Once upon a time in the land of Equestria...

No, thought Artrageous, that’s not how memoires started. He hadn’t read many books, and the ones he had were mostly written by other fliers. At least, he assumed they were, as he wasn’t clear on the difference between biographies and autobiographies. Some read better than others, and those were the ones where the pony had help. Pegasai weren’t, as a breed, very introspective. The athletic ones in particular were especially unfamiliar with the territory of the soul and the fabric of their motivations. It took insight to draw things out and set them down, and this usually came from some other pony.

Art flapped his wings and let his thoughts wander. In any case, he wasn’t in a position to write anything down. It was night and he was flying with no real purpose or direction, finding the thermals and air currents and stretching out the time between flaps. This was when he thought the best, when most of him was occupied and calmed by the exertion of staying in the air. It hadn’t always been like this, but a lot can change in a couple years.

A lot can change in a couple seconds too, he thought. No, best not to go there, don’t start on a down note. How am I ever going to write all this down? I hate holding a quill in my mouth. I need a unicorn to help me out. I need a unicorn strapped to the back of a pegasus so I can talk to her while I’m flying. I wonder if she’ll be able to write in the wind. A windshield maybe, or she could sit on top of a tower and I could fly around and around while talking.

Her. Artrageous didn’t have a specific unicorn in mind, but when he visualized an assistant she was naturally a mare. Possibly because he believed mares were more attentive to detail, but more likely because he’d have the natural stallion urge to challenge another one and this would result in exaggerating his deeds.

Not that they’d need much. I’m pretty fantastic. I graduated with honours from flight school, won the advanced aerodynamics competition, and became Right Winglead of the Wonderbolts. A lot to be proud of, Arty, a lot to be proud of now that you’re... retired. Let’s go with retired.

There was a sinking feeling inside him that was not associated with air currents: retired, over the hump, put out to pasture, or as is the case for pegasai, left to blow away in the wind. All his best days were behind him so he should be planning on entertaining young colts and fillies with his exploits, except the rigors of work and the need to travel with the Wonderbolts had prevented him from making any lasting ties with anypony outside the group. What’s more, his former squad-mates didn’t speak to him after the … retirement.

So when he imagined somepony beside him, it was naturally going to be a female, because he was tired of flying alone in all senses of the meaning.

Perhaps I should write a pop-up book, Artrageous thought bitterly, everything seems so small and unimportant now. He knew they stopped talking about him years ago, and he was glad. Some young filly had caught the fickle and flighty attention of the pegasai sports-fans: Rainboom something. Arty wasn’t sure, but another weight seemed to add to his back and his left wing started to ache as he thought about spotlight which had most assuredly moved on.

He did still want it: the idolization, the magnificence, the sense of power of being on top, of being the best of the best, being part of a team. Meaning something. He was unaware how deep some of these feelings led, but was acutely sensitive to the pain caused when they pulled out.

Below him, a lake passed by, its glossy surface reflecting the night sky and the moon, full and bright. Scarred by recent events a few months ago, he thought, or healed. The Mare in the Moon is gone; she now lives in Canterlot. I could go speak with her, but what would I say? Did you catch any of my performances while you were on the moon? How does it feel now that ponies no longer look up to you? Can you tell me how you handle it? I’d like to know.

The moon in the lake didn’t respond, nor did the stars. Arty circled, dropping lower and turning on his side so he could watch the heavens above move with the heavens below. If he wall-eyed his vision just right, the dark silhouette of the trees and land blurred into insignificance and vanished. It felt like flying in space.

That’s what I want to do, he thought, just fly, fly away from it all, away from the friends that no longer talk to me, from the events that haunt me, from the nothingness. Change is motion, and so motion is change, and that was the impulse that brought him out every day and night to keep flying, because he could, because as long as he was in the air all the feelings he associated with the ground were kept at bay. He imagined them as dark, ropey tentacles of oil, reaching up and enveloping him, pulling him down, and drowning him in the dirt.

You got to work on your metaphors there, Arty, he thought. The water was coming closer and he saw himself silhouetted in the reflection of the moon. Even on a bright day, he was mostly a dark presence. His coat wasn’t black, but it was such a dark hue of a blue-purple it might as well have been. He was glad to see his mane and tail showed up as pale accompanying wisps. On most ponies, the Wonderbolt flightsuit increased their presence, even discounting all gravitas associated with the uniform. Its colouration helped them stand out, but in his case it muted his, adding a lightness and contrast that softened his presence so he didn’t stick out so horrendously. Not that he was wearing it now, or every would again, but he missed it again on an artistic level. Everypony knows what they say about black ponies.

I need to get back, he thought. The chill that grabbed him at the moment made him believe he’d fallen into the lake. Home held so little for him that the prospect of returning brought so much dread? That’s it, he thought, I’m leaving. The decision was impulsive, but not unexpected, being the culmination and expression of feelings that had been dogging him for months, waiting for the right moment, the acceptance that nothing was left, and it was time to move on. It was time.

Arty flew back home. The words and plans for his memories fell out of his head to be replaced with more immediate, achievable tasks. There were things to pack up, though not many as pegasai tend to live light, and his former travelling requirements had stripped a lot out of his life. The items which remained were all deeply significant to him. He once hoped they’d be placed in an exhibit about him in a Hall of Fame, but that was now also dashed. Just about every one of his possessions could have been. No one could look upon the collection and call it junk; any pony would have been proud to own the trophies or photos. Arty wished he felt better about them and that they didn’t seem so small.

His cloud could be kicked apart. His mail, assuming he was going to get some, would have to be forwarded. He should speak to a mailpony about that. He’d need to rent a cart. There was no point in getting a moving company as he didn’t have that much. Then there would be goodbyes to acquaintances he’d never warmed up to and who hadn’t reciprocated, as well as to the bar where he ate fried mushroom caps and peppers. No sense saying goodbye to the bartender as there seemed to be a new one every other week. He’d been going there every week for months, and each time still felt like the first time. Perhaps the cook was the same, the fried food had maintained its excellent quality all throughout, but Arty had never met her. In a way the whole town was like that, like some metaphysical, adult version of detention. No pony wanted to be here, and no pony stayed long, if they had the option, and in the mean time they kept to themselves. So Arty had never felt a need to speak to the cook, compliment her on her efforts. Or him, he supposed, could have been a colt cooking.

“Always thinking about the mares,” he said to himself as his plans finalized. Very few ponies to say goodbye to, very few ties to cut, and then he could turn his back on this place, fly somewhere else where it didn’t hurt so much to be.

His wings ached as he closed on his home. Some pains would follow. He climbed into his bed, struggled into a comfortable position on his front. As he closed his eyes, he thought, That’s it then, first thing in the afternoon, soon as I wake up, I’m getting out of here. I’ll go be somepony else, somewhere else. So, goodbye Broke Mountain, I never wanted to come here and I won’t be sorry to leave.

The streets of Fillydelphia were cruel and mean. They had messages carved in their bricks: ‘Have a nice day!’ and ‘Think of Others!’ which only reinforced the gloom. Often, litter wasn’t picked up for days. Many ponies were unwashed and unfocused, wandering aimlessly and looking for their next hit of giggle grass or waiting for the salt lick bars to open up. It was a place where ponies rarely smiled, didn’t hug or dance, and dangerous to be in a dark alley at night. Somepony might be rude, wielding sharp words that could cut and twist in. There were only five shelters, with one social worker per three ponies. Only once or twice a night might offers of a meal and warm place to sleep be made. It was a long time between the guard patrols, at least an hour! It was a hard life, for hard ponies, and the urban blight had spread to cover almost an entire city block. The rest of the city was clean, pleasant and safe. Everypony knew not to go near the downtown core at night, unless they had a really good reason, like spreading kindness.

“Champagne Majestic, you doing all right?” It was the second time Officer Smiley had come around that night.

“I’m fine officer, the cold don’t bother me none. I’ve got my sleeping mat and a blanket, the sky is clear and the stars are nice. I think I’ll stay out a spell.”

“There’s a warm stable waiting for you, we can go there right now, you don’t have to be alone. The soup is still hot. They’ve got dumplings.”

“Thank you kindly, but I’m full up and not feeling fit to be around others. Then there’s them rules they got. I don’t got a hankering for following rules tonight.”

“Please Champagne, it would make me feel better knowing you were inside.”

“Tell you what Smiley, you let me sleep this night through, no more interruptions, and come early tomorrow evening and I’ll go with you.”

“Champagne, you said that last night. You know I don’t like feeling you’re lying to me.”

“Weren’t lying then! Ain’t lying now. You showed up too late is all. I got looking at the stars and changed my mind, decided I’d keep them company tonight. Show up before sundown tomorrow and I’ll go with you.”

“Well, all right Champagne,” Officer Smiley’s hooves clopped on the pavement as walked off, “I take that as a promise. Sleep well.”

Champagne snorted and snuggled deeper under his blankets. He’d worked the wine county harvest many a year, this wasn’t much different than sleeping out during a long harvest. City ponies were so delicate. He was happily drifting off when sharp sounds pulled him away. His first thought was Smiley was returning, but it wasn’t the sound of shoes on brick. It was metal... on metal, and ringing in an oddly attractive way.

He could see shadows cast on a building at the end of the street. They made no sense. There was a faint glow of magic, that was the source of the shadows, so at least one unicorn was involved. Possibly some sort of impromptu, late night theater? Drawing closer to the source, he rounded the gate to a construction lot.

What he saw left him paralyzed in fear. He stood, eyes wide, mouth open, unable to move, staring at the nightmarish scene before him. The macabre spectacle played out. A pony fell, dismembered, to the ground. Champagne saw a flash, felt stinging pains at points all over his body. He turned and he ran. He didn’t get as far as his sleeping roll.

An hour later, Officer Smiley bent his promise to leave Champagne Majestic undisturbed, and quietly checked on him. He never felt the same again.