony was going to get hurt.
Afternoon block was where they kicked the stunt up to full speed. True to her word, Stryker came back in force to dominate the afternoon session. Whether it was out of fear for the stunt or respect for its potential, the group locked in from the start and kept a blisteringly efficient pace through the entire block.
The final run of that block would include the show in its entirety, with the Buzzcut stunt at full speed.
Everything went well through the first few minutes. As the team broke into diamond formations and sped to their respective sides of the clearing, a tiny wriggle of doubt wormed its way into Spitfire’s mind.
Doubt at high speeds was a recipe for disaster. Spitfire focused on her angle and her line like nothing else in the world mattered. Angles and lines. Good formations. All the way through to the other side. Angles and lines. Gaining speed, cutting through space. No room for error. Angles and lines. The air breaking at her face. The other formation flying towards her. Angles and lines.
Her angle strayed at the last moment.
The rear hoof of the other formation’s lead flyer caught her squarely between the eyes.
Everything went white.
When she came to, she was falling. Not gliding. Free-falling.
She threw her wings out desperately, crying out in pain at the strain in her joints.
Then she hit the ground with a whump and a puff of dust.
She closed her eyes as something like sleep crept over her. Then she snapped her eyes open again and dared not shut them.
There was a protocol to a crash. First and most important was, don’t die. Second was, don’t move. In the event of a spinal injury, sudden movement would only cause further damage.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something she had never seen before. Her right wing stuck out high over her back at an impossible angle, like she was waving hello to the team as they converged on her.
It looked just like Startup’s wing.
Spitfire let out a bone-chilling scream. Crash protocol number two went right out the window as she sat up and gawked at her busted wing.
The crash team and the other flyers got to her a moment later.
A gentle but firm hoof forced her head back to the dirt. “Don’t move, Spitfire,” came the reassuring voice of her second in command, Soarin’. His sweat and dirt clogged her nose, but she couldn’t actually see his face. “You’re okay. We’re gonna fly you to the hospital now.”
“My wing,” she choked out. “Is it--” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
The pressure on her head relented a little bit as Soarin’ probed at the base of her wing. “everything’s right where it should be,” he said. “It just popped out of its socket.” To one of the other members of the crash team, he barked, “Hold her legs.”
“Soarin’?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“My angle was off.”
“I know,” he said, then shoved her wing back into its socket.
Third block was put on hold.
In the meager Appleoosa hospital, a team doctor prodded Spitfire’s wing with a small electrical gun to stimulate the different muscles. She winced at every touch, but kept her mouth shut.
As she looked around, she realized the hospital room looked alarmingly similar to the hotel conference room she’d argued with Startup in that morning.
Adding to the deja vu was the entrance of the same pony from the hotel, Bareburn. Except now he was decked out in a nurse’s scrubs.
“Don’t tell me you’re a nurse, too,” she said with a grimace.
“Off-season work,” he said. “Gotta get it where you can.” He looked her up and down. “You don’t look too bad.”
The team doctor said in a pallid voice, “Thank you, nurse, for your medically-sound opinion. Please fetch the x-rays from the other room or kindly leave.”
Braeburn returned a moment later with the x-rays, lingering in the corner while the doctor went over them with Spitfire.
“Let’s do the important stuff first. Here’s your right wing--no breaks. And your left--also no breaks. Torso’s fine, but those bruises will feel like broken ribs, so just try to ignore them. Two very minor tendon tears in your front left hoof. I’d recommend keeping the weight off it while you’re ground-bound, but you’re still okay to fly in my estimation.”
“What about my head?”
“Nothing broken up there. Concussion report came back negative. You’re very lucky to have a skull so thick.”
“That can’t be right, though. I blacked out.”
The doctor shrugged. “Could have been panic. Or you just got dazed and you didn’t really black out.” He noticed her frown. “Of course, if you still feel like something is wrong, I could order more tests. I’d have to keep you through tomorrow. Someone else would have to take your place for the show.”
Spitfire shook her head. “I’m okay, doc.”
“Alright, then. Get plenty of rest, and try not to get kicked in the head anytime soon.”
The doctor collected his charts and left the room, leaving Spitfire to contemplate his offer.
Leaving the team now would be nothing short of betrayal. And for whoever was unlucky enough to take her place at the head of the formation, there would simply not be enough time to learn the routine. She was stuck.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of somepony clearing their throat. She looked up to find Braeburn still standing in the corner.
“Why are you still here?” Spitfire asked.
“Well, I know the doc said you’d be right as rain, but that look on your face says something otherwise.”
“Your concern is appreciated. You’re a very good host.”
“Thank you kindly. We have a saying around here that goes something like, ‘If you’re in Appleoosa, you’re an Appleoosian.’ That means every Wonderbolt in town this weekend is as good as kin to me. Including you.”
Spitfire raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”
“And since you’re as good as kin, it would be rude of me not to hear you out if you wanted to talk about whatever’s on your mind. If there’s something on your mind.”
Spitfire let out a long sigh and rolled her wings around in their sockets. The memory of her wing jutting up over back sent a shiver down her spine. “I’ve still gotta get cleared, then manage the last prep block.”
Braeburn’s eyes fell. “I understand.”
“But we’re done at nine. Could you percolate us some decaf at ten?”
The smile leapt back onto his face. “Sure as sugar, I will. Ten o’clock on the dot.”
“Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Spitfire’s wing was still bothering her as she made her way back out to the practice field. The desert sun set on the flatlands beyond the field, painting the sky the same harsh and beautiful orange as the earth below.
Much to her satisfaction, the rest of her flight team was still rehearsing the Buzzcut, albeit at half-speed. Their shadows danced across the walls of the ravine and over the field. Up in the air, it was easy to lose perspective as to just how fast they were really going. Shadows revealed the truth. As the Wonderbolts zipped through the air, their shadows covered the distance from one end of the orchard to the other in just over two seconds.
When the ponies in the air caught sight of her, they broke formation and descended around her, slapping her on the back and bumping hooves.
“We knew you couldn’t stay away,” Stryker said, flashing Spitfire a cocky smile.
“Despite all your best efforts to kill me, this old mule refuses to die.” Spitfire straightened up as the unspoken impetus of command settled back over her shoulders. “We got ninety minutes before we break for the evening. I’m gonna sit out and direct traffic down here while you finish up what you were doing, then join you for the final hour. We’ll do a full run at half speed, then another at full speed. I want everyone’s mind sharp as a tack. And nopony kick anypony else in the head.”
The fliers gave a collective war cry and took to the skies to continue their practice. As Spitfire watched them go, she noticed another pony emerge from the shade of the orchard, heading her way.
“Startup,” she said. “Good to see you.”
“I heard about your crash,” she said. “I’m very glad to see you’re alright.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” she said.
“Do you feel well enough to do tomorrow’s show?”
“I wouldn’t be much of a commander if I made someone else lead.” A frown etched itself into Spitfire’s features. “It’s not too late to take the Buzzcut out of the show.”
“I know.”
“We all know the thunderhead maneuver. It would look really nice. And it’s much less risky.”
“I know.”
Spitfire sighed. “Can I ask you a personal question, Startup?”
“Of course.”
“When you crashed and ruined your wing, did you blame yourself?”
Startup was quiet for a long time.
Spitfire understood the gravity of a pegasus losing their flight, and gave her space as she formulated an answer. Under normal circumstances, she would never ask this question. But seeing as she had almost wound up in the same boat, and it was Startup’s stunt, she felt justified in asking.
Startup stated in an even voice, “I blamed myself at first. Then I blamed the other ponies in the flight team. Then my superiors. Then my parents. Then Celestia and Luna.”
“So, you went right up the chain of command.”
Startup snorted. “Yeah, something like that. But after awhile, I realized that it wasn’t anypony’s fault. I could forgive my flight leads and my team--they were just doing their jobs. It was most difficult to forgive myself.”
“How’d you do it?”
“I came to terms with the nature of my job. Every pony that flies fast will eventually crash. You can mitigate those risks as best you can with training and good protocol. But once you reach a certain speed you accept that percentage chance of death as an inevitability.”
“Five percent,” Spitfire said.
“That’s right. If you think you can avoid it, you’re all the more likely to flinch and have an accident. If you accept that five percent as the totality, you can throw yourself into those turns and hit those gaps without fear. That’s where perfection is. That’s where we stop being ponies and start being gods of the sky. It’s in that five percent.”
“Today, I think it’s ten.”
Startup let out a long, silvery laugh. “I design deadly maneuvers every day. It’s up to you to not die.”
“Do you really think it’s all up to us?”
“Ninety five percent, yes.” Startup turned around and made for the shade of the orchard. “See you tomorrow morning, Spitfire.”
Spitfire sighed and turned her attention back to the flight team. They danced and swirled in graceful arcs like sunspots swimming against the back of her eyes, trapped in the sun, falling, peeling back, and floating away.
After a final, brutal hour of full-show run throughs, Spitfire dragged herself and the rest of the team back to the hotel to shower up and relax.
Seeing as they would have one more night in Appleoosa after the show to party, most of the team elected to turn in early and rest up for the big day ahead of them.
When Spitfire made her way back down to the lobby bar, she noted with a twinge of motherly pride that not a single Wonderbolt was there slugging beers.
She also noticed the aroma of coffee in the air and the happy gurgling of the old-timey percolator at the corner of the bar.
No sooner had she taken a seat by the percolator than Braeburn appeared from behind the bar, carrying a pair of gleaming white porcelain mugs.
“You made it!” he said, smiling wide.
“That I did.”
Braeburn filled the two mugs and sent one Spitfire’s way.
“Here’s to falling down and getting back up again,” he said.
They tapped their mugs together, and then he was off, chatting away like he’d known Spitfire since she was a foal.
Braeburn’s tone was so inviting, Spitfire couldn’t help but chat right back.
At one point, during a lull in the conversation while Braeburn topped off his coffee, a strange question popped into Spitfire’s mind.
“Do you think it’s fated for all pegasi to fly?” she asked.
“I dunno. Is it fated for all earth ponies to walk?”
Spitfire chuckled. “Fair enough.”
“Is that crash still on your mind?”
Spitfire nodded and took a long sip from her mug. A dozen thoughts rushed to mind all at once, but nothing came out when she opened her mouth.
Braeburn leaned over the bartop and traced a little circle in the laquered wood. “Is it rare for Wonderbolts to crash?”
“We crash all the time. Usually it’s pretty minor.”
“That crash of yours wasn’t minor, though.”
“It was, actually. I’m still in one piece and able to fly. But it was a close call. I would put the rate of really serious crashes at one every other year.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Every pony that flies fast will eventually crash.”
“Doesn’t that eat at you, though?”
“Not when you’re living it. There’s a five percent risk of a catastrophic crash whenever we fly, and we fly twelve hours a day, every day.”
Braeburn whistled. “If there was a five percent chance I’d slip and die harvesting apples, I’d find a different line of work.”
“It might not be five percent picking apples, but it’s not much less. Three, maybe. There’s danger everywhere. You could get hurt rolling out of bed in the morning. You could smother before you even left your bed. The world is danger. You only really start living once you put that behind you.”
“And that’s why you fly? You can put it behind you?”
“I fly so fast, everything’s behind me.” She gripped her mug harder. A beer would be so nice right now. “What about you?” she asked. “What’s the most dangerous thing you do?”
“I had to stop a buffalo stampede once. That was pretty reckless of me.”
“But you only did it once? There’s gotta be something you come back to, even though you know it’s no good for you.”
“Mares.”
Spitfire let out a howling laugh and slammed her hoof on the table. Soon they were both doubled over, picking themselves off the floor.
When they returned the bartop seemed a little bit smaller. Or perhaps they were just leaning a little closer together. Who could tell?
“Are you scared of crashing?” Braeburn asked.
“Not even a little.”
“Aren’t you the fearless featherhead.”
“Believe me, ground pounder, I’m scared all the time. I’m scared of letting my team down. I’m scared of jacking up my wings. I’m just not scared of crashing.”
“Cuz it’s only a five percent chance.”
“It’s not that. When you’re up in the air, you make a conscious decision that the five percent chance is a hundred percent chance. Once you accept that, all the fear goes away. The one thing I train my rookie fliers on is, you absolutely can’t be worried about yourself up there. If you’re worried, you can’t focus on your angles. If you don’t get the angles just right, then you really have something to worry about.”
Bareburn nodded slowly, chewing over Spitfire’s answer and washing it down with another sip of coffee. Finally, slowly, he said, “If you could see the future, what would it look like?”
Spitfire scoffed. “If I could see the future, I would have known not to get kicked in the face. So my future would have one less head wound in it.”
Her joke missed its mark. Instead of laughing, Braeburn started rummaging around the cabinets behind the bartop. “Seriously,” he said, “do you think a pony like yourself could benefit from a little look into a crystal ball?”
“Don’t tell me you’re a psychic in your off-season, too.”
Braeburn continued digging through the drawers.
Spitfire watched in silence. Her coffee was getting cold.
Finally, Braeburn reappeared with a bottle of clear gold-flecked schnapps in his hoof. “How much certainty is enough for you?”
“What’s that mean?”
He set the schnapps on the table and set about digging for another bottle. “Nothing is one hundred percent certain, right? You can always change something, or something can always change at random and knock things out of place. If you could know what the future held with a reasonable degree of certainty, would you want to see?”
Spitfire’s first instinct was to walk out of the bar, go back to her room, and lock the door. But the earnestness in Braeburn’s voice was almost scary. Whatever this was, it was serious.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Isn’t there a paradox for that? Like, if you know what your future is, you’re gonna act a certain way in response, and then your future changes?”
“You’re thinking of observational quantum mechanics, where the act of observing a particle actively moves the particle due to the limitations of our observational methods. This is different.”
Spitfire blinked. Yee-haw.
“It’s a little bit different with seeing the future. If you’ve always wanted to move to Manehattan, and you see your future, and it says you’re gonna move to Manehattan, odds are you’re still gonna move to Manehattan. See where I’m going with that?”
“Yeah.”
He found another bottle, this one of black licorice liquor the color of its namesake. “So it’s not totally certain.” Another bottle came out, this one another clear peppermint schnapps. “But it’s reasonably certain.”
“How certain, exactly?”
Braeburn leapt all the way up to the highest shelf at the back of the bar and grabbed a clear bottle of high-proof buffalo rum. With a victorious grunt, he hopped back to ground level and placed it next to the other bottles.
“Ninety five percent,” he said. "With a five percent chance of something going catastrophically wrong.”
Spitfire chuckled. “Those odds aren’t bad.”
“Yeah? So you’re interested?”
“First you gotta tell me what this is all about.”
“Okay. Two more questions, then I promise I’m done talking. Do you know what scrying is?”
Spitfire shook her head.
“Are you scared of the future?”
Spitfire paused, then nodded her head.
“Then this might just do you some good.”
Without another word, he popped the corks out of all four bottles and started measuring portions into a wide, shallow glass about the size of a saucer. At first, Spitfire thought this was all some sort of weird earth pony drinking ritual.
She was about to improvise a clever excuse to decline when Braeburn leaned down, whispered to the saucer, and blew over the top.
Sparks leapt from the saucer.
Spitfire jumped back in surprise. Braeburn expertly snatched one of the sparks from mid-air and cupped it in his hoof while reaching for the final ingredient, the high-proof buffalo rum.
As he poured it in, the rum settled over the top of the black liquid like oil sitting atop water. An odd distortion of the dim light emanated from the saucer. It reminded Spitfire of heat waves radiating from tarmac runways in the dead of summer.
This was different, though. The room was getting colder by the second.
Finally, Braeburn took a deep breath and tossed the spark into the saucer. The whole bowl lit up with a spectacular ball of fire. The flames reached up far over the two ponies’ heads and licked the ceiling before dissipating.
What was left was a saucer of black liquid, rippling and churning like storm clouds over the open prairie, soft blue flames lining the rim.
“Neat,” said Spitfire.
“Now for the fun part.” Braeburn produced a label and filled a shot glass with the liquid. A little wire of fire leapt from the glass, which he smothered with his hoof. “Drink this, then stare into the big saucer. Don’t look away. Don’t blink. Pay very close attention.”
Spitfire cast a wary gaze at the shot glass. “I have a show tomorrow.”
“It’s only one. It’ll help you sleep, too.”
She paused, hesitated, and weighed her options. Then she took all those worries and put them into a little box where she couldn’t hear them. She was a Wonderbolt, after all, and if there was one thing Wonderbolts did better than anyone else besides flying, it was compartmentalizing.
She threw the shot back. It tasted like gasoline and burned all the way down, so much so that Spitfire thought the inside of her throat was on fire. She let out a breath and found an odd menthol sensation tickling her tongue.
If she were in a drinking mood, she would have ordered another.
Remembering Braeburn’s instructions, she focused all her energy into the saucer and the dark liquid. She saw her reflection dancing faintly across the top of the liquid. It moved back and forth before her eyes in waves. It was so entrancing she barely noticed the flames climbing higher.
All of a sudden the fire collapsed into the bowl. Her reflection moved, even though Spitfire was perfectly still. A chill shot up her spine.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Shh. Watch.”
The darkness of the liquid meant that color came only in deep shades of blue roiling across the surface like oil. Her reflection shifted into the full silhouette of a pegasus in flight. Spitfire gasped.
She watched the silhouette dart through a black, starless sky. Something flew towards her from out of sight, and before she could dodge it struck her squarely between the eyes and split her skull in two right down the middle.
The crack went down her spine, through her muscles and connective tissue, through her lungs, through her stomach, all the way down to the very tip of her tail. She split cleanly in half. One side plummeted to earth, while the other continued to fly, blissfully unaware.
The flying half of her disappeared, a speck lost in the darkness. The other half continued to fall, finally striking the earth with a massive spray of dust and rocks.
When the dust settled, Spitfire saw her crashed half splayed out in the center of the crater. It dissolved into dust and sunk into the earth. A moment later, a seedling sprouted, stretching towards the sky. As it grew, she saw fruit on its branches--bright red apples.
There was something else in the tree, too. She looked closer and saw a piece of herself--the crashed half’s head.
The silhouette turned towards the real Spitfire and stared her down with its one black eye.
Spitfire let out a yelp and fell off her stool. Her head grazed the hardwood, and everything went white for a split second.
When her sight returned, Braeburn stood over her, pressing an ice pack to the back of her head.
“What did you see?” he asked, giddy with excitement. “Must have been pretty wild for you to freak out like that.”
Spitfire took the ice pack from his hooves and sat up. “Did I hit my head?” she mumbled.
“Uh--sorta. Not bad, I think.”
She stood up. She felt okay, despite a little wooziness, but she didn’t want to push her luck. Not tonight. “I should go to bed.”
“Don’t leave me hanging. Tell me what you saw!”
Spitfire sighed. “I was flying. I got hit in the head by a rock, and I got split in two.”
“Woah. Rocks are prominent symbology in earth pony scrying.”
“Yeah? What do they mean?”
“Rocks are from the earth. So, it’s usually related to an earth pony. Or it could be an indication of feelings of uncertainty.”
“These things can be figurative? I thought this was future-predicting.”
“Scrying magic has a mind of its own. Sometimes it’ll just come out and tell you what’s gonna happen. Sometimes it’s vague. Sometimes it’ll even fake you out.”
Spitfire gave him an exasperated look.
Braeburn didn’t seem to notice. “So what happened after you got hit with that rock?”
“I got split in half, right down the middle. Half of me kept flying, and the other half crashed. That was it.”
Braeburn scratched his chin. “Could be a manifestation of the uncertainty you feel about that trick thingy you and your friend were arguing about this morning. Or the uncertainty of command. Or you’re at a crossroads and you don’t know what to do.”
“Do you dabble in psychiatry in the off-season, too?”
“Hey, maybe I should!” He put on a real serious face and said with a horrible posh accent, “Tell me about your feelings, commander.”
Spitfire chuckled. “I really should go to bed now. Do I owe you anything? I’m not really sure if I should pay you by the hour or by the drink.”
“I’ll put the booze on your team’s tab if you insist.”
Spitfire nodded her thanks. Before she left, she walked back over to the bartop and took one final look into the saucer. The black liquid was perfectly undisturbed. The fire around the rim had gone out on its own.
Braeburn’s reflection appeared next to hers in the bowl. “Crazy stuff,” he murmured. “Whatever that stuff meant to you, use this knowledge judiciously. It’s a gift.”
“I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
Spitfire and Braeburn turned away from the bowl in tandem. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the pair’s reflections lingering in the liquid just a moment longer than they should have.
Dawn found Spitfire awake in her bed, tracing an outline of that day’s run into her pillow like a languishing lover.
She never slept well before shows. Usually the adrenaline of the moment was enough to carry her through. She hoped today would be no different.
Braeburn had already seated the entire squadron by the time she made it down to the common area in the hotel. Stryker, Startup, Soarin’, and the rest of the team lounged in rickety wooden chairs, talking smack and downing mountains of biscuits and gravy and scrambled eggs dolloped with hot sauce.
“Did you enjoy your beauty rest, princess?” Startup asked Spitfire as she sat down.
“I got sidetracked thinking about all the ways you’ve tried to kill me so far this year,” she shot back. “We’ve all but nailed the Buzzcut. You’re gonna have to try harder next time.”
She made absolutely sure she spoke loud enough for the whole common area to hear her. A trace of uncertainty still lingered in the air. she could feel the ponies in her flight team silently assessing her.
If a feather in her wings was out of place, they’d notice. That was all it took for doubt to creep in. Even when she wasn’t flying, she had a job to lead by example.
There was no room for doubt in her formations.
Once the first fans started pouring into the seats of the rodeo arena-turned Wonderbolts stadium, there was no going back. No more practice. No more tweaking lines. No more adjusting angles. No more fear. Only flight. Only the lines and the angles.
Traditionally, the Wonderbolts show started with an all-team flyover. The team got ready in a staging area half a mile from the stadium, stretching and fixing their flight suits and making small talk.
Spitfire sat off by herself. These final few moments were hers and hers alone. She spent them mentally rehearsing her angles and lines, and those of her teammates.
Then the roar of the crowd floated to them on the warm desert breeze. The prep team’s walkie talkies all came to life at once. The staging area came to life as everyone scrambled into position.
Spitfire tuned it all out. After all that time spent practicing, it was easier to execute with a clear mind.
The rest of the flight team went silent and formed up on the ground. They extended their wings, and one after another they checked the feathers of the pony in front of them to make sure there were no issues, then sounded off.
They all then turned and waited for the lead ground controlpony’s signal to take to the air, approximately fifteen seconds before the announcer concluded his pre-show speech.
Fifteen seconds would be all they needed to cover the half mile to the stadium.
The controlpony waited rigidly at attention, walkie talkie pressed to his ear. He raised his hoof.
The team tensed. The staging area went dead silent. For a split second, there was only the faint roar of the crowd and the breeze blowing across the desert.
Then the word came down the line. The controlpony’s hoof dropped.
And they were airborne.
Everything went well through the first few minutes. The stunts went off without a hitch and the crowd went wild exactly when they were supposed to. Spitfire noticed with a small note of satisfaction that the stands were absolutely packed with ponies.
Then it came time for the Buzzcut.
As the team broke into diamond formations and sped to their respective sides of the clearing, a tiny wriggle of doubt wormed its way into Spitfire’s mind.
In the next few seconds, she was either going to become the flying half of her reflection or the crashing half.
Doubt at high speeds was a recipe for disaster. Spitfire focused on her angle and her line like nothing else in the world mattered. She was one pony. One with the angles and lines. One with her team. All the way through to the other side. Angles and lines. Gaining speed, cutting through space. Not a chance of error. Angles and lines. The air breaking at her face. The other formation flying towards her. Angles and lines.
The two formations passed cleanly through each other.
The crowd went wild.
Spitfire had exactly one second to savor the sound before diving into the next death-defying move.
The hotel that night was chaos. Wonderbolts mingled with townsponies. Cider flowed. More than a few times, Spitfire had to dodge the advances of a wily cowpony colt.
As the bar cleared out and the other Wonderbolts wrapped things up and wandered back up to their bedrooms, Braeburn found her and slid a mug of cider her way.
“That show was more heart-poundin’ than a bunny rabbit burrowin’ in a hill full’a rattlesnakes.”
“Quaint,” she said, and slugged the cider.
“Did you have a chance to think on what the saucer said?”
Spitfire chose her words carefully. “I think so. You were onto something with that split pony thing. I was at a crossroads.” She looked around to make sure none of her team was within earshot. “This trick that almost killed me yesterday is exceptionally dangerous. I didn’t want it in my show, but the powers that be said it had to go in. If I showed any doubt, the team would latch onto that. They don’t deserve that. They deserve a strong leader.”
Braeburn gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. “They got one.”
Spitfire stared at her reflection in her drink, half expecting it to take flight again. “How’d you get into scrying in the first place?”
“I was a bored colt. Couldn’t find a job one off-season, so I grabbed a book and taught myself. Earth pony magic.” He wiggled his hooves. “Very woowoo.”
Spitfire chuckled. “I was thinking about something else.”
“Yeah?”
“Your hospitality really boosted the morale of the team. Not just the fliers--the whole team.”
“That’s too kind. Did you like the protein shakes in the mason jar? Came up with that myself.”
"Yeah, that was a nice touch. How much longer are you in your off-season?”
A slow, molassasy grin spread across Braeburn’s face. “For another couple months more.”
“What if I hired you as part of our road team? Two month contract. You’d be doing some minor heavy lifting, but most of your duties would be catering and coffee and keeping spirits up. Something tells me Startup’s not going to take the Buzzcut out of the show. We’ll need all the good morale we can muster.”
“That sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me.”
“You won’t need to consult your scrying stuff first?”
He let out a long, contented laugh. “You only need scry pans when you’re uncertain about something.” He stretched his hoof across the table and took her hoof in his and gave it a little squeeze. “I’m pretty certain about this.”
Spitfire blinked. No ambiguity this time. Yee-haw.
She raised an eyebrow and fixed Braeburn with a piercing look. Buried beneath that molassasy easygoing charm that ran in the blood of all young stallions from this region ran a sliver of doubt.
And there was no room for doubt in her team.
So she squeezed his hoof back and put all that doubt behind them.
