The wind is howling again.
You wonder if it even stopped in the first place. Or if it ever really began. Perhaps the Universe was born into the howling storm, stars and planets and galaxies smashed together from shards of ice. Perhaps the frigid gales and lashing snow have surrounded your tiny, insignificant world for eons, and all the little ponies that inhabit it are made blissfully unaware by the sheer size of the storm.
Or perhaps you’ve been walking in this blizzard for too long.
Teeth chattering, you plod through the deep snowdrifts that blanket the forest. Barren branches shudder violently in the wind, and a keening moan fills the air.
Why Captain Wind Shear sent you out here, you’ll never know. You were a Wonderbolt, for crying out loud, not a damn technician. He had assured the entire team that the repair would be easy; mana pipelines weren’t as complicated as they were important. Open a hatch here, rearrange some wires there, flip a few switches and you’d be back in Cloudsdale sipping hot cocoa before you knew it, he had said.
He had, of course, left out the part where you had to slog through one of the worst snowstorms in Equestrian history just to get to the damn thing.
There was nothing they could have done. All the pegasi in Equestria couldn’t have stopped this monster of the storm. It had rolled in from the Frozen North, steamrolling over Manehatten and Fillydelphia, and was now trekking across the stolid Foal Mountains. It wasn’t showing any signs of stopping, so Canterlot and Ponyville were buckling down for the impending blizzard. The other Wonderbolts were already there, handing out food and medical supplies, just in case.
That wasn’t the real issue though. The real concern was keeping warm.
Back in the year 830 A.N., Starswirl the Bearded had proposed the idea that magic could be harvested for conventional use by non-unicorn ponies. In 878, the first ever mana-based power plant was activated in Canterlot. Soon there were houses, factories, entire cities, all being fed by magical energy. Now, almost every city in Equestria has it’s own (virtually) self-sustaining mana generator, but Princess Celestia soon realized that it was too risky to rely solely on the generators to supply power. As a backup plan, a large network of mana-carrying pipes was constructed that stemmed from Canterlot Mountain and stretched to all the major cities of Equestria. Unfortunately, the pipes were quite old by this point, and tended to break down often.
Which is where you came in.
According to the Captain, the junction that regulated flow for the pipes leading to Fillydelphia and Baltimare was malfunctioning, and was only shuttling mana to the latter city. Without power, none of the heating systems installed in Fillydelphia would function, and the temperatures there were drifting dangerously close to zero. You had been assigned to repair the pipe and return to the Emergency HQ they had set up in Canterlot ASAP for reassignment.
It was a routine procedure. A milk run, the captain had said.
Right.
You spread your wings and shook them to and fro, dislodging most of the snow and slush that had gathered on your feathers. It felt good to move them at all, as they were starting to go numb from the cold. Being a pegasus meant you needed to fly, damn it. Silently, you cursed the whipping wind and formidable squalls that kept you grounded.
What was worse, you weren’t exactly sure where you were. The forest that hugged the feet of the Foal Mountains all looked the same in this weather. Rows upon uneven rows of snow-covered deciduous trees, constantly buffeted by sheets of ice swept nearly sideways by the force of the storm. Glancing around, you tried to find some sort of landmark to guide your way, or at least to point out on the map stored in your saddlebags.
You spied a peculiarly shaped peak in the distance. It’s twin pronged appearance was distinguishable enough; Perhaps it was marked on your map. You flexed your right wing and used its feathers to open the bag strapped to your sides, fumbling about until your pinions grasped the rolled up map.
Unfurling the thin paper, you peered at it through your frost-glazed flight goggles.
Hmm. Where... Aha! Found i-
With a swoosh of wind, an errant gust tore around you and snatched the map from your wing tips.
Dumbstruck, you watched as the tiny sheet of paper fluttered off deeper into the forest.
Oh, damn it all to Tartarus.
With a grunt, you sprang from the snowdrifts in pursuit of the precious paper. The barren trees whipped past you with each bound through the thick slush, powering your hooves through the impeding snow. Every breath you took carried an icy sting with it, knives that cut your throat and made your chest rattle with each ragged inhale. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The gravity of the situation became quite clear to you, sprinting through the forest after such a tiny scrap of paper. Without the map, you’d have no way to navigate out of the woodland. Flying was out of the question; the vicious winds would all but tear your wings out of their sockets. The Wonderbolt Academy had taught you how to fly in rough weather. It had also taught you how to know when to stay the hell out of its way.
It suddenly occurred to you that if you lost the map, if you ended up trapped in the horrible, life-sucking chill of the blizzard, that there was a very real chance that you would die, cold and alone.
You vaguely wondered if anypony would find your body after the snow had covered it.
You ran faster.
The trees became thicker, here, and their low hanging boughs smacked against you as you blurred past. Whips and cracks of branches sounded between the thumping of your hoofsteps and the thumping of your heart. The map went left, skittered right, zig zagged around in the devious grasp of the wind. You were so close, now. Putting on an extra burst of speed, the gap began to close. You could hear the map now, rustling dryly, taunting you as you came within feet of snatching it with your teeth.
So close.
You stretched out your neck, jaws prepared to clamp down.
A little more...
The wind slacked off suddenly, a final act of mercy, drifting the map closer and closer to your waiting muzzle, until-
You never saw it coming.
Your hoof struck something firm, and you tumbled.
With a solid whumph, you slammed face first into the snow, somersaulting over until you slid to a stop.
You lay there for a moment, numb, but only partially from the cold.
Then you heard it: the sound of crackling ice and, beneath it, running water. With an air of finality, and one final flutter, you heard a wet plop as the map sunk beneath the surface of whatever Goddess-forsaken river you had chased it to.
Sitting up slowly, you didn’t even bother to look at the icy water. There was no point. The map was gone, and with it, your chance of escaping this hellish prison. You trudged over to a nearby tree, and slumped against it. You sat in silence for a moment, staring at the glaring whiteness of the snow. The map was your only way of finding the pipeline, your only way of completing the one simple task they had asked you to do.
You had failed.
Again.
It was why you had enlisted to begin with. You thought that if you made something of yourself with the ‘Bolts, that maybe you’d be happy, finally out from under the crushing mantle of disappointment you had carried for so long. You had stumbled your way through the Academy, just barely making it into the hoof-full of Cadets that made it into the team, and when you went home to show your parents the official documents, they had scoffed. Saying that they couldn’t understand why you would want to traipse about with a bunch of meat-headed stunt flyers instead of pushing a quill across paper or inventing some kind of new technology like a useful pony.
Their words echoed in your ears, sitting alone in the bitter cold, and they were joined by more. Your family and your friends. Your teammates. The only pony you had ever truly loved.
Your goggles became blurry again. The frost had long since gone.
And in a single, horrifying moment, you wondered if letting the snow bury you was such a bad idea after all.
With a gasp, you shot up from your resting place. What the hell were you thinking? You were stronger than this. You had to be. Certainly stronger than...that. Gritting your teeth, you shook your head vigorously, trying to rid that horrible, poisonous thought from your mind.
This simple action sparked something within you. All the despair that had welled up inside of you was suddenly fuel for a fire, a burning rage that lashed out at the oppressive cold that threatened to consume you.
You were not going to die. Not yet. You had come too far and lived too fully to stop now.
The anger intensified. You needed an outlet. Something to vent on. Whipping around, you saw a dark splotch against the pure white of the snow, a rock jutting out of the ground. You saw the trampled slush leading up to it, and you realised it must have been what you had tripped on. What had caused you to lose the map.
This was all its fault.
You trotted over to the stone. You slowly raised both forehooves, preparing to stomp on the thing. It was childish. It was immature.
You didn’t care.
Your hooves started to thunder down.
A gust blew across the ground and over the rock. A flash of colour caught your eye.
With a gasp, you shifted your hooves’ path. There was a muffled thud as both forehooves slammed down on either side of the object. Your eyes were glued to the bright thing fluttering from underneath the dark surface.
Rocks didn’t have wings.
Moving your suited snout forward, you nudged the bundle. You encountered not hard stone, but thick fabric. Gripping an edge with your teeth, you flung the coat away.
You almost had to shield your eyes. In sharp contrast to the harsh white, a fire blazed before you. A pegasus filly lay still, around six or seven from the looks of her, with a coat of a brilliant golden colour, and a fiery orange mane with lighter streaks to accentuate the effect. Her flank was bare, you noticed now, and her body was shivering violently without the protection of the warm coat. Eventually her eyes cracked open, red and puffy. She must have been crying at some point. She tilted her head up and your eyes met. Warm amber collided with frosty glass.
There was a moment of silence between you, the Wonderbolt and the lost filly, with the only sound being two sets of breath and a deathly choir of wind.
She spoke, her voice a fragile, cracking thing: “That’s not fair.”
You tilt your head to one side in confusion.
Her face screwed up, fresh tears brimming from her eyes. “It’s not fair. I didn’t want to die. Not yet. It’s not fair!” She sniffled and flopped her head back down into the snow.
You could only stare.
The filly’s head snapped back toward you, a pouting glare fixed on her face.
“W-well? Isn’t th-that why y-you’re h-h-here? Cuz I d-died and now I’m in the p-p-place ponies go when they d-die and I g-got into the W-W-Wonderbolts and we’ll f-fly around for ever and ever and we w-won’t have t-t-to eat or d-drink except for ice c-c-c-cream and that f-fizzy stuff that m-m-mommy says I’m not allowed to h-have till I’m older?”
You blinked at her.
She sniffled again and grumbled weakly to herself. “You’re n-not even a c-c-cool W-Wonderbolt. You’re not even on o-one of my t-t-trading cards! Now I h-have to spend f-forever with a l-lame Wonderbolt and not W-Wind Sh-Shear or Driftin’ or-h-hey! What are you doing?!”
You set the little filly on your back, making sure she was well balanced. Trotting over to the discarded coat, you grabbed it with your teeth and flung it over your shoulder, feeling it land atop the lost foal.
“P-put me d-down! I’m n-not a b-b-baby, I can w-walk by myse-”
A pause.
“W-wait. I can...touch you. You’re n-not a g-gh-gh-ghost? But that m-means...you’re not d-dead. Which means I’m n-not dead! Which m-means...means...”
You craned your neck as best you could, getting a good look at her. She was huddled inside the coat, with only her head sticking out. Slowly you felt two freezing cold hooves snake from under the fabric and wrap around your neck, like a foal would to its parent. Her eyes lifted to meet yours. The fire had died from them, leaving behind only tears and quivering uncertainty. When she spoke again, it was almost lost to the wind for how quiet she had become.
“M-M-Mister Wonderbolt, s-sir? I-I think I’d l-like to g-go h-home now.”
Her eyes fluttered shut and her head thumped against the back of your neck.
No.
She was completely still. Her face had drained of all colour. The filly could’ve been mistaken for a corpse.
No. Please, no. Don’t be...
Panicking, you quickly stretched your wing until the tip brushed against her nose. You let it hang there, waiting for a sign.
Come on...come on! Please be alright, please be-
You were rewarded with a tickling sensation and one of your feathers gently bending back. You breathed a sigh of relief. She was alive. Probably just passed out from whatever she had been through.
You set your jaw.
You didn’t know how this pony got out here. It didn’t matter. Just a few moments ago, you had been a whimpering, self-pitying wreck, when less than fifty feet away a young filly was stoically braving the storm. She was stronger than you could ever hope to be. And she most certainly did not deserve to die. Not here, not now.
You would save her. You would prove the world wrong. You would finally show your usefulness, and do some good in the world by preserving this tiny, delicate flame from the chill of the winter storm.
But first, you had to figure out where the hell you were.
It stood to reason that, no matter how strong this foal was, she couldn’t have come very far. She had to have come from a city, either Baltimare or Fillydelphia, and you currently had no idea how to find either of them.
Glancing about, you tried to find some trace of her passing, anything that could tell you what direction she came from. You had to keep moving; it was starting to get dark, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. In your insulated flight suit, you could withstand the cold for a while, but this filly didn’t stand a chance.
In the fading light, you peered at the snowy earth, circled around trees, even checked in the bushes in the area for any kind of clue.
Your search paid off; a single solitary scrap of her warm jacket clung to a broken twig. Then, further back, a tree with a piece of rough bark scuffed off. The trail lead off into a dark tangle of brittle branches, seemingly deeper into the forest.
It wasn’t much to go on. But it was all you had.
Moving quickly became an issue. The snow was still deep, but the real problem was keeping the filly secure. You needed to hurry, but moving too fast caused her to jostle around on your back. She had already passed out from the cold and exhaustion; you didn’t want to add “thrown from the back of a galloping Wonderbolt” to the list. You settled for a steady march, plodding through snow and ducking under frail branches as you made your way through the forest. A particularly dense patch of brambles blocked your path, and you grunted and snorted trying to power your way through it. With one final push, you broke free, and-
Clang
The frame of your flight goggles rebounded off of a cold metal behemoth. Groaning, you backed up, removing your goggles from your smarting face. Rubbing your eyes with a hoof, you lifted your gaze to the object you had run into.
The pipeline.
Finding the lost filly had pushed your orders completely out of your mind. You were supposed to be repairing the mana pipe and get mana flowing to Fillydelphia. It seemed so long ago now. The falling sun and falling temperatures had completely disrupted your sense of time.
Reaching a hoof forward, you scraped off some of the snow and ice that was encrusted on the gunmetal gray pipe. Faded words slowly began to appear beneath the slush.
<-----JUNCTION 3A 10 MI FIL CONDUIT 5 MI ----->
Ten miles. That was nothing. Many a day in the Wonderbolts Academy had seen you and your teammates running incredible lengths in tests of endurance. You could make that.
But she couldn’t.
On the other hoof, an entire city was depending on you. If the heating didn’t come on, and soon, hundreds of families would be left in the cold throughout the harsh night. What if those ponies had fillies just like this one? Could you endanger all of them to save this one, solitary life?
You wanted so badly to prove yourself. To show your worth. But would you be praised for your chivalry or demonized for your neglect? Did saving this pony justify damning countless others?
Two roads diverged in a wintry wood. And both paths led to darkness.
You made your choice.
══════════════════════════════════════
Tight Ship was not a morning pony.
His eyes crusted with sand, he blearily glanced around until the monotonous ticking of his bedside clock came into focus. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, according to the time.
Wonderful.
Shivering, the brown stallion lurched out of his cold bedsheets. His hooves scuffed the bare hardwood floors of his tiny apartment as he entered what passed as his kitchen. The power was still out, so he fumbled around in the dark until the brilliance of a gas lantern illuminated the shadowy room. He glanced around, the beginnings of a permanent scowl on his face.
Something was wrong.
He couldn’t hear the noises through the floor. Rumbles and yells and grunts of labor from beneath his hooves. It was one of the perks of building his living space directly over the factory he ran; he could hear the sweet sound of progress being made, products being manufactured, and tedious, grueling work being eternally carried out by underpaid, bone-tired employees.
He sighed contentedly.
But Tight Ship was far from content. With the power out, his machines couldn’t run. If his machines couldn’t run, his workers couldn’t work. If his workers couldn’t work, he became unhappy.
Well, more than usual, anyway.
Carrying the lantern in his teeth, he made his way through the chilly air that permeated the place, trudging slowly toward the battered front door. The cold light of dawn shone through the cracks, accompanied by the numbing draft that seeped in from outside. Reaching a hoof forward, he braced himself for the inevitable.
Yanking the door open, a blast of winter air assaulted him, stinging his face and causing his eyes to water. Gasping from the sudden cold, Tight Ship stoically marched out of his dingy apartment and out onto a stone landing. Draping his forehooves over the black metal railing, he gazed out onto the streets of Fillydelphia.
It had gotten worse.
What Tight Ship saw was a dying city. The normally warm and crowded streets were now draped in a thick layer of snow. Empty shells of ponies slowly trudged through the drifts, clouds billowing forth from their mouths with each ragged breath. Some slept. Some cried. Some just sat around small barrel fires in sullen silence, clustering around the bastion of warmth. They were supposed to have gotten help. They had been told an entire squad of ‘Bolts had been deployed to fix the mana pipe feeding the city. Instead they had gotten nothing but snow and misery.
He sighed. They should’ve known better than to trust their government, their own Princess to step down from her pedestal and-
The ponies were stirring.
It was subtle at first, a low muttering among the ponies, all of them facing down the street, and out of sight. Tight Ship couldn’t hear what they were whispering about, so he moved closer, clanking down the cold metal stairway and into the slush covering the street. More and more ponies were peeking out of their homes, coming out to see what all the fuss was about. A large crowd began to gather in the middle of the street, and he had to manoeuvre through them to get to the front, all the while picking up bits of conversation.
“--’s that?”
“It can’t be a--”
“--ne ‘Bolt? Are they outta their--”
“--ing in so slow?”
Finally, he emerged from the mass of bodies, his own breath fogging in front of him.
A pony stood before him.
A Wonderbolt.
He couldn’t tell if it was male or female. Its flight suit hid it well, the icy goggles revealing nothing. Oddly, its wings were up, bent as far as they would allow, almost as if covering its back with the snow-dusted feathers. It was walking slowly, one hoof in front of the other, careful and measured. The crowd had become silent, and in a quiet shuffling of hooves, they parted to both sides of the street, allowing a path for the ‘Bolt to pass. Nothing moved. The only sound came from the pegasus’ hooves crunching through the snow.
It was halfway through when the first cry came.
“Hey!”
No response.
“Why isn’t the damn power on!” yelled another voice.
Crunch, crunch. One hoof in front of the other.
“Yeah!”
“You’re supposed to be protecting u-”
“Leave it to the Blunderbolt’s to-”
“My children ar-”
“We wer-”
Soon they were jeering and calling, throwing snowballs, small rocks, even chunks of ice at the silent pony. Several wads of snow splattered across its face. A pebble dinged off its goggles.
It said nothing.
As the yelling became more intense and crowd became more rowdy, Tight Ship began to worry. Sure, he was angry, but these ponies looked about ready to beat this ‘Bolt into a-
FWAP
The pegasus had snapped its wings open.
Every pony in the crowd went deathly quiet. A few soft thuds were heard as they dropped whatever projectile they had been planning to hurl at the Wonderbolt.
There was a filly on its back.
A brilliant yellow filly. One of the neighborhood kids. Last he had seen her, she had been with some of the local raggamuffins before the storm had really picked up, chanting something about the forest nearby and her being a chicken.
“Oh...that’s her, Wildfire...that’s our girl!” came a stallions voice.
Two ponies rushed out of the crowd, using their strong wings to lift the filly off the other pony’s back, cradling her in their wings, crying softly.
“She’s...okay. She’s okay, Flash. Our daughter is safe!” the beige mare cried.
The parents looked up with teary eyes at the ‘Bolt.
“How can we- We can’t th-thank you enough. You s-saved our daughter, and we w-were just so w-worried about h-her, and...”
They were overcome by tears and happiness, then. It took them several moments to compose themselves. When they looked up again, they had weak smiles on their faces.
“Th-thank you. Truly, deeply, from the bottom of our hearts, we thank y-you.”
It nodded.
The pony took two steps forward, shuddered, and then collapsed into the snow.
══════════════════════════════════════
“Come on in, Sergeant.”
Pushing open the door, you trotted inside the Captain’s office. Seeing your commanding officer behind his desk, you immediately snapped to attention and threw a crisp salute.
“At ease, Wonderbolt. Have a seat.”
You sat down without a word.
Captain Wind Shear placed his elbows on the mahogany desk, his front hooves folded in front of him. His face was aged and grizzled, weathered by the wind over the years, giving the stone gray fur an appearance of being carved out of rock. His mane stood in stark contrast, a white-blue colour, already pockmarked by streaks of gray. The older stallion’s eyes were a watery blue, and yet they revealed a hidden steel, something forged out of the fires of turmoil, of determination and of loss.
Neither of you spoke for a long while.
It was the Captain that broke the silence at last.
“I want you to know up front that what you did out there was absolutely extraordinary, and that I would expect nothing less from you or your fellow Wonderbolts.”
“You saved a child's life. You reunited two parents with their daughter. You did all of this without prompting, and were willing to forgo your mission objectives to do it. For this, I commend you.”
Wind Shear sighed, rubbing at his temple with one hoof. “Unfortunately, not everypony was happy with your actions. We have at least fifty letters from the ponies in the crowd, all praising what you did for that filly, but we have about six hundred from businesses all over Fillydelphia complaining of lost stock, halted production and severe profit loss.”
He looked up at you, and his eyes were weary.
“I tried to reason with them. I tried a formal apology from the Captain of the Wonderbolts Aerial Team of Equestria. I tried offering them all an amount of compensation funds. Hell, I even tried writing a letter to the Princess, asking for help. No idea if it got through or not, with this weather. The point is, is that they wanted somepony’s head on a platter. They said they’d only be satisfied if they received their compensation and...” Another sigh. “...if they were made aware of immediate action taken by the Wonderbolts on the flier in charge of the Fillydelphia op.”
Wind Shear leveled his eyes with yours once more, and this time they were heavy with sadness.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, but I’ve already filed the paperwork. You’re being honorably discharged from the Wonderbolts.”
You were silent as you took this in.
He stared back at you, seeing how you would react.
Slowly you reached up to the lapel of your uniform, and unpinned the golden wing-and-star insignia of a Wonderbolt Sergeant. With a quiet click, you placed the pin on the wood surface of the desk.
Closing his eyes and exhaling through his nose, the captain took the insignia and turned around, rummaging in a drawer behind him to find the proper place for the pin, speaking as he did.
“Trust me, Sergeant, this isn’t easy for me either. If there had been anything I could do to stop it, I would have. If it helps at all, I’d like you to know that-”
He turned around to see an empty office. The door swung quietly shut.
══════════════════════════════════════
A short time later, another door opened, this time yours.
Your home was dark and quiet. You hadn’t been here in a while; the ‘Bolts had saw fit to that. It was hard to believe that it was all done now. You should’ve felt sad. You should’ve felt angry.
Instead you just felt empty. Drained. All you wanted to do was to flop down onto your bed, and stare at the ceiling until the darkness overtook you. Entering your living room, you flipped on the light.
And stopped.
The small room was packed to the brim with every kind of bag, box and package you could imagine. Large clusters of balloons floated limply, half inflated and poorly tied, as if crafted by the hooves of foals. The gifts were all wrapped in colourful bows and cheery wrapping paper. The names on all of the tags were unfamiliar, but you had a hunch as to who they were from. A small opened card sat atop one of the larger boxes. Drawing closer, you could decipher the crude hoof writing.
Dear Mr/Mrs. Wonderbolt,
HI! Its me Spitfire, you know, the filly you rescued from the woods?!?! Daddy says he dowbts youll forget me, but everypony told me you fainted after you brought me home! Arnt Wonderbolts suposed to be strong? Anyway mommy and daddy said that I should give you a gift to thank you for saving me! And look, everypony else in the nayboorhood neighborhood did too! I hope you liek them because everypony seemed so happy to send them to you! Ive already told everypony that when I grow up, I’m gonna be a Wonderbolt, just like you! Isnt that cool?! We’ll fly together, and Ill be the Captin and youll be my wingpony! Doesnt that sound like fun? Anyway I have to go to the doktor now, to make sure im helthy. Thank you, and bye!
- Spitfire, future Captin of the Wonderbolts
You smiled gently. So excitable, that filly. Always dreaming big, it seemed. You wonder if she really had a chance of becoming Captain. You shrugged. Hell, they had let you in, right?
Your smile faded. All that was over now. your career, your pride, everything. You had joined the ‘Bolts to be happy, but now that you were gone, you had nothing. Nothing but an empty house and a bunch of broken memories.
And yet...
You glanced at your presents. They were probably filled with cakes and goodies and little hoofcrafted trinkets. All because of what you did.
Maybe...that was what life was about. Making sacrifices. You had thought that joining a prestigious group would make you happy, would make your family and friends proud. You thought that happiness was measured in the marks you made in the course of your life. But a wise pony once said that if all you cared about in life was the marks you left on this world, the most you’d ever leave is a grave. If you truly wanted to self-actualize yourself, to leave a lasting impression on anything, you had to try to change the ponies that lived in the world, rather than the world itself. And sometimes that meant making the hard choices and doing the right thing instead of the logical thing.
These thoughts played through your mind, surrounded by the cheery memoirs of your failure.
And still you smiled, as all of those thoughts settled on one final revelation.
Sometimes, if you want to reach the top, you have to be willing to take the fall.
Author's Note
Things to work on:
Setting a scene.
Describing a scene.
Pacing.
Proper apostrophe usage
Pacing.
Not immediately thinking that using the word "it" for an ambiguous character is a horrible idea.
Not sucking at writing.
Pacing.
Pacing.
Pacing.
Being original.
Pacing.
