The Trail of Your Failures Will Lead You to Memory
Stormy Flare sat on a wooden bench in the Jardin de Flores Miles, smelling the citrus trees and jasmine, listening to the water from the nearby fountain gently gurgle, and thinking about her failures. This was not her first visit to Cóltoba, but as her gaze drifted from the fountain to the rest of her surroundings, she wondered if she was even in the right place. She had come to the city many times as a filly in the summer, and a few times as a young adult. To her mind, it always appeared as a city of sandstone and cobble, stuck in time, promising those with overactive imaginations that it would reveal long-forgotten secrets locked behind every crevice and alleyway. Her most distinct memory had been when her family took her to a small bookshop on a corner, so dark and imposing that she was afraid to go in. Inside was a different story—a calming light cast a warm glow over all the tomes, and the bookshop owner spoke with kindness to her, before introducing her to his son. He was as charming as he was intelligent. That had been the day she had thought she’d discovered what it meant to fall in love. Now, though, neither that shop nor the owner’s son remained—in their place, when she’d gone to it yesterday, was instead a fashion store selling what might have been clothing or a fashionista’s nightmare.
She had arrived in Cóltoba a month ago, but it seemed only now to hit her just how much the city had changed. The sandstone brickwork of the buildings—the few still standing—were now accompanied by thousands of electronic screens or lights that lit up the night and made sleeping in her small loft in the peasants’ quarter difficult. The roads had been undone and repaved with a dark tar texture that looked so artificial, it made her sick. Even this park, which she knew to be one of the oldest in the city, had changed; it had shrunk because a new business sector had opened and devoured the northern edge, such that, when viewed from above, the park now looked closer to an oblong L shape than its usual rectangular majesty.
Even the weather no longer seemed as consistent as she recalled it to be. When she was a filly, the climate was always fair, and the sun made all the sandstone gleam as though it was made of gold. Rain came, but it was light, just enough for a foggy mist to rise from the sunbaked cobblestone roads. But now, that sirocco weather which had defined the region had been replaced with a bland, generic, autumnal one, and the weather team’s designs, it seemed, favored a less standardized practice.
As though to drive home that very thought, a chilly wind wound its way into the park. The fountain became like a miniature tempest, spewing streaks of water onto the flowers that quailed and shivered like floral djinn. Stormy shivered from under her purple sweater, one of the few items she had not sold, the last item that had lived in her house before she had packed everything away and flew off. The park was devoid of ponies, which made the breeze feel somehow even colder. She waited for the wind to die down, then, with a sigh, forced herself off of the bench. It was like peeling skin. She sucked in a breath and bit her tongue to avoid crying out, attempting to steady herself on her hooves before she reined in her pride and retrieved her walker from where it sat next to her.
An hour, she observed, feeling her knees shake. She had sat for an hour, as she had every morning for the past month, but somehow it seemed shorter and shorter each time. Perhaps, she thought, that was another failure on her part—her failure to keep track of time.
Slowly, trying to work heat into her bones, she left the Jardin and made her way up the street towards a small café. Because she walked slowly, there was enough time for the barista inside to step out and open the awning. She saw Stormy coming, and, recognizing her by the fact that she came by every morning, offered a friendly wave, and Stormy nodded at her. Stormy then crossed the street—though not before remembering to look both ways for those newfangled cars—and trotted up to the door.
“Good morning, señora,” the barista said as she opened the door to let her in. She had always called her “señora” because that was what Stormy had provided in place of a name. “We’ve just opened. It’s a little chilly today, isn’t it?”
“A little.” Stormy ruffled her wings, which she had not used in a while. “Makes flying harder with each drop in degrees.”
“I can understand. Sometimes my hooves feel like somepony has dripped ice into the spaces between my joints.”
“You should probably get that checked out.”
The barista took her to her usual spot, a table at the window that allowed her a view of the street. Stormy noted that there was one other pony in the café, but they, it seemed, were better-equipped for the cold weather than she was. They were covered head-to-toe in a brown cloak, and bounced a leg under the table nervously. Staring would be impolite, however, so she forced her gaze away and took her proper seating.
She ordered her usual, a small cup coffee, black with two sugars, which did nothing for her, but in which she found the comfort of ritual which age makes fleeting and rare. Her dentist would have told her that that was bad for her teeth, and her doctor that it was bad for her heart, but since they were not in Cóltoba, she reasoned she did not have to listen to them.
The barista gave the cup to her, then set on the table a copy of the morning’s paper. “I managed to grab an early edition copy for you, señora,” the barista said with a slight tone of reverence.
Stormy nodded her thanks. She took a sip of her coffee, swirling it around her mouth, before swallowing. Then she gingerly opened the paper. She could feel her muscles straining in weakness, and her wings fluttered nervously, as though they feared that any movement on her part would tear out all her tendons. The paper revealed nothing interesting and was mostly in Spaneish, which she could only partially read and at which she was better speaking. Her eyes drifted over a few headlines, but she was careful to avoid the sports section. She debated asking the barista to, next time, simply cut out that portion, but then figured that it would be too obvious, and she would have to stop coming here in order to avoid questions.
She sat and drank and read while she waited for the world to awaken, by which point it was nearing ten-o’-clock.
She finished her coffee without ordering anything for breakfast. She had noticed that the older she became, the more like a bird she had transformed in appetite. Had the coffee been any less ground, she might have been satisfied chewing on the beans leftover, she thought with a somewhat wry, self-ironic smirk.
After leaving what she could as a tip, she slid out of the seat and balanced herself on the walker. As she was leaving the café, however, she thought she felt a pair of eyes on her. Turning around revealed only the barista behind the counter, and the cloaked pony who was busy chewing on a bagel. Stormy frowned, then, shrugging, left.
She took her time going up the street, watching as the sun slowly crept into its proper place in the horizon and waiting for it to possibly heat up the world again. Halfway up the street, though, she felt that sensation again. To test it, she kept going, before suddenly crossing the street and shuffling past a tiny hovel with a wooden door. The feeling followed. She rounded a sharp corner and found an inlaid entranceway. In this she clung like moss and waited.
The cloaked pony appeared around the corner and kept going, only to stop once they realized that they’d reached a dead end. At that point, Stormy left her inlaid entranceway, carefully trotted up to the pony, and tapped them on the shoulder. “I think that’s enough cat-and-mouse for one morning, my young friend,” she said, her tone conveying both amusement and perturbation.
The pony jumped and made a choked sound. Their movement caused their hood to fall away, revealing an orange mare with a shock of fuchsia for a mane, purple eyes, and a youthful face that was enviable. She could not have been more than thirty years of age. “Miss Flare!” she said. She had a somewhat scratchy voice, which brought to Stormy’s mind the impression of a memory of somepony else.
Stormy nodded, leaning over her walker. “Yes, that’s me,” she said. “You’ve caught me, the elusive Stormy Flare. Tell me, are you a reporter? Do you make it a habit to skulk around cafes waiting to corner ponies who want nothing to do with them?” She narrowed her eyes at her.
“I wasn’t skulking!”
“Would you prefer if I said you were stalking me? The police in this city may be inept at times, but they don’t take kindly to rascals. Particularly young rascals.”
The mare gulped, looking to either side of her. “Please don’t, Miss Flare,” she whispered. “I really wasn’t trying to stalk you or anything. And I’m not a reporter, honest! Not since a filly, anyway, and that was disaster enough!”
“Not a reporter, huh? I suppose that’s a mark in your favor,” Stormy mused. She looked her up and down. “Though it doesn’t explain either your outfit or why you were following me.”
“I wasn’t,” the mare said. Seeing the incredulous look on Stormy’s face, she amended: “I mean, I didn’t plan to. I didn’t know you liked that café. When you entered, I had to stop myself from crying out, I was so surprised!”
“Then… you weren’t looking for me?”
The mare rapidly shook her head. “No, I was, I have been, but—but it’s not for what you might think, really!”
“Then what’s the reason?”
The mare scuffed a hoof on the ground. “I… wanted to talk to you about something.”
Stormy regarded her again. There it was—that faint impression of a memory of somepony else. She could not place it, nor the pony, but something about that calmed her down. The mare appeared an honest pony, at the very least, an observation aided by the fact that, perhaps sensing Stormy’s scrutiny, the mare, instead of continuing to protest, had fallen silent, letting Stormy peruse her being to her leisure.
Then the cold wind from before returned, like a knife slotted between their ribs. Stormy shivered. “Goddess be damned, this city and its insolent weather. I’ll freeze to death if this keeps going!”
The other mare adopted a worried expression. “Maybe we should head back to the café, then, Miss Flare.”
“Just call me Stormy, filly. It sounds less formal.” She lifted a hoof off her walker and made a dismissive gesture with it. “As for the café, that’s unnecessary. It’s a little too far at any rate, and besides, up ahead there’s a restaurant. Have you eaten?” she asked.
“Me? Well, I did have that bagel.”
“That’s hardly a meal. Come on. Let’s be off, then, before this wind takes a turn for a worse.”
The restaurant was called La Costa, an ambiguous title spelled out in gilded letters across a red awning. A mustached stallion who looked like he put too much grease into it welcomed them with a clipped, Andalusian accent, before leading them through a dark place with a floor of crimson and blue. The whole place reminded Stormy of an opioid den, the kind that she’d read about in history books.
They were taken to a booth and provided menus and complementary glasses of water to start off. “Hopefully you don’t mind a stuffy place for a first date,” Stormy quipped, expecting the mare to be caught off-guard.
Instead, the mare simply chuckled. “Actually, it’s not the worst first date I’ve been on. When we first started going out, my fillyfriend took me to the coast to watch the lobsters fight. That wasn’t actually half-bad, now that I think about it.”
“Hmm. Sharp tongue, missy. And you still haven’t told me your name.”
The mare smiled, but it was small, like she was preparing to divulge a secret. “Right, sorry. My name is Scootaloo, Miss—Stormy. It's nice to finally meet you.”
“Finally, huh?” Stormy grunted. “Well, I suppose it’s nice to meet you, too.” She squinted at Scootaloo. “If under strange circumstances straight out of a surrealist novel.”
“I’m not much of a fiction reader, to be honest.”
“What do you read then?”
“Non-fiction. I like reality more than fantasy.”
The waiter returned with an appetizer of fresh salad, then asked them what they’d like. Scootaloo looked over the menu again, then confessed that she had no idea where to start. “In that case,” Stormy told the waiter, “get us two berenjenas fritas con miel.”
As the waiter wrote this down, Stormy leaned across the table. “You must not have been in Cóltoba for that long, if you haven’t tried those fritas.”
Scootaloo laughed, embarrassed. “Uh… yeah, I admit it. I’ve only been here for, like, a week. Been mostly sticking to cafes and my hotel for meals. It probably doesn’t help that I don’t know much of Spaneish—that’s Sweetie’s job.”
“Your fillyfriend?”
“Yeah. She’s the smart one in this relationship.”
The waiter finished writing their orders, then left them be. “Was this Sweetie the one who made you that cloak?” Stormy asked.
“Er… Not exactly. Somepony else did,” Scootaloo replied meekly. “She thought that you’d be more comfortable talking to a stranger in a cloak than somepony you might recognize.”
“Well, it was unnecessary. I don’t recognize you.”
“Sometimes she gets a little carried away. I’ve found it best just to let her.” Scootaloo was careful, Stormy noted, not to reveal the name, but Stormy figured that was unnecessary information.
Scootaloo shuffled in her seat. “Anyway, about what I wanted to talk to you about—”
“Ahp.” Stormy held up a hoof. “We’ll talk about that after we’ve eaten.”
“What? Why?”
“Because it’s better to be full and sleepy when you have a conversation about something that caused some mare to track you across the world for.”
Scootaloo bristled, her face becoming red at the cheeks. But eventually she acquiesced with a sigh. “Fine. So, we just wait for the food?”
“That’s the general idea. However, I must admit I am a little curious about one other thing.” Stormy leaned again over the table, smiling with mischievous interest. “You’ve been in Cóltoba for a week. What do you think?”
Scootaloo revealed she had not traveled that much through the city, to Stormy’s consternation. “You’re missing out, filly,” she said. “What if you want to return with that fillyfriend of yours? Surely you don’t think that it’s best if you and she just stay in your hotel room for a week.”
“I kinda haven’t been focusing on enjoying any tourist attractions, you know,” Scootaloo said. Now it was her turn to speak sullenly, a feature that caused Stormy to smile more broadly.
“Then it’s lucky we ran into each other. Let me tell you about Cóltoba.”
As they waited for food, Stormy unearthed a lifetime of memories and put them on display for Scootaloo to see and hear. She spoke fondly of the coastal villas, some as old as the princesses themselves, tall, massive beasts of sculpted marble columns and pillars that were once used as naval bases for a group of freedom fighters banded together against the threat of sea invaders in a time that existed before memory. She spoke of the countryside villages outside of the city, which, she claimed, were home to a guild of wineries who had been competing for centuries to recreate an ancient alcoholic beverage once used in the rituals of a tribe of ponies separate from Equestria who believed that the drink offered the secret to immortality. She returned to the city proper, and, using the forks, napkins, and condiment shakers as place-markers, drew up a makeshift map made up of various establishments and attractions that any tourist should visit. She stayed away from the new and focused on the things that she’d established for herself remained despite the constant push of time and technology. Scootaloo listened with earnest and rapt attention. A few places she commented that Sweetie might like, and as they continued to talk, she drew from a pocket a small notebook and wrote these places down. “If I come back here with her, I’ll definitely keep them in mind,” she said.
“When you come back here,” Stormy corrected. Scootaloo started, but, after a moment, nodded and smiled. Stormy felt very warm, and it was not because of the insulated interior of the restaurant.
Then Stormy heard hoofsteps approaching. It was the waiter with their food. He’d even brought out a bottle of wine, the sight of which caused Stormy and Scootaloo to exchange knowing looks. “For the señoras,” the waiter said crisply, laying the items down onto the table. “Please, enjoy.”
“Shouldn’t I be considered a ‘señorita?’” Scootaloo asked.
“Take the politeness. It’s better than the pretentiousness of other places.”
Scootaloo tried to uncork the wine, but could not pull out the plug. “Rrgh! Should have asked for a corkscrew.”
“We don’t need one.” Taking the bottle from Scootaloo, Stormy uncorked the wine with skill afforded to her by countless social gatherings. She poured it into their glasses.
Scootaloo whistled. “I still don’t understand how anypony can do that so easily.”
“It takes practice. Attend more parties and socials. You’ll learn quickly.” Stormy paused, a shadow coming over her face. “Or perhaps don’t attend such things.”
“Yeah… to be honest, they’re not really my thing. That’s—”
“Let me guess: Sweetie’s?”
Scootaloo smiled. Stormy nodded in approval. “She compliments you well, then. Now.” She set the bottle aside. “Let’s eat. And then we can talk.”
She picked up her fork, but did not take the first bite. Instead, she held it poised and watched Scootaloo take a tentative bite, already aware of what would happen next.
It was like Scootaloo had learned what it meant to enjoy food again after an uncountable number of years. She didn’t care for how she methodically combed over her food, consuming every bit of it like she was afraid Stormy might steal it, and she didn’t care for the self-satisfied smirk Stormy wore as she joined in.
As Stormy ate, she warmed; as she warmed, cracks began to appear in her grumpiness. She discovered for herself the joy of a good meal, a joy which lay dormant within her.
Half of her plate remained. She was shocked to discover that she was full, but more than that, that she felt excited at the prospect of boxing up the food and bringing it to her little loft to have for later. It was almost embarrassing, though not as embarrassing as Scootaloo no doubt felt.
“Good, right?” Stormy said.
Scootaloo nodded, making a little groan. “I… urgh, I know I should be watching my caloric intake, but that was definitely worth it.”
“I hope you’re not finished. We’ve still got that wine to drink.”
“Right, right…”
They took their wine glasses and, after a toast—“What to?” Scootaloo asked, and Stormy answered, “How about to Cóltoba?”—they swallowed the liquid. Stormy went to pour herself more, while Scootaloo politely declined.
“So!” Stormy said, swirling her glass around. “You came all this way, and you’ve graced me with an enjoyable lunch. I believe that means I’m indebted in some ways to you.” This caused Scootaloo’s head to shoot up, though Stormy couldn’t place why exactly. “To business. What did you want to talk to me about?”
Scootaloo looked nervous. She moved a few of the plates aside. Then she reached into the side of her cloak, revealing a hidden pocket. From it, she retrieved two items: an old newspaper that was a mothball-yellow, and a square photograph. She first pushed the photograph over to Stormy, face-down.
“Please don’t get upset by what you are about to see,” Scootaloo said with trepidation.
Stormy frowned, but nodded anyway. She took the photo and turned it over. After a few moments, she looked up at her. “You said you weren’t a reporter.”
“I’m not!”
“Are you sure? This feels like a setup to an interview. Are there cameras?”
“I’m not, Stormy, please.”
There was a strange, desperate keening to her voice, and her eyes were scrunched up with an earnest desire for something. Stormy regarded her with suspicion. “Then why…”
She trailed when she heard hoofsteps approaching. It was the waiter to ask if they’d enjoyed the meal. He didn’t appear to have heard their conversation, or the least bit interested. Perhaps it helped that, distantly, Stormy heard the front door swinging open, and lunch rush began to pour in. “We did enjoy,” she said promptly, forcing a smile. She saw Scootaloo attempting to mimic the action.
After the waiter was gone, Stormy looked back at Scootaloo. “But you are aware of the story, aren’t you?”
Scootaloo nodded. “Yeah, I… I followed it for a while.”
“Then I’m afraid I still don’t understand what you want of me.” Stormy shook her head and heaved a sigh. “I’m sure the story is old, too. Old, and, if I’m lucky, soon to be forgotten. Why bring it up now? Why bring it up here?” She hesitated. She could no longer look at Scootaloo, and instead, let her eyes drift back to the rest of the restaurant. “Why come to me?”
Scootaloo was silent for a time. Stormy ate a little more, but was no longer hungry.
“I never thought it was fair,” Scootaloo murmured. She had her head bowed, and her hoof, placed on the table, made an aimless, circular motion. “What the papers said about you. I mean, how could they, knowing what happened to you? It disgusted me.” She shook her head, snorting. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, considering how these are the same folks who tried to get rid of Princess Twilight after her first Grand Galloping Gala went rogue—even though that’s basically tradition at this point.”
Stormy hugged a hoof to herself and looked away. “It couldn’t be helped, kid. They needed somepony to blame, and I was at the top of it all. And besides, some of it was my fault.”
“Don’t say that.”
The vehemence in her voice shook her. “But it was. The investors, I chose them, and in the end—”
“They were their own ponies, they made their own choices.” When Scootaloo raised her eyes, they smoldered with emotion. “They got greedy and made you take the fall so that they could profit.”
Stormy frowned. “Even so, I… made the decision to step down, to let them make the decisions that they thought were best for everypony.”
“That doesn’t mean their decisions are yours to own.”
Stormy looked away, her gaze returning to the paper. Silently, she read the headline, over and over, like she was practicing a ceremony of her own in her head.
Disgraced Foundation Founder Flees Country After Corrupt Funding Scandal Exposed
“Why did you come here?” Scootaloo then asked. “Why Cóltoba?”
Stormy shuffled in her seat. She thought about pointing out that, for a non-interview, this felt quite like one, but something in her gave her pause. “Because I used to come here with my daughter,” she murmured. “I thought it might help… in some way.”
Scootaloo said nothing, either out of respect, or out of pity.
Suddenly Stormy didn’t care. She sniffed, then straightened her gaze. “You know, for a while, before it all happened, I thought that the only way a parent could fail their child was by not being able to save them. But I learned very quickly afterwards that there’s another way. It’s sometimes even worse. It’s not being able to save their legacy.” She shook her head. “And I failed on both fronts. That makes me a failure. I had to sell my house and most of my belongings just to afford a place here. Are you happy, now? Is that why you came here? Is that what you wanted to get me to say?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Because you’re not a failure!" Scootaloo exclaimed, pushing herself up on two hooves.
The restaurant was swallowed by a profound silence, yet no one seemed to look their way. Scootaloo’s face was a storm of emotions, chief among them being conviction. That faint impression suddenly split into two ponies, whose names remained frustratingly out of Stormy’s reach. She would have cursed her faulty memory, but she was too busy being stupefied by the display.
Scootaloo took a breath, then reached back into her pocket to reveal another, smaller photograph. It was of a small orange filly. Stormy immediately recognized Scootaloo’s complexion, but, just as quickly, noticed an inescapable feature. She looked sharply at her, unable to restrain her shock. “Your wings—”
Scootaloo nodded, then, slowly, with a ritualistic slowness, removed her cloak.
The filly in the photograph could not have been any more different. Bright though were her eyes, her wings remained a terrible reminder. They were thin and clearly under-developed. Stormy was not a doctor, but her experience with the matter had led to a general observational ability—she could tell this filly had been born with the degeneration of her wings encoded tragically in her DNA, and that she’d never know what it was like to touch the sky.
But Scootaloo stood before her, a mare at the zenith of her youth with an impressive pair of mechanical wings. When she moved them, they did not seem to be awkwardly placed or jointed—despite their metallic appearance, they moved with a fluidity that could only be described as miraculous.
She kept her wings flared for a few seconds, before she folded them back into her body. “It took a little bit to figure out you’d come to Cóltoba,” she said quietly, “but, luckily, our old, mutual friend Rarity remembered how you often talked about coming here with your daughter. Once I figured that out, I knew I had to come and see you. To tell you that it wasn’t in vain. That despite the money going into the wrong hooves most of the time, some of it managed to go in the right direction, for the ponies who really needed it. Ponies like me, who thought we’d have to live with this condition forever. And, doubtless, ponies after me, who’ll know that it’s possible.”
Stormy couldn’t speak.
Scootaloo watched her, before nodding in a satisfied way. She dug into her other pocket and placed several bits onto the table. “The lunch is on me, Stormy,” she said. “But I feel like I owe you more than that. And I probably always will.” She took the photo of herself. “You can come home, too, if you want. Rarity misses you. I’m sure between herself and Princess Twilight, they can get ponies to give your idea another chance.” Scootaloo smiled, before she left the restaurant.
Stormy did not get up to follow her. She felt glued to her seat, assaulted by a mix of shock and something else, something that caused her heart to twist. A sob threatened to break loose; when it did not, tears sprang into her eyes. She wiped her face and looked down, unintentionally locking gazes with the first photograph.
It was a picture of the day she announced what her daughter’s legacy would be. At the bottom was a caption: Stormy Flare announces the launch of The Spitfire Foundation, which seeks to develop a prosthetic treatment for muscular wing dystrophy.
