Author's Note

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Start to Finish

One of these days, ma déesse, I swear; these rank tail-holsters will find their way upon a nice, homely, flaming grill!

Oh, sorry. Please, pardon my Prench. Such a beautiful language should never be sullied with uncouth threats. And I, Photo Finish, have had difficult subjects before this I have pulled far more from with the snap of a shutter. It is just that today, without fail, I find myself staggered by the habits of… of…

Madame Fleetfoot.

By Luna’s stars, even voicing her name is enough to scatter my brain! Just those two syllabes rolling off my tongue, or seeing her shock of a mane in my view, and my objections to this pegasus fail! I have had the honor of immortalizing her magnifique frame—it is the closest to Mt-Everhoof-chiseled-granite any pony could ever capture. Every trained abdominal, every pronounced bicep; countless years of stories and stress must have gone into this Princess-graced body of Fleetfoot.

Ironic, no? That this is why I have lowered myself to being a handymare for Fleetfoot? A story?

Even now, I am busy keeping up Fleetfoot's good impression of me, by fixing up this statuesque yet slobbish Wonderbolt’s bed. A sea of shimmering greens and whites stares back at me, nary a wrinkle within despite the unglamorous lump they occupy at the foot of the bedframe. And I know if I look down, the rug covering this floor will be ten-thousand-bit, silver-infused yak hair. That Yakyakistan could make something so beautiful from sheddings is a marvel all its own.

That Fleetfoot’s scattered socks, boxers, and shirts nearly mask that carpeted floor from view is also a surprise… for a far different, teeth-grinding reason.

Yet I know what drives this—besides my accursed curiosity. I can still remember the bang of the Canterlot Times’ printing presses as they chugged their last. I remember how long I pleaded with Hoity Toity to not let this chance for a Wonderbolt exclusive pass us by. I remember his words about ‘embedding’ and ‘learning opportunities’, and ‘legendary dedication to the craft’.

And I remembered chuckling imperiously, sure that the readers of this paper would eat up those words like Zap Apple pies.

If I only knew.

Those flowery words were as meant for me as the readers. I also know why Hoity did not mention which Wonderbolt we secured a curtain peek with until I was on the airship. That puffed-up, cheeky crétin.

Still, the Wonderbolts are notably secretive about their personal lives. It took me until I was on the runway to know Fleetfoot even made enough to have a personal airship! Even now, I remember the opulent curves of wood and iron that twinkled in the sunlight like diamonds. I had thought it a dragon of old when I first saw it touch down before me.

And what Fleetfoot offered for some… ‘light upkeep’ aboard this majestic vessel is still worth its weight in bits! A chance to know the secret materials behind their trademark uniforms! Canterlot has been dying to find out those fabrics for decades! Plus, a once-in-my-lifetime chance to capture Fleetfoot in the Wonderbolts’ Halloween-altered takes on these works of art!

A month before Nightmare Night, even!

It is that thought of my photo—Fleetfoot posing in that outfit, beaming as brightly as my future—that keeps me from noticing I have already finished making that very mare’s bed. Apparently, time flies when you’re having fun. But I know that the Wonderbolt will be returning from her newest spot of fun soon—one of her countless ‘newb-crushing scenes’, no doubt.

I sweep my hands over the floor, Fleetfoot’s dirty clothes soon filling a basket next to the bed. The work feels so unheard of, but I know that Fleetfoot would have lessened my workload if I dared to ask. And I should have. By Luna, I should have.

But of course, the mare that so often fills her floors with her clothes and the sink with dishes also traipses around in little more than her underwear! And each time, I… cannot find it in myself to bring up Fleetfoot's habits. My mouth is always dry, my mind is overclocked.

Oh, how my hometown of Maredrid would laugh at how easily this pegasus stilled my tongue!

“Yo, Miss Finish!” And speaking of tongues, here comes Fleetfoot’s cultured tongue, as cocky ad captivating as ever despite it coming several meters from the parked airship. Mon ami, I know not if my shudder upon hearing it is from irritation or infatuation. “Starting up the engines, hold onto your rump!”

I clench the bed’s hoof-rests immediately; I wouldn’t dare risk losing this chance at a closeup because I was sent tumbling out of a window. Soon, the welcoming throoooosh of the engines firing up fill my ears, still as magical a sound as when this ship first landed before my wide eyes.

Soon after, I hear Fleetfoot’s deft fingers tap on the door. She doesn’t wait for me before barreling through it. Between her equally-speedy peers and the fans that she plays like finely tuned lutes, I don’t think Fleetfoot has ever known what it feels like to wait on anyone.

Present company excluded, naturally.

“Photo?” It doesn’t take long for her telltale hoofsteps to reach my ears. “Sweetness, I didn’t know I had that many clothes! And that bed looks sweet right now; might take it for a spin in a few.”

I barely register this; my eyes are again stolen by Fleetfoot’s rugged beauty. She’s dressed more modestly thank usually in a midriff-baring turtleneck and training shorts. But par la grace de Celestia, this Wonderbolt’s secretions and horniness have undone even that! There is an obscenely large yet… virile… bulge straining between the folds of her black shorts; one that seems to grow with each shift of her sinewy hips, even! Her shirt is almost see-through now with all the sweat her mammaries threaten to breach through that dam of sodden clothing.

Assuming the jade-hard nipples on each of her breasts do not stab through that cotton first.

“Oh yeah; think you dropped these Photo.” Fleetfoot bends down for a quick second—a second that I shamefully admit was wasted imprinting the swell of her half-bared ass to memory. Then she is dropping my beautiful rose-tinted aviators into my shaking hands. “Wouldn’t want you to lose track of that on my account. At first, I thought those looked dorky, but…”

She drifts off. I swallow thickly, my elite mind scrambling unceremoniously for a topic to land on. At least, one that doesn’t wither into mush the second Fleetfoot purses her perfect, shiny lips.

“Madame F-Fleetfoot…” I begin, my voice slipping into a damnable stutter. Will my disgrace know no end?! “I… I…”

“Got two of ‘em, spit it out b’fore they get too heavy,” Fleetfoot saucily says.

I gulp, even though I know this is likely a fable by Fleetfoot. Almost nothing seems to put her down once she’s out of those covers—she has even saved a burning building’s worth of kittens right after putting down my weight in sherry the day prior. But I do not want to risk turning the impish curiosity flashing behind her eyes to anger. With the foot-and-a-half she has on me…. “I o-only wish to know exactly when we will be sitting down for that heart-to-heart, as you say?”

A beat skips through this room, Fleetfoot blinking those cloud-soft eyelashes of hers. Then another.

And finally, Fleetfoot untucks the buckball she has under her arm, tossing it from one hand to another. Good news, so I believe; that usually means she’s trying to keep her answer from being scattershot. “Well, you have been a doll lately, helping me keep up appearances here. Wouldn’t believe how much the Captain gets on my ass on my ’slovenly tendencies’—her words, not mine—and I really don’t need her harping on me when I touch down in Manehattan, y’know?“

Slowly, I nod. I am not entirely sure Spitfire would much like hearing just how Fleetfoot kept her quarters spotless these last few days.

Of course, Fleetfoot is fast to give me a reason I might not get anywhere with such a confession to the Captain. “Plus not gonna lie; I thought you were like all the other medicart-chasers we’ve been battling off those last few weeks, only after us for some little headline-or-other. Spits even approved the request for these personal mini-ships to avoid those clod-hoppers.”

I sorely hope the color draining from my face isn’t too obvious. “W-well, I can tell you now, I am not like that! Only the strictest of professional reasons is behind my assignment with you!”

“Sweet. S’no fun hanging with someone who’s just down-to-business, anyway.” Fleetfoot finally stops passing the buckball between her hooves, choosing to chuck it over the bed instead. It ends up clocking a very expensive-looking bottle of wine, and the crash makes both our ears crinkle in embarrassment. “Shiiiiit, and Misty gave me that one after…”

Now my ears are perked for a different reason, and unfortunately, Fleetfoot catches herself before she could let more secrets spill.

“...well, never you mind about that, Photo.” Fleetfoot’s cocky grin hitched a ride back on her face. “Anyways, we’ve got another guest for the last leg; you got those bottle pieces for me? My word, we’ll have that exclusive the second we touch Manehattan soil.”

As good a promise as the other ones she’s made, I suppose. And so I let out a “Yes, of course…” that sounds like air from a leaking tile, but Fleetfloot is already too busy darting into the closet to hear that.

So I mop at that stain with one of the countless towels Fleetfoot leaves dangling from every ajar cabinet door here. And I try not to lose myself in the jiggle of my own impressive rack. And, I whisper curses to myself for still wearing polyester to this stuffy cabin.

After my mop-up of that drink, I’d happened upon another unpleasant surprise in Madame Fleetfoot’s quarters; a ball of wadded and still-damp tissues. Fleetfoot of course, promised to launch them out the window immediately, but I was out of her earshot before her sentence could finish for once. I had intended to drown myself in another of the countless types of liquor Fleetfoot squirrels on this ship. Perhaps that would keep me from gnawing that insolent Wonderbolt’s snout off.

Or asking myself just what was with the pink blush she had sported over some filthy napkins.

All around me, a series of clanks followed my hoof-dragging form, as if to spirit me to my date with some spirit. The clatter of broken glass as I emptied it into a trashbin, the ice as it dropped into an intact glass, the shockingly well-preseved flask of 87’ that caught my eyes on the top shelf of the mini-bar.

So of course, when I let that first sip of liquor wash beautifully over my tongue, that I hear another pair of hoofsteps coming from a room behind me. It soon stops, before settling into a seat at the island.

Still, I would rather not deal with more buffoonery this second. So I, for once since this trip began, have some exquisite Prench insults budding on the tip of my spirit-soaked tongue.

Of course, the pony I see across from me when I swing in my seat is not Fleetfoot.

It is, most likely, the only thing I rue more than the changelings, Tartarus and Hoity put together.

“Oh, Photo, Photo, Photo…” And the voice that dares to assault my eardrums is somehow heavier than the alcohol still pooled in my gaping mouth. “How quickly we meet again, hm?”

Suri Polomare, in the plum-coated flesh, is sitting across from me right now. My eyes shoot down to avoid the taunting tenor in her eyes, two chips of amber gold that have looked down on me since we were in high school. She is a glory-chaser, she is shameless, she is everything wrong with Manehattan rolled into one beehive-shaped mulberry mane—

—and she is somehow on an airship heading to Manehattan?

"H…how are you even here, Polomare?” I growl, and this time, I make sure she hears the guttural tilt to my voice. "Last I checked, there isn’t a single boutique in Filydelphia; are you not scared you’ll chip a hoof?”

“Not as scared as I am that you’ll give the Manehattan Mare Statue a shower with your flopsweat, Finished,” Suri said airily. By flock, she’s an imbecile, through and through. "How a Wonderbolt’s put up with you for so long is beyond me! But I assure you, once my business with Fleetfoot is over, your little playdate will be behind me too.”

That part gets me silent for another second, mulling over Fleetfoot’s words from before. She did say she was taking on another passenger. But for what end? “Just what are you planning?”

“Oh, nothing much—just the newest revolution in stunt-flyer design,” Suri tittered, whipping out a flask of her own and taking a hearty swig from it. Even from here, I know it is cinna-mint tea; how she isn’t hacking it across the tabletop is only proof that she is a Tartarus-spawned scoundrel. “After all, I would only show the best of Manehattan-made fashion to such a pioneering peer.”

“So much so that you throw yourself in front of Fleetfoot?”

“Whatever do you mean, Finishe-”

“And it is Photo Finish to you, ma petit gaspilleur,” I shoot over her mockery of a name, smiling grimly when I see her eyebrows shoot up in shock. Today is not the day, Surly. “I don’t know just how you’ve gained better scoops than me this month, but your luck ends today. Fleetfoot is mine, and so is her tell-all on Wonderbolt tailoring! Which will soon put your over-stitched abominations to shame, no doubt!”

Suri simply rolls her shoulders in that infuriatingly lazy way, letting the bob of her definitely-plastic-enhanced breasts sweat in the grasp of her dress. Her admittedly formfitting, sky-shaded little blue dress.

“That’s what you’re here for, is it?” Suri finally says. “Well, I won’t pretend that you haven’t shed sweat or tears for such a lofty profile—for soon, that will be your roll-on deodorant’s job.”

My face is so red now I am certain I could fry Fleetfoot’s breakfast on it.

“But I doubt you’ll keep her attention long enough to bear that fruit,” Suri cooed. “After all, Fleetfoot isthe most eligible bachelorette in the Wonderbolts. And I am one of Manehattan’s fastest rising designers.” Suri flutters her fingers at me, and I resist the compulsion to chew them off. “Who knows what topics we could pass the day with to strengthen our… partnership? We’d be as tight as a tire on an axle, really.”

“Oh, that I have no doubt!” I shoot back. “One of you is full of rubber, and the other hot ai—”

It is not Fleetfoot’s arriving shadow that stays my tongue, triumphant as Suri’s grin is in her misguided victory. Again, I have spent a bit too much time focusing on Suri’s exact words. Specifically, words that told of her and Fleetfoot chattering like old college buddies.

But that can’t be, because—

“Easy, you two! Sheesh, the way you bat back n’ forth, you’d both think you knew me for years instead of two days!” Suri’s lips stretch into an ‘O’ as she takes in both Fleetfoot’s presence and her aside at their ‘bond’.

My jaw juts open too, for a different reason. Fleetfoot is now in nothing but a towel that is somehow even tighter then Suri’s dress, her mammaries fighting futilely for release. Goodness, is there anything Fleetfoot could saunter around in that would not look sexy on her?

“Anyways, nice to know you two are familiar! Go on Suri, shake Photo’s hand—she’s been a lifesaver for me these last few stops,” Fleetfoot says, beckoning Suri on. “Been a while since I’ve had so many accomplished mares wanting a piece of ol ‘Pec-Deck’ Fleetfoot!” Tittering at her nickname, Fleetfoot went on. “Well, so many mares that aren’t filling out a blue bodysuit!”

With a tension that could bend the metal lip of the island we’re still seated at, Suri and I shake hands. Seeing Fleetfoot’s grin widen at our ‘camaraderie’ brings a new flutter to my heart.

“Gonna guess you had some after-game stress to soak out, Miss Fleetfoot?” Suri asks.

Fleetfoot only chuckles. “Have, Suri. Present-tense. You think I’d be caught dead in front’a two knockouts without this perfectly shaped-up?” Fleetfoot swept a hand over her slicked mane, and I’ve never wanted more than to be somepony else’s locks more. “Just wanted to see if you two wanted to stop for anything after. I know this sweet dig just outside of Filydelphia, from this traveling cook named Saffron; her chili-flake cheesewich’ll knock you on your as—”

“Oh, that’d be lovely, Fleetfoot.” The exaggeration in Suri’s makes my stomach twist. “But I would never infringe on your hospitality after I’m already in your… hot-spot. I insist on paying—for all of us. My treat.”

“Dinner and a showing? Is it Hearth’s Warming already?” Fleetoot has stars in her eyes as she turns to me. “What about you? Anyplace special you wanna see?”

A thousand suggestions barrel into my mind, and all falter in the face of Suri’s smirk. I need to one-up this trollop, no matter what. “Well, Madame Fleetfoot, Iknow of this lovely masseuse near Manehattan! She is in high demand despite her ever-changing abodes; I have even felt one of her backrubs myself before one of her shows. Her name is Trixie, and—”

My hands slam shut over my lips, and Fleetfoot only cocks an eyebrow in anticipation for the rest of my sentence. But with how wickedly high Suri’s grin hilts she almost certainly knows what it is I dare not let Fleetfoot know about with Maud.

And mon dieu, despite the plea in my eyes, she drops the bombshell in mere seconds.

"Trixie, my dear?” Saints preserve me, even Suri’s tone is as sharp as a guillotine! "Is she not that fraudulent show-pony who summoned giant fishbowls over that quaint little village south of here about a month ago to keep everyone in?”

Fleetfoot’s eyebrows are now lost in her mane; I am simply lost for words. Horror floods my very being, and despite the dozen excuses on the tip of my tongue—that Trixie had left Ponyville in better regard than last, that whatever an Alicorn Amulet is made her do it—I cannot voice them. Not with this oversight of mine hanging so heavy over my head.

“And then got outwitted by a unicorn with a door-stop?”

“Thank you, Polomare!” I growl out between gritted teeth, and thankfully for Suri’s sake, she stays silent this time.

But it is too late; she is not the only one staring at me now. “My god, Photo…” Fleetfoot pants.

My ears droop, and I prepare for my walking papers. At least, I shall take my loss with dignity, little as Suri cares for that w—

“...I knew you weren’t the stuck-up Suri said you were!” Fleetfoot’s dumbfounded expression shoots into a grin just as fast as Suri’s own smile whips off of her face. “That sounds amazing! Didn’t know you had connections to such feisty little firecrackers!” “Know what, Photo? Second I get out the shower, forget Saffron’s stand; I’ll be posing for your exclusive immediately!”

Question: is a pony heart supposed to feel like it’s about to leap out of the chest and stop cold at the same time? Whatever the answer is, my mind is working too fast to request it, as I shake Fleetfoot’s hand so vigorously I fear one of them will fly into the sink.

“Of course, Madame Fleetfoot! I will have all my equipment ready in a flash!” I gasp, almost missing the scowl flashing across Suri’s face for a split second. She’s good, though; shuttling it away into a far-too-pressed-but-still level line as she cocks her head.

“Sweetness! Gotta get that shower first, though. The water in the fridge like I asked?”

Immediately, I switch back to my calculating self. “Fifteen degrees, shaken lightly, underneath the ice chest’s lid.” I reiterate, turning to retrieve that elusive bottle of water. Freshly filtered at Rainbow Falls, infused with lime from Trottingham; there is no doubt it is incredibly invaluable to this Wonderbolt.

As I turn to give it to Fleetfoot, however, I notice something. Fleetfoot is whispering in Suri’s ear now, and that fashionista’s expression is no longer dripping confidence and ego. Non, she has a finger to her lips now, though it is knuckled at her size the second Fleetfoot’s vision wavers.

I again wonder; just what relationship is it that they have? Or rather, that Suri wants them to have. If this was just to incite me, she would not bother with such heated yet careful gestures with my back turned.

Regardless, the more I keep Suri on my toes, the better. I am not out of the woods yet; Suri is just as talented a negotiator and hob-nobber as I am. So I jut out the water bottle, and Fleetfoot takes it with a grateful grin.

“Mmmm, Fleetfoot…“ Suri purrs, resting her head on the Wonderbolt’s elbow. “Should I ask what that’s for, if you’re still gunning for a shower?”

Fleetfoot shrugs nonchalantly. “A pick-me-up. Always gotta control the water intake if I want these—” And Fleetfoot plucks a corner of her snow-white towel, again revealing the tightest pair of abs I have ever seen, to both our gaping delights. “—nice and prominent. Rainbow Falls springwater’s the only thing that quenches thirst and dehydrates the body, so I pound down the stuff when I’m between venues.” Then Fleetfoot folds her arms proudly. “Like now, for instance.”

Naturally, I am astounded. “I’m… surprised to hear you take so much consideration in your diet,” I confess. It really does seem like Fleetfoot is a tightly-regimented pegasus, even despite her lackadaisical upkeep skills.

“Right back a’cha, Photo! Fuck, you even picked the lime water I’ve taken a shine to.” Fleetfoot is quick to notice the feather-light titter Suri gives, though. “Hey! None of ya tell the Captain about this! She’d have my pilotfeathers if she knew I spent fifty bits a bottle on Spectra-infused water.”

Suri brushes it off with a flick of her hand. I am suddenly plagued with the picture of Spitfire bending this statuesque Fleetfoot over her knee and hissing that the lieutenant needs punishing.

Ahem. I said plagued, inner Photo. That means no sliding your thighs together at this thought!

“Right, gotta jet. Keep those flashbulbs warm for me, Photo.” Fleetfoot is soon a blur, racing out of the kitchen and nearly upsetting my and Suri’s drinks.

Thankfully—or unthankfully—Suri keeps her flask well-gripped as she turns to study me again. “Even getting down her tastes, Photo? Are you sure you wouldn’t fare better as Fleet’s maid?”

I round on Suri, cheeks and temper flaring. The buzz of the alcohol helps keep my words short and sweet though. “Is the great Suri Polomare angry that somepony else got between her and a camera for the first time in her life?” I tauntingly bat my eyelashes at Suri, and revel in the sucking of teeth she does under her breath. “Good.”

At this point, I expect Suri to, as she usually does when frustrated, storm back to her mini-tapestries and leave me be. And yet, once more, I continue to be met with surprises. “Ohoho, Photo. You have stepped it up since I started claiming your fanbase. Nice work.”

Suri, giving me praise? I steal a glance at the window, to see if the pigs has acquired flight. Alas, Suri Polomare remains unique in that regard.

“Gotta ask though, for all of Fleetfoot’s habits that you’ve got an inside look on…” And Suri draws a cultured nail along the rim of her beaker. “Has her sex habits been one of them?”

I almost face-fault into the island. “What?!” I near-bellow, “That is a preposterous thing to as—”

Suri then stands up and lays a finger on my snout, my speech dying out at the unmatched amount of cheek it took for her to do this. “Oh, don’t fret, Photo. My question was only to see how much of herself Fleet’s bared to you? Since, of course, you’re so sure her wardrobe will never want for improvement from Manehattan’s Most Wanted.” Suri jutted a finger at herself.

I simply straighten out my frilly dress, and prepare to take my leave to prepare the photo set. Equestria knows I’ve suffered enough of Suri’s snideness and vulgarity to last five lifetimes. "Madame Fleetfoot is the bluntest pegasus under Celestia's sun, Surly. If you've no insides to face her as she is, you've wasted your time here."

But Suri’s words follow me, as dogged as the Wonderbolt I’ll soon be capturing on film. “I see. Maybe it's time I confirmed that then, hm?”

A part of me wonders just what it is that Suri is up to. She's already in this airship, Fleetfoot has already agreed to the interview; what more does this designer want from that Wonderbolt?

As that damned mare turns to leave, shooting a “Good luck, then! I have my own ways of getting close-ups, anyway…” behind her, all I can think of is Fleetfoot. Zigzagging as my opinion of the Wonderbolt has been, there’s no doubt that Fleetfoot is an interesting enigma. She at least seems good-natured, quick to make friends, and even quicker to wrap them around her fingers.

Which would make a contest between my critical, collected eye and…. Suri, be no-contest.

Normally.

But nothing has been normal since Suri stepped into this little airship. And the longer I sit setting up my stands, the longer I swab at camera lenses and prepare interview questions, the more I feel there’s something I should be on top of here.

Something Suri almost seems to be daring me to stop now.

It is with this realization, my mini-studio only half-finished, that I again oblige my greatest beast of burden; curiosity. Shuffling to my hooves, I straighten out any creases in my dress, hauling up my hemline so it cups rather than lingers over my cleavage. Then, I take my glasses, pull them off, put them back on again, and make my way back to Fleetfoot’s room.

Where Suri’s hoofsteps took her only seconds prior.

Maudissez ma curiosité, I must know what Suri wants with Fleetfoot.

And if possible, I must come to terms with what it is I truly want from this amazing pegasus as well. Besides the scoop of the century.