Spitfire surveyed the scene, her head slowly turning as she scanned the various cloud structures. Her once-thriving hometown was empty, the cloud islands and bridges almost devoid of movement. What little motion she did see was hardly encouraging: ponies moving in a slow, trudging walk, hobbling or even crawling. It was so easy to recognize them by this point, and every single one stood out against the white.

“How much longer do you think it has?” her wingpony, Misty Fly, asked.

The question left a sick feeling in Spitfire’s gut. Her focus shifted from the shambling ponies to the buildings, many of which were left with deteriorating walls or floors that had partially detached. In the park was the stone statue of Commander Easyglider, sunken halfway through its once-firm cloud base. A whole block could be seen casually drifting away from the city, its connecting bridges and foundational clouds having deteriorated.

She sighed. “Not long.”

Misty Fly brushed her white and blue mane out of her face before setting a hoof to Spitfire’s shoulder. “We’ll find more, Captain.”

Spitfire clenched her teeth, reminding herself of her purpose. “Yeah… today for sure.”

They launched from their cloud, moving slow enough that they could scan between partially deformed buildings and alleyways. They weaved around foundational islands and sailed beneath bridging clouds, always keeping a sharp eye open. Every now and then one of the shambling figures below would look up at them and make a feeble attempt at pursuit, but even those that still had the muscle memory to try flying couldn’t actually launch.

They banked north to sweep over the half-finished Sanctuary cloud. Spitfire could still distinctly remember the screams of the unicorns and earth ponies. She always avoided looking at that particular building.

Misty Fly, on the other hoof, locked eyes on the Sanctuary with a grim determination.

“You ever wonder why, Captain?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Spitfire replied, keeping her eyes focused on the cloud island ahead with its hundreds of structures.

“Why it all collapsed so quickly?”

Spitfire gritted her teeth once more. She felt the fire in her chest spark.

“Every day.”

She beat her wings harder, letting the sharp winds burn her face. It felt good. She wanted to sink into the feeling, to just fly and perform and let her mind rejoice in the sheer pleasure the air gave her.

Not this time.

“Standard sweep,” she called out. “I got east.”

“Yes ma’am.” Misty Fly banked to the west, the tip of her spear glimmering in the sunlight.

Spitfire turned the opposite direction and began her circling path, eyes scouring the buildings below her. She looked for any signs of life, ignoring the slow-moving ponies and focusing on clear indicators of habitation: structural defenses, recent repair jobs, piles of trash, even a horde focused on a target. She hoped she didn’t encounter that last one; the last time she did, they’d only managed to save one pony.

Spitfire rubbed her hoofmace: a round ball of iron set to her right hoof, dotted with small knobby protrusions. Short range, awesome speed and pleasant force. She knew it was a risky weapon to use under the circumstances, but the raw, in-her-face violence was a good outlet.

Four figures on top of a building caught her eye. She zoomed down and paused a half-dozen feet over the edge of the wall, noting how the top floor had lost much of its support and had thus rotated off of the main structure. It was attached only by a lone corner that somehow refused to let go.

The ponies were crowded into a corner around the carcass of another, which jerked about violently from their assault. She watched them for some time, listening to their snarls and the sickening rip of flesh.

That fire began to burn brighter. Her hooves started to shake.

“Hey!”

They all looked up at once, their dull eyes focusing on her. They wasted no time stumbling to their hooves and approaching. The first two ponies were largely intact, though their flesh had begun to rot. Their wings beat feebly at the air in slow, methodical motions. It was like they remembered their purpose, but not the method.

Spitfire ignored the two attackers, hovering a few feet back and letting them come. They paid no mind to the lack of any path, stepping right over the edge of the cloud and tumbling to the street, snarling the whole way down.

The third one wasn’t so quick, and she saw why; it had been an older pony. Its aged muscles worked slowly, a toupee flopping sideways with its jerky motions. It opened its mouth to moan, revealing a jaw missing half its teeth, though she couldn’t tell whether that was due to age or rot.

It was certainly rotting: a large chunk was missing from its shoulder, muscle and tumorous growths decorated its sides and a tangle of intestine dragged beneath its belly. Every now and then the thing tripped on its own mess, its blank eyes never leaving hers.

Her mace-wielding hoof rose to her chest and tensed, shaking with her urges. Still, Spitfire waited, and the abomination soon fell. She didn’t bother to watch its descent.

The slowest one was a young mare, a latecomer who had no signs of deterioration. Her coat was still pink, her wings still had their feathers, her mane and tail were intact and a very normal brown. Her foreleg was a mess of flesh, though, and bite marks covered her neck, shoulders and sides. There was a kitchen knife stabbed into her throat.

It was the leg that kept her slow, her body hobbling as she worked against the handicap.

How long had she been turned? A few days?

Spitfire bowed her head and adjusted her hoofmace, the fire blazing. “I’m sorry… I didn’t get to you in time.” She raised her hoof back with a sneer.

“I’ll make it quick.”

She darted forward, the mace smashing into the mare’s muzzle at high speed. The crack of bone met Spitfire’s ears as she darted past and began to circle for another blow, waiting for the mare to start standing. She flew in and struck just as the pony’s head rose, the hoofmace descending down to crack against the side of the mare’s skull.

It hit the ground, blood and bone splattering the hard cloud, but the mare growled and began to stand again. Spitfire gave it no chance, pounding down on the thing’s face over and over again. The fire burned in her gut. She began to snarl, every blow coming harder.

The pony stopped thrashing. Spitfire smashed her hoofmace into it a few more times before falling back and panting from the exertion. She stared down at the mess of blood and brain matter she’d made, her hoof numb and the fire slowly dying.

At last she relaxed, entire body sagging and a long breath bursting from her lungs. She looked down at her hoofmace, which was covered in blood and pink gunk. She wiped it off on a loose fluff of cloud.

“Feel better?”

She jerked about to find Misty Fly standing over her.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on ponies like that,” Spitfire grumbled as she lowered her hoof. “Good way to get killed.”

“You’re too good to make that kind of mistake,” Misty Fly replied, her tone deathly serious.

Spitfire sighed and stood to approach the figure still lying in the corner. Her wing-pony followed without a word.

The pony lay on his back, lightless eyes gazing up at the clouds and his mouth half-open in a dazed expression. His legs had been all but chewed off and his stomach was a mess of torn flesh. His wings were ripped to pieces and blood oozed over the clouds.

“I wonder why he didn’t try to fly,” Misty whispered.

“Maybe he couldn’t,” Spitfire replied, her tone dull. She stared down at his eyes and adjusted her hoofmace. “Or maybe he just decided it wasn’t worth it anymore.”

Misty flapped her wings with a grimace. “The knife in the last one’s neck tells me otherwise.”

Spitfire nodded and knelt down next to the pony’s head.

“So why didn’t you fly away, huh?”

She stayed there for some time, staring down at the stallion’s blank eyes. She tried not to think about him, but it was hard. She found herself wondering: how long ago had this happened? A day? A few hours? Mere minutes? To think, if she’d just flown this way yesterday…

The stallion’s eyes shifted to her, his mouth began to open.

Spitfire smashed her hoofmace into his skull, ending it in a single blow. She sat back and stared as the blood on her weapon slowly dripped to the cloud. Her breathing came slowly as her stomach sank.

“It’s not your fault, Captain.”

She grimaced and cleaned her mace with the clouds. “Then whose fault is it, Lieutenant?”

“Not yours.” Misty set a hoof to Spitfire’s shoulder. “Come on, Captain, you can’t take on everything all on your own.”

Spitfire shot her a glare. “I’ll take on all I have to until things get better. We’ll protect what’s left until the rest of the team returns.”

“I know.” Misty glanced down at the body with a scowl. “I know, Captain.”

“Don’t forget it, Lieutenant.”

Misty glanced aside with a frown. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

Spitfire stood up and let her wings flap a couple times, the resulting gusts chilling her body. With a sigh and a deep breath, she turned to her wing-pony, her tone considerably softer. “Report. Anything on the other side?”

“Yeah.” Misty’s eye glanced towards the body. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“There’s a lotta things I don’t like,” Spitfire countered with a frown. “Like you trying to dodge.”

“I’m not dodging, I’m just…” Misty flinched at her captain’s scowl. “I just… I hope what I saw doesn't mean what I think it does. You really need to come see it for yourself.”

She launched and gave Spitfire a questioning look. The Wonderbolts Captain nodded and lifted off, following after the Lieutenant for the west side of the neighborhood.

It didn’t take long for the two aces to clear the buildings, and soon they were in a residential area. Judging by the size of the houses, it was probably middle class. Misty led Spitifre on until pausing near the edge of the cloud. She pointed to a specific house, a two-story nestled among so many similar-looking structures.

Spitfire saw the oddities immediately; while all the other houses were ransacked and damaged, this one was pristine. Clearly somepony had been working to keep the clouds dense. Instead of open windows, strong cloud walls had been set over them. The door was closed and the lights were off.

“Looks like survivors,” Spitfire said with a grin.

Misty averted her eyes. “Well, it looks like survivors.”

Spitfire glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Misty cringed and began to descend. “Just… come and see.”

They descended to the front door, both keeping a wary eye out for attackers. None came, and Misty trotted directly to the front door. It opened, swinging with a creak of hinges. She stood aside and gestured.

Spitfire eyed her for a moment, then proceeded inside.

The first thing she noticed was the body. It was a tall, muscular grey stallion lying on his side against the corner of the wall. That made Spitfire’s heart sink… but then she noticed something odd. She approached slowly, eyes roaming the body. There was not a mark on it; no bites, no ripped flesh, not even a bruise.

Then she saw the small hole in the side of his head.

She bent down to examine the wound. Whatever had killed this pony, it hadn’t been very large. This wasn’t the work of one of the poor, wretched souls outside.

She noticed Misty and stood. They shared a wide eyed gaze.

“Misty… is this what I think it is?”

“There’s more.” Misty turned and went into another room. Spitfire gave the dead stallion one last, fretful glance and followed. In the back of her mind, she was beginning to wonder exactly what they’d stumbled upon.

She let out a weak gasp as she entered a bedroom. On the opposite side was a mare, her back against a closed door. She was leaning sideways, head hanging loose and face covered in blood. There was a hole right between her eyes.

Misty, her head bowed and eyes closed, pointed to her left.

Spitfire turned and thought her heart had stopped; there, hanging from the wall, was a filly. She couldn’t have been more than eight. A small shaft of wood protruded through her forehead, pinning her in place.

“S-sweet Celestia…” Spitfire approached, her chin quivering at the sight. “Who in their right mind would do this?”

Misty made no attempt to answer.

Spitfire stared at the small body, her heart heavy and her breathing slow. She tried to imagine something, anything other than what the evidence was telling her. She didn’t want to acknowledge the intelligent thought that had to have gone into this act of violence, but there could be no denying what her eyes told her. She stared at that young face, how the filly’s eyes were wide and her jaw hung loose. It was such a… frightened expression.

Misty appeared next to her and pointed to the wood between the filly’s eyes. “Crossbow bolt.”

She was rewarded with a glare that made her shrink back. Spitfire considered not taking a closer look, out of respect for the little filly, but thought on her responsibilities to those who were left. She stepped forward and examined the wood, noting how it appeared to have snapped. She glanced around the floor and soon spotted the other tip… which had fletching.

“Celestia be damned, Misty…” She turned away with a shudder. “I can’t believe that at times like this there would be somepony out there willing to… willing to—”

“I know.” Misty shook her head and turned away from the body. “I just can’t imagine why.”

Spitfire glanced at the presumed mother against the door. She thought on what she must have been going through as her family was mercilessly slaughtered. The image made her gut twist… but also ignited that familiar fire.

“We need to warn the others,” she said, voice firm. “The pony who did this is probably still at large.”

Misty nodded with a grimace. “Unless they got eaten, Celestia willing.”

They started for the door, Misty exiting first, but Spitfire paused just as she was about to step out. She looked back at the mother and examined her position.

She was pressed against that other door. Why was she there when her filly was on the other wall?

“Captain?”

Spitfire turned back to the room. “I just need to check something.”

She grabbed the mother’s body and, with a whispered apology, moved her aside. Her hoof reached for the door handle, but she paused. Did she really want to look? What if…

She shook herself and sucked in a deep breath. Her hoof grasped the handle and turned it.

The other room was small and decorated in bright pink, with balloons and cartoonish figures on the walls. Toys littered the floor. Spitfire’s eyes locked on a crib in the corner, her breath catching in her throat. Heart pounding, hooves feeling like lead, she approached with eyes closed. She felt the wood bump her chest, but she didn’t open her eyes.

“Celestia, Luna, Cadance, Twilight… Please…”

She looked.

The filly was wrapped in a pink cloth, her tiny eyes closed. Her little grey head shifted, her lips slightly parted as she breathed. White hair stuck out haphazardly from beneath the cloth wrapped around her head.

Spitfire released the air she’d been holding in her lungs. She slowly reached down and lifted the bundle, cradling it to her chest with a small smile.

“By the Sisters…” Misty was at her side, gaping at the infant. “She can’t even be a year old yet.”

“Mm-hmm.” Spitfire sat and gazed down at the tiny face. “Probably born right around the time that all Tartarus was breaking loose.” The infant let out a yawn that brought a grin to her lips, but didn’t wake up.

Misty frowned as she glanced back to the door. “So she was protecting her foal. Captain… we have to stop this pony.”

“Yes.” Spitfire turned from the crib, her eyes going hard. “We’ll take this little one back first, then come up with a plan.”

“Got it.” Misty hesitated as she eyed the filly. “But, uh… I’m not sure if we have what we need to take care of her.”

Spitfire glanced around at the toys and décor. “If they were caring for her, they must have some supplies. We’ll bring them along, whatever we can carry.”

Misty nodded and spun around, her eyes roaming the room. “Don’t see anything to identify her, and we don’t have time for a proper search. Guess we’ll have to give her a new name.”

“Oh… yeah.”

Spitfire stared at the filly once more. The fire she’d been harboring began to dim as she studied that innocent, slumbering face, and a smile started to form once again.

“Hope,” she whispered.

“We’ll call her Hope.”

The sun was going down in the east. Spitfire used to watch the dawn and twilight every day, praying that the moving sun was evidence of a better future. Now she hardly noticed, her eyes set on the small bundle in the crook of her leg.

Hope sucked on the bottle eagerly, her green eyes staring up at Spitfire curiously.

“Permission to speak freely?”

Spitfire glanced at Misty, who was watching her from the balcony entrance with a smirk. With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Spitfire replied, “Go ahead, get it out of your system.”

Misty shook her head. “I never thought I’d see the day the great Spitfire fawned over a foal.”

“I’d have said the same thing a year ago,” Spitfire replied with a chuckle, “but here we are.”

“You’re not even going to deny it?” Misty walked over and looked down at Hope. Her lips curled up in a grin as the child’s eyes turned to her. “I mean, she’s cute, but still. You’ve been here every dawn and dusk for a week feeding the kid. Goddess, you practically glow.”

Spitfire shrugged before lifting the bottle to the sun to check its contents. Little Hope reached a hoof for the bottle and whined, so Spitfire returned the bottle to her lips.

“Just because I run the Wonderbolts doesn’t mean I can’t act on my motherly instincts.”

“I didn’t know you had motherly instincts,” Misty countered with a chuckle.

They shared a laugh. Spitfire turned her eyes to the setting sun. Her smile faded.

“Misty… What do you think is our most important commodity today?”

Her wing-pony turned to cock her head. She thought on the question for a moment. “I don’t follow.”

“Is it food? Water?” Spitfire sighed and closed her eyes. “Is it our ability to fly? Shelter? Is it faith in the princesses?”

Misty shifted from hoof to hoof, her wings fluffing. “I, uh, always thought it was a bit of everything.”

Spitfire shook her head and looked down at the Hope. “It’s this, Misty. Right here.”

A moment of silence passed as Misty thought on this.

Spitfire continued, “The children. If this world is going to be beautiful and happy again, it will be the children who make it happen. It’s our job to protect them, to help them last beyond this terrible age so that they can have a chance to rebuild. We’ll survive the blood and terror so that they won’t have to.”

Hope pulled back from the bottle.

“All done?” Spitfire set the bottle aside and raised the filly to her shoulder. Seconds passed in silence as she patted Hope’s back, her eyes set on the sun.

“Captain… you’re deeper than I ever gave you credit for.”

Spitfire smiled. “It’s not all air speed velocities and loop-the-loops, Lieutenant.” Hope burped. “Excuse you, little missy. Come on, let’s put you to bed.”

They walked through the inn’s main lobby, a broad room with a combination of cloud floors and ceiling and wooden walls. There was a half-dozen ponies, all pegasi. A few were talking, two were playing a card game. A particularly large stallion was standing at the entrance, staring out at the city in the distance.

“What’s Bright Eyes looking for?” Spitfire asked as they moved into one of the unused rooms, which now sported the same crib in which they’d found Hope.

Misty winced. “That’s actually why I was coming to see you, Captain. Rosewing and Rivet haven’t come back from their supply run.”

Spitfire paused, her hooves stretched forward towards the crib. “And you’re telling me this now?”

Her wing-pony stood at attention. “Ma’am, I only just found out. I would like permission to go out in search of them.”

Spitfire frowned at Misty before turning back to the crib, carefully depositing Hope inside. She leaned over the filly, thinking over the possibilities as the infant wriggled a little in search of a comfortable position.

“No.”

“But Captain—”

“No, Lieutenant.” Spitfire sat back and sighed, a sinking feeling in her gut. “You know the rule: no night flights. Not when we know there’s a hunter on the loose.”

Misty lowered her head and glowered. “He could be a corpse by now.”

“We can’t take that chance,” Spitfire replied. “Every survivor’s life is precious and I will not risk more of them trying to save others, especially one as valuable as you. Rosewing and Rivet knew the risks when they volunteered for the job.”

“So you’re just going to leave them out there?”

With a sigh, Spitfire turned to set a hoof to Misty’s shoulder. “If they’re not back by sunup, we’ll both go out and look for them. Not now, Lieutenant.”

Misty stared at Spitfire for several long seconds, her lips set in a deep frown. At last she nodded and turned away. “Understood.”

She walked off without another word.

Spitfire sat next to the crib and released a long breath. She silently prayed that she’d not just left two good ponies to their deaths.

A sound from Hope caught her attention. She leaned over to examine the filly and smiled as Hope released a long yawn. She reached inside and petted Hope’s unkempt mane.

Hope eventually fell asleep, but Spitfire continued to watch her. Her mind was churning with emotions, doubt and determination battling for dominance. She kept thinking on Rosewing and Rivet, two ponies who had been extremely helpful in the past few months. She hoped they would make it back alive.

Maybe she should have gone out with Misty.

Yet even as she thought on this, her focus returned to Hope. The sight of that filly reaffirmed the decision in her mind: no unnecessary risks. They had to survive so that Hope would have a future.

“Captain?”

Spitfire looked up to see Bright Eyes gesturing to her from the door.

With one last glance at Hope, Spitfire stood and went to him. Bright Eyes made no explanation; he merely led her to the front door. Misty was already there. They stared out at the city of Cloudsdale, now shrouded in darkness. It was instantly clear what had caught their attention.

There was an orange glow in the far distance. Spitfire’s keen eyes easily identified it as the Sanctuary.

“I think it’s a fire,” Misty said, her expression grim.

“Maybe it’s Rosewing and Rivet, letting us know they’re okay,” Bright Eyes ventured.

Spitfire and Misty shared a telling glance. They were both thinking the same thing.

“Bonfire?” Spitfire asked, her eyes going back to the city.

“Probably,” Misty replied. “It could be a signal.”

Spitfire nodded. “We’ll check it tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow, Lieutenant.”

Misty stomped her hoof and turned away, muttering to herself. Spitfire watched her go with a small frown, then set her eyes back on the distant glow. She tried to envision two ponies huddled together against the darkness and not knowing what was out there. Despite everything, she knew the image was a pleasant one considering the alternatives.

“It’s the right decision, Captain.”

She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Bright Eyes, who was watching her intently. “I hope so, Brighty. I’ve already made some pretty bad ones.”

“It is,” he pressed. “Misty will see it before long.”

“Misty?” She raised an eyebrow. “Not ‘the Lieutenant?’”

His gold cheeks reddened and he turned his eyes back to the fire, but no smile graced his lips.

Spitfire’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, but finally looked out over the city. “We have to find this killer, and soon.”

“You don’t know it has anything to do with that.”

“I know,” she whispered. “It’s just… a feeling in my gut.”

“They’re fine,” Brighty said, head held high. “Rivet’s a tough guy, and Rosewing’s resourceful.”

“Then what stopped them from flying home?” She turned away from the door. “Even if they do come back, I won’t be comfortable until we know for sure that bastard has been dealt with.”

He turned his head to watch as she walked off. “And if we never know for sure?”

“Then I’ll never be comfortable.”

Spitfire rose into the air, leaving the inn and its lone cloud behind. Misty followed, maintaining perfect flight formation. They soared south, making for the Sanctuary. Smoke was still rising from it, the black cloud marring the otherwise pristine sky. They moved quickly, the wind biting into Spitfire’s face and bringing tears to her eyes.

“Captain?” Misty called. “What do we do if they’re not there?”

“We search,” Spitfire called back. “If they’re around, we’ll find them.”

Misty only grunted her confirmation.

Despite their speed, half an hour passed before they started to approach the Sanctuary. They dove and flew towards it from below, for Spitfire couldn’t shake that feeling in her gut. It told her to exercise caution, and she had learned long ago that it was usually best to obey her instincts.

There was a long bridge connecting the Sanctuary to the main Skyport. The bridge was riddled with large holes where the clouds had lost their density and detached. Dark forms dotted the surface, none of them moving. They landed near the bridge’s center and walked towards the structure, Spitfire adjusting her hoofmace and Misty reaching over her shoulder to touch the spear still strapped to her back. Neither dared to look at the rotting forms around their hooves.

“I remember there being a lot more of them,” Misty said.

“Spell only lasts three days,” Spitfire reminded her gruffly. “They must have fallen through.”

Misty shivered. “Remind me never to check the ground beneath this place.”

The front of the Sanctuary towered above them. The windows seemed to stare like a hundred empty eye sockets belonging to a quiet beast waiting to pounce. Spitfire’s stomach clenched, every step making that fire in her gut burn a little brighter. She hadn’t felt that in a solid week, and she ground her teeth at the sensation.

She came to a stop where the bridge connected with the foundation cloud. Just ahead was a wide semi-circle of raised defenses, mostly dense clouds. The ground was covered in corpses, all mutilated beyond recognition.

Spitfire sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes. She could still remember watching from above as they were forced to turn their weapons on the ponies they had originally sworn to protect, ponies who never would have been up here in the first place had she not taken things in her own hooves. She shivered as she remembered carrying out the orders for the quarantine, but nothing compared to hovering just a few dozen feet up and not being able to do a damn thing.

A hoof touched her shoulder. “There was nothing you could do, Captain.”

“I know.” Spitfire grimaced and bowed her head, fighting to push the flame down before it became an inferno. “I know, but still…”

Misty shook her head with a sigh. “We lost a lot of Wonderbolts that day. You think the others made it in the cities they were posted in? Soarin, Fleet Foot, Surprise?”

Spitfire’s chest tightened. “Until I see evidence telling me otherwise, I’m gonna believe that they’re alive.” She stiffened her shoulders and moved forward. “Come on, let’s check this thing out.”

They entered the vast opening, a long hallway that stretched all the way to the center of the Sanctuary. The interior was shrouded in shadows, the deteriorated walls and open doorways seeming to open into an abyss. The mares moved slowly as they observed their surroundings, Spitfire watching the left and Misty the right.

Spitfire’s blood pounded in her ears. She stepped over quiet forms, her hoofmace-bearing leg tensed in preparation and her lips curled back. Misty’s heavy breathing indicated her alertness, which Spitfire found comforting.

They walked along the hall in silence, making their way to the bright light on the opposite side. The smoke of the courtyard was blatantly obvious against the morning sun. It rose up like a storm cloud, ominous and threatening. Spitfire kept walking, but she had to will her legs to do so; something about this whole situation didn’t feel right.

Despite the eerie surroundings, nothing lurched out of the shadows. Spitfire and Misty stepped into the sunlight and winced at the glare.

They looked around at the vast courtyard. It was dotted with holes, many of them large. None were smaller than the size of a pony. Spitfire remembered what this place looked like from above, back when it was filled to bursting with scared ponies who hoped they’d escaped the nightmare for good. Now the place was barren – no bodies, no walkers, nothing.

It only took one.

“Captain?”

Spitfire shook off the images in her head and the screams in her ears. She turned to see Misty pointing at the stage in the center of the Sanctuary and immediately recognized it as the source of the blaze. The platform itself, made from the familiar enchanted stone Cloudsdale was famed for, leaned slightly to one side as its foundational cloud had begun to give way.

A large metal signpost stood in the center of the smoldering debris.

Something was hanging from it.

Spitfire and Misty exchanged a glance before approaching. They maintained their cautious pace; the bright of day was no comfort against a crossbow bolt. Spitfire was still watching the many doorways entering the Sanctuary when she heard Misty gasp.

“Oh Goddess, Captain…”

Spitfire turned her eyes to the signpost for a moment, went back to her vigil—

She did a double take. Her chest tightened and her throat dried up as she realized what she was seeing.

The mass was a pony, hanging upside down by his hind legs and blackened beyond recognition.

Misty was already flying towards the body, and Spitfire kept her back to the platform as she approached, eyes shifting about for threats. The flame within her was threatening to ignite again, her hoofmace set and ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

“Lieutenant?”

“By Luna’s stars… it’s Rivet.” A weak sound came from Misty as this fact sank in. “I… I’m pretty sure it’s him. Who would do something like this?”

Spitfire sneered as her personal flame grew brighter. “Somepony we need to find, now.”

“Find her? Just yesterday you acted like she wasn’t even a threat.”

That response – and the heat behind it – made Spitfire pause. She turned around to see Misty glaring down at her from beside the body.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me!” Misty pointed at the smoldering corpse. “I wanted to go out in search for them, but you said we had to wait till morning! We might have prevented this!”

Spitfire ground her teeth. “No, we wouldn’t have. The fire was started before we would have left, so Rivet was already gone.”

“You don’t know that!” Misty landed with a bang on the platform, her chest heaving and her wings spread wide. “Why didn’t you let me go, Captain? Tell me!”

Spitfire sneered and turned away, her eyes once again going to the Sanctuary’s inner walls. “Lieutenant, this is not the time or the place. We have to figure out who’s doing this.”

“No,” Misty snapped at her back, “we need to find Rosewing! She’s still out there, and I’ll be bucked if I let her die because we wouldn’t act. We’re the reason these things are in Cloudsdale in the first place!”

Spitfire bowed her head to think. She didn’t dare look at Rivet’s corpse, but the acrid smell assaulted her nostrils. She took slow, long breaths and fought to keep that flame in her mind from turning into a wildfire. Getting emotional wasn’t going to solve this problem.

At last she turned to meet Misty’s accusing eyes. “We’ll do both. We’ll head up, make some smoke and keep an eye out. If we see anything, we act. Maybe Rosewing will take note and signal us.”

“What about the Sanctuary?” Misty thrust a hoof at one of the dark entrances. “She could be in there!”

“So could the killer,” Spitfire replied. “Going in there, in the cramped spaces where our wings are useless? Might be exactly what she wants.”

Misty’s shoulders sagged and she rolled her head back with a groan. “We’re Wonderbolts, the most elite squadron in all Equestria. It’s our job to do the dangerous things.”

The spark tried to ignite; Spitfire doused with a snarl. “For all we know, we’re the only ones left. It’s also our job to stay alive so we can protect the others. We’re no good to them if we die.”

Sputtering, Misty raised her shaking hooves, lowered them, raised them again. At last she thrust a leg towards Rivet. “Would you listen to yourself? Do you even care that Rivet’s dead?”

Spitfire’s wings went slack to touch the clouds and her eyes widened. Seconds passed as she gaped upon her wing-pony.

The fire threatened to burst.

“How dare you.” She launched to hover a few feet above Misty. “Of course I care! You think I don’t know that Rivet’s death is on my hooves? That every death in this city is on my hooves? This isn’t about just one pony!”

“One pony is all I care about right now,” Misty countered. “She’s out there, Captain, and she needs our help!”

Spitfire threw her hooves high with a shout. “Why are you trying to argue this point? We’ve already agreed to it!”

“We need to check the inside of the Sanctuary!”

“No!” Spitfire thrust her hooves wide in a denying motion. “We play it cool and stay—”

A familiar sound hit her ears: moaning. She caught the direction Misty was looking and turned around to find shapes were making their slow, stumbling way through the Sanctuary’s entrance hall.

Spitfire cursed and ascended, Misty not far behind. “Great, now the place is gonna be swarming with those things anyway.”

Misty shot her a dark look. “What were you about to say about playing it cool?”

“Don’t get cheeky, Lieutenant,” Spitfire grumbled. “You were shouting as much as I was.”

She spent a few seconds thinking on the situation, glaring down at the ponies that were now entering the courtyard.

“We stick to the plan,” she said at last. “Split up, make some smoke, look for signs of Rosewing… or the creep that got Rivet. Is that okay with you, Lieutenant?”

She glanced at Misty, who glared at her but said nothing.

“Good. I’ll head east, circle around north. You go west, circle south. We’ll meet here in an hour, got it?”

Misty sniffed her acceptance and flew off without a word, grey smoke forming behind her as she picked up speed.

Spitfire sighed and bowed her head. Her eyes fell on the signpost below and its still-smoking occupant. The sight made her stomach roil… and brought back that flame. She sneered, adjusted her hoofmace and turned east. Her leg itched for something to smash.

Hours had passed.

Spitfire’s eyes went to the sun, her only real way of telling the time. There was maybe another two hours of daylight left. She kept circling the Sanctuary, stomach tight and heart heavy as she kept her eye on the horizon.

“Come on, Lieutenant,” she whispered, “don’t do this to me.”

There were no more ponies below, and the smoke had long ago stopped rising. She considered circling the city again, but cast the idea aside; Misty knew they were supposed to meet right here. Another search wouldn’t be any more fruitful than the last five times she tried it.

She dropped down to the stage in the center of the Sanctuary and sat before the signpost, head bowed. She didn’t dare look up at the body still hanging from it, though the ashes in the middle of the platform were reminder enough. Slowly, she cast her eyes to one of the dark side entrances into the Sanctuary’s interior. She knew what she wanted to do…

With a sigh, she turned away from that door, only to find herself looking at a partially collapsed wall. She could see into the apartments, the cloud foundations leaving long tendrils of wispy mist where the walls had drifted off. There were more than a few shapeless masses among them. If she stared at them long enough, she thought she could just get a hint of their rotting stench.

She began to pace the platform with head hanging but shoulders tense. “I’m responsible for everypony,” she grumbled to herself. “Rivet, Brighty, Hope. Yes, even you, Lieutenant. I’m sorry, I was just trying to do what’s right.”

She raised her head to scan the Sanctuary, her chin trembling. “So come back, Misty. Please.”

Only the wind answered.

Spitfire closed her eyes and saw the last few months playing out in her brain: news of Canterlot and the Crystal Empire, the Great Panic, the airships from from fallen cities, her rebellion against the mayor, the decision to house the refugees in the Sanctuary. She remembered the pride she felt as she watched her Wonderbolts take charge. This place used to be packed to bursting…

She could still hear the ring in her ears as the alarm went off. They said it was the unicorns in charge of the cloudwalking spells that turned first. Then, to save all of Cloudsdale…

Her eyes went to the entrance hall, to the defenses that she could just barely make out. They’d been overrun so quickly…

She turned away and sat, face in her hooves.

“Come back, Misty. Please… I don’t want to face this responsibility on my own.”

She lingered, her ears straining for any indication that her wing-pony – her friend – was on the way.

Time passed.

Nopony came.

At last, just as the sun was beginning to set, Spitfire flew north. Her stomach wouldn’t stop twisting, but she held out hope. There was still a chance, and when she saw Brighty watching her from the doorway that hope rose. She landed before him, opened her mouth to speak—

“Where’s Misty?”

Spitfire’s jaw locked as she stared at him. The question was like an arrow to the chest.

“She… she hasn’t come back?”

His eyes widened. He slowly shook his head.

She turned to stare out towards the Sanctuary, which was steadily disappearing in the coming darkness. “Come on, Lieutenant…”

Brighty stepped out onto the porch and studied her face from aside. He swallowed. “Captain? Did… did something happen?”

Spitfire gazed for several long seconds, heart pounding as she fidgeted. “I want a twenty-four hour watch, understood?”

She turned to go inside, but Brighty stood in her way. “Captain… what about Misty? Rivet and Rosewing?”

Her heart flipped and her stomach clenched. She looked away for a moment, struggling to set her face properly.

“We… didn’t find Rosewing. Rivet won’t be coming back.”

“W-what does that mean?”

Her face finally set, she turned to look him directly in the eye. He shrank back under her gaze.

“A twenty-four hour watch, Brighty. Understood?”

He stared for a time, but finally nodded.

“Good.” She brushed past him. “If you see the Lieutenant, come get me immediately. Wake me if you have to.”

“Of course.”

She went straight to Hope’s room, her firm eyes locked on the door and ignoring the other survivors. She stepped in and shut the door, going straight for the crib. She leaned over it, resting her forelegs on the rail and her chin on her canons.

Hope spotted her and smiled sleepily, raising a hoof to bat her muzzle.

“Hey, kid,” she whispered. “They feed you like they were supposed to?”

She reached down to stroke the filly’s head as Hope yawned.

“Probably. They’re a responsible bunch.”

Her own stomach growled, prompting Hope’s tiny eyes to go wide in curiosity.

Spitfire giggled. “Guess I should get something to eat myself, huh?” She sighed and averted her eyes. “Don’t really feel like eating.”

Hope reached up to feel at the mare’s muzzle once more, but finally lay down with another yawn. She closed her eyes and went still, her body rising and falling with her steadying breaths.

Spitfire stared at her. She could have sworn her heart was bleeding.

“It’s for you, kid,” she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. “I’m trying to do it for you. That’s a good reason, right? That’s supposed to make it okay. W-why doesn’t it make me feel any better?”

She lingered in the dark for a while, just staring at the slumbering filly.

A knock came from the door.

“Captain? You might wanna see this.”

She kept her groan to a whisper and slowly stood. She cast one last, hesitant look at Hope before going. Brighty was waiting, shifting from hoof to hoof as she carefully closed the door. That done, she turned and leveled him with a grim frown.

He winced. “It’s just that… there’s another fire.”

She sucked in a gasp and her stomach tightened. She followed him to the door without a word, images of Rivet swimming through her mind… then of Rosewing and Misty.

They stepped out onto the porch and he pointed. She peered towards the Sanctuary… but no orange glow arose from there. No, this one was farther to the south, almost too far to be seen. Yet sure enough, as the darkness of twilight steadily grew, she came to see what he did.

“It’s a long way,” she muttered.

“Might be in the commercial district.”

Spitfire raised an eyebrow his way. “You can tell that from all the way out here?”

“Deductive reasoning,” Brighty replied. “I’m thinking Hurricane Stadium.”

She blinked, then turned her eyes back to the faint glow. She rubbed her chin in consideration. “That makes sense, considering how… what we found. It would also explain why the killer wasn’t at the Sanctuary; maybe she moved to avoid being spotted? But still, I sent—”

She froze, eyes going wide. Suddenly, that tiny pinprick of light was the only thing in the world. It flickered in her vision and taunted her with its little glow.

“Captain?”

“Buck.” She turned away, head low and body tense as she glared at nothing in particular. “Misty Fly, if you’re dead I will kill you.”

Brighty stared at her, jaw loose. “You don’t think… Misty…”

She glanced at him, the fire in her fading at his concerned eyes. She averted her gaze, frantically thinking of something to say. She knew he’d want to hear something positive, but right now…

At last she managed to straighten up, lock her legs and attain an official frown. “She’ll be fine, provided I don’t get my hooves on her. I’m going to assume for now that this is some kind of baiting game, and I won’t be falling for it. My orders stand, Brighty.”

“I…” Brighty raised a hoof as she started to walk away. “But… what about Misty?”

Spitfire gritted her teeth and pushed down her inner spark, making her way for the kitchens.

Hurricane Stadium was surrounded by dozens of lumbering, moaning ponies, but Spitfire paid them no mind as she watched the smoke rise over the impartial walls. She’d been there for some time, just waiting. The fire within her smoldered, begging to be let out, and she kept it that way.

Yet she couldn’t avoid this forever, so at last she flew high and approached. There would be no cautious side-entry today; if the villain hadn’t gone after her while she was in the Sanctuary, she probably wouldn’t do so here.

Her eyes followed the smoke down to one of the hoofball goalposts. Her insides twisted at the sight of another blackened form hanging from the bars. She approached slowly, covering her muzzle against the smell of burned flesh. Her eyes lowered from the face as she drew closer and landed just beyond the ashes.

For a long time, she merely stared at the weak fire that continued to linger on bits of broken doors, shattered furniture and the remaining threads of forgotten clothes. She held her breath, waiting.

She looked up, cringing at the up-close sight of seared flesh. There was still some smoke rising from the lower hooves. The mane and tail had been burned off entirely and the body was covered in black with crisscrossing fissures where the skin had split. The wings hung limply, just muscle and bone and sinew.

There was no color save the black.

Releasing the air in her lungs, Spitfire turned her face away and shivered. Yet, despite everything, she fought down the bile in her throat and flew over the ashes for a closer look. It took a moment to force her eyes on the pony’s face. Her chin trembled at the eyeless sockets and how the mouth was open in a silent scream.

Her stomach threatened to rebel, but she held on to her gut and tried to take in some sort of identifying element. The shape of the jaw, perhaps, or the way the eyes were set. It was a small pony, but that wasn’t enough to let her be certain.

At last her insides could take no more. She flew as far down the field as she could before her breakfast burst up from her stomach and onto the grass.

She hovered over her own mess, clutching her barrel and fighting down the tears. The fire within was growing, and as she recovered she turned to glare at the corpse.

“It doesn’t matter who you are,” she snarled. “Whoever did this to you is going down.”

She flew off, prepared to spend the entire day looking for a fight.

The sun had nearly set by the time she turned for home. Though she’d not found her quarry, she’d made good use of her hoofmace today. She wondered how long it would take for her to completely clear out Cloudsdale at the rate she’d been going. Her foreleg ached, but she welcomed the pain.

It kept the fire from growing out of control.

She paused a thousand feet from the inn and turned to glare at the city. Her eyes narrowed as she slowly scanned the landscape, looking for some sign of a fire. If the villain dared to show herself this time…

The sun disappeared, but the world remained basked in the last vestiges of its orange glow. Spitfire stared at the clouds and structures and had the peculiar, unnerving sensation that the entire city was bathed in blood. Perhaps that wasn’t so far from the truth. Maybe the blood had run so thick that it permeated the clouds and shimmered in the dying light of day.

The whole concept left her feeling… dirty.

She sagged and turned away, drifting down to the front porch. She landed with head hanging, ready to hear whatever Brighty was about to say. No sound reached her ears. With a sigh, she looked up—

The words she’d been preparing caught in her throat and she began to choke, but her eyes didn’t leave the sight: Brighty’s body lay sideways, halfway inside the open doorway.

“No.”

She rushed to him, felt at his neck. Her blood chilled.

“Oh Celestia…” She lifted his head to find his wide and uncomprehending eyes staring up at her.

There was a hole just above the right eyebrow.

Spitfire’s instincts kicked in: she dropped Brighty and jumped behind the wall, adjusting her hoofmace in preparation. Her breath came in slow, measured intakes as she readied herself. In her head, she mapped out the building and all potential hiding spots.

Gritting her teeth, the fire in her heart threatening to erupt, she leaned over to peer inside. She took immediate notice of the pony lying next to the front desk. Her gaze moved swiftly across the room, identifying another body crumpled up on the staircase and blood smearing the entrance to one of the halls.

No sign of her nemesis.

She leaped on top of the desk, ready to strike, but there was nopony hiding behind it. She promptly dropped to the floor and spun around to answer any potential sneak attack; none came. Moving cautiously to the center of the room, she observed each and every nook and cranny.

“Where are you?” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Let’s see ya pick on somepony your own size.”

She was about to approach the stairs, but then something caught her eye: the door to Hope’s room was open a crack. Eyes sharp and entire body tense, she moved towards the room. She kept a close watch on her surroundings, hoofmace ready to strike in an instant.

She kicked the door as soon as she was in range, then bounded into the room and turned a quick circle in search of foes.

Her weapon dropped to the floor with a thunk.

“Holy Mother of Celestia…”

Misty Fly lay on her side by the crib, body curled in a ball. Blood still dripped from the crossbow bolt lodged between her eyes.

“No.” Spitfire hurried to her companion and cradled her. “Misty… Damn it all to Tartarus, not you…”

Misty’s body was covered in bruises and cuts. Her throat had a black line circling all the way around it and one of her eyes was swollen shut. The other stared up at the ceiling, half-opened and glazed over with the fog of death. Teeth were missing from her loose jaw and there was dried blood on her nostrils and chin.

Spitfire began to hyperventilate. Her legs shook as she clutched the pony close. She tried to scream, but could muster no sound as she fought to regain control.

Something was missing. She could feel it as her legs worked to hold the body close, and it took several seconds for her mind to grasp the situation. She almost didn’t want to look, but she finally pulled back enough to look over her friend once more. Misty’s forehooves were tied tightly together. That wasn’t what she’d felt, though…

Her wing. Misty’s left wing was gone.

“G-Goddess…” She felt at Misty’s cold face. “Who is it, Misty? You’d tell me if you could. You… you don’t blame me, do you?” She pressed her forehead to the still chest. “Tell me you don’t blame me… Please.”

Her head jerked up and she stared at the crib. Her ears perked for any sound, but there was nothing. Lips trembling, she crawled towards it. For a long time she remained crouched, heart hammering as she sucked down long gasps. She began to whisper a soft prayer to Celestia.

She stood.

The crib was empty. Where Hope once lay, now there was only a small sheet of paper.

The fire ignited, making her entire body tremble. For several long seconds, Spitfire could only stare at the page. Slowly, hooves shaking, she reached in and brought the paper to her muzzle. On it was an address and three simple words:

Come find me.

The edges of the paper crinkled in her grip. Spitfire knew the address. She knew it very well. Her vision went red, her wings spread wide, her head pounded.

The fire erupted, and she let out a shriek that would have made a banshee flinch. She turned and bucked the crib, sending it smashing against the wall. Steam billowed from her nostrils as she heaved and stamped her hooves over and over again, wearing a hole in the foundation cloud. She noted the paper at her side and promptly ripped it to shreds.

With a leap across the room, she grabbed her hoofmace off the floor. She set it and smashed the weapon against the door a few times. A snarl came unbidden with every hit, splinters flying wildly. She just kept hitting and hitting. When at last her leg broke through to the other side, she had to jerk to free it. The splinters cut into her leg, but she didn’t care.

At last calmed down enough to think beyond her fury, she left the room and went back to the main lobby. She breathed through her teeth and eyed the bodies all around her. Brighty, whose eyes were so sharp, and often trained on Misty. Tootsie, who was so good with the younger ponies. Or Swiftwing, who had a way to make the others laugh and kept their spirits up. All the dangerous supply runs, all the efforts to establish contact with the world below, all the nights they’d believed they were safe.

Safe, because they had two Wonderbolts looking after them. The thought made the flame grow.

She stomped out to the front porch, eyes set on the south side of the city.

“Alright, motherbucker,” she hissed. “You want me? You got me.”

The fire smoldered inside her chest.

Spitfire stared up at the half-missing walls and gaping holes of a three-story manor, a once-familiar site made ugly and new. The stars shined in the sky, blocked out by the shadowy structure as if it were a great beast awaiting judgment day.

She eyed the gate, then slowly reached out to touch it. As soon as she did, the cloud supports failed and the whole thing fell into the courtyard, passing right through the foundation cloud. She stared at where her hoof had touched it… then slowly stepped forward.

Scanning the great front yard yielded no signs of threats, but as always she failed to be comforted. Checking to ensure her hoofmace was properly set, she proceeded to the front door. It opened without any resistance.

Spitfire stood there for a moment, eyes scanning the large entrance hall. She examined the familiar hardwood floor, some of which was sagging from the failing foundations. Slowly, heart heavy, she took her first step inside.

Her voice came out in a whisper.

“Mom, Dad? I’m home.”

Sucking down the lump in her throat, she entered the hallway. She reached up to touch at the coathanger just beside the hall closet, but the hat wasn’t there to brush against the tip of her hoof. She almost paused, but forced her hoof back with a grimace and kept going.

She pressed herself to the wall just before reaching the greeting hall, a two-story room that was easily the biggest in the entire building. Candles illuminated the place, set in two long lines going to the stairs. They continued up along the railing. Spitfire’s gaze followed their dim flickering all the way to the second story balcony. They continued to the right, disappearing from her view.

All of her instincts screamed at her to ignore the candles, but she knew she couldn’t do that. Hope could still be alive, and if so then she’d almost certainly be used as bait. Spitfire wanted to get the bastard who had murdered so many… but Hope was her primary responsibility now.

Even so, not ignoring the candles didn’t mean she had to follow them.

Spitfire kept her eyes swimming about, examining each well-known door and hiding spot. She thanked years of hide and seek for knowing all the best places a full-grown stallion might lurk. Of course, her rebellious teens gave her another advantage: she knew how to sneak around the house unnoticed.

She slipped along the wall as quietly as she could, her body automatically flowing about the old, worn furniture. She couldn’t resist a quick glance at the tall grandfather clock, surprised to hear the pendulum still making its steady tick, tick, tick, tick. She flicked the front with her tail as she passed, though she didn’t expect the motion to grant her any luck this time.

The servant’s corridor in the corner was small and dark. She waited for several seconds, letting her eyes at adjust to the gloom. Her ears remained perked the entire time, but no hoofsteps were heard. She proceeded, making sure to check each room as she passed. Her hoofmace-bearing leg flexed to keep from going stiff as she finally turned into the kitchen.

She paused and lowered for a pounce: there was a pony leaning against the counter. It only took a second to see she was dead, the body slumped and head lolled to one side. Why she hadn’t fallen over yet, Spitfire had no idea. She gradually approached, heart twisting as she wondered. At last she got in range and saw the worn face, the silver coat…

With a quiet curse, she grabbed the pony and slowly lowered her to the floor, setting her hooves on her chest and closing her eyes. There was a hole in the side of her head, by now a familiar site.

“Sorry, Miss Breeze,” she whispered, giving herself no time for tears. She wondered how long ago this had happened. Why had she never bothered to check her foalhood home?

She knew exactly why.

Dismissing the thought, she went back to her search. She went on to the dining room and, upon confirming it was empty, flew over the table and directly to the large curtain on the opposite wall. She shoved it aside to reveal another servant’s passage, this one going straight to a storage area. She hesitated in the shadows, knowing that hiding here was incredibly easy.

The villain probably wasn’t even here. Spitfire knew this to be true; she was probably waiting for her where she’d stashed Hope. It didn’t matter; Spitfire would move cautiously and be safe. Being safe would keep her alive.

She darted through the shadows with body low. Peering into every crevice and behind each box, she kept her hoofmace ready for the instant strike she might need. Some of the boxes and been looted, but she didn’t mind; there was nothing in here she ever cared about anyway. That went triple for the dresses set on a rack in the corner; the very thought of them made her shiver with disgust. She barely contained the typical sarcastic remark she used to aim her mother’s way.

At last she was safely out of the room and back in another servant’s hall. She followed it to a set of compact stairs and crept up them, careful to look about the corner where they reversed direction. Her eye caught the dent in the wall where old Mr. Baldy had tripped and banged his head. He never told anypony that he’d tripped over her while she was sneaking back from the kitchens with stolen treats.

Mr. Baldy always had been nice like that. Thank Celestia he’d passed away before the crisis.

Spitfire paused to shake her head; why was she reminiscing so much? She set her jaw and tensed, focusing on the task at hand. For the first time in years, she actually tried to fan that fire inside her.

It stubbornly refused to ignite.

“Come on, Spitfire,” she hissed under her breath. “Let it do its thing, just like back in high school. There’s a reason nopony messed with you.”

She closed her eyes and tried to think on familiar events, things that angered her. Wearing those bucking dresses for her mother, her father’s scowl upon hearing her choice of occupation, the first week of flight camp…

No, too old, too familial. Those things didn’t ignite her inner flame; if anything, they doused it with a cold splash of sorrow.

She ground her teeth and tried to think of things more recent: taking over the city after being forced to send that flightless filly away; the Sanctuary being overrun from within; signing the orders sending her squadron off to other cities to help; the days when SitReps stopped coming in; Rivet and Rosewing burned to a crisp; coming home to find Misty…

There it was. She lowered her head and let out a tiny growl as her thoughts turned to an empty crib.

That was enough.

Shoulders tensed and eyes narrowed in determination, she took the last few steps and paused in the hallway. She turned to the right and saw the trail of candles. They led from the end of the hall to an open doorway.

It didn’t take much for her to guess the villain’s plan. Walking cautiously, her hooves instinctually knowing just were to step on the wood to avoid any noise, she approached a door that was closer to the stairs. She paused beside it, steadying her breathing and focusing on silence. Carefully, heart thundering in her ears, she reached to the doorknob.

The door opened quietly. She peered through the small crack she’d made.

Just as expected, she saw him: a stallion hidden by shadows and standing just next to the door linking the two rooms. He was peering at the wall, ears perked as he waited for his prey to fall into his trap. A large crossbow was set on his shoulder, already loaded.

Spitfire opened the door the rest of the way and crept inside the room. She kept low as she moved around her parents’ bed, hoofmace ready to strike. As she got closer to the stallion, she stopped her breathing and moved a little slower. Though the fire blazed and she wanted nothing more than to charge in screaming, she focused on her actions.

Closer…

Closer…

His tail flicked, just barely grazing her muzzle. His head tilted and he began to turn—

With a snarl, she leapt up and brought her hoofmace down. The stallion cried out and started to dodge, but wasn’t fast enough; she connected with his jaw and he hit the floor.

Spitfire was prepared to beat her prey to a pulp, her hoofmace rising for a second blow, but a sound caught her ears: a tiny cry. Her weapon froze, her eyes went to the door at her side. The fire flickered.

The stallion beneath her let out a groan, and she shot him a scowl. She struck him again, just to make sure he’d stay down, and turned to the door. When it opened she was engulfed in candlelight, the small room lit up brightly. She stepped forward and sucked in a small breath at the sight of what had once been the mansion’s nursery… her nursery.

It looked just like it used to. Same old, worn toys, same hanging carousel, the same orange clouds. She’d not been in this room in over a decade. She couldn’t believe her parents never took this stuff down...

Another cry jolted her from her moment of reverie. She hurried to the crib and gave a happy cry at the sight of the filly inside.

Hope spotted her and broke into a broad grin, her tiny hooves reaching up.

Spitfire caught Hope in her hooves and held her close, an intense warmth drowning out the fire she’d been nursing.

“H-hey there, kid. You been good?”

Hope gave a high-pitched giggle, her hoof batting at Spitfire’s mane.

“I’m gonna get you out of this city,” she whispered. She nuzzled the filly and grinned as Hope’s hooves wrapped about her muzzle. “We’ll find a nice, quiet place in the middle of nowhere, where you can grow up without having to be scared of all the big bad monsters. Sound good?”

For a few seconds she just held on to the infant, her entire body loosening up. After all that she’d lost, after the pain of the last few days, she felt her heart rising in her chest. There was still a chance…

…for she had Hope.

She jerked her head up to the sound of hooves hitting the floor. Instincts kicked in and she dove sideways just in time to hear the snap of the crossbow, a bolt passing over her shoulder to pierce the wall. She turned to see the stallion retreating into the bedroom, just barely catching a glimpse of his dark blue tail. The click of him setting his weapon for another shot was all the incentive Spitfire needed to bolt for the door.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually gonna run away, Captain.”

Spitfire’s legs locked and she slid to a stop, knocking candles over in the hallway. Her eyes were wide as she turned her head back to the room.

“S… S-Soarin?” She slowly turned around. “Is that you?”

Silence reached her ears. She shifted, wings tensed as she considered her options. Should she run, or—

The stallion burst out of the master bedroom doorway and fired his crossbow. His shot went wide, though, and Spitfire promptly dove through a nearby door. She slammed it closed and turned the deadbolt, but even as she did her mind was running circles. She’d seen him, and there could be no doubt.

“Soarin! What are you doing?”

“Come on out, Captain,” he called, the door handle shaking. “I promise to make it quick.”

Spitfire stepped back, holding Hope close to her chest as she gaped at the door. Her mind swam in a wild current of questions that left her unable to pick a course of action. “Soarin, why are you doing this?”

The handle stopped rattling and a laugh floated through the cloud wall. It was a cold, flat sound, nothing at all like the jovial noise she was so used to hearing from him. It made her hackles stand on end.

“When Misty told me that you were around, I was so excited! I never thought I’d get the chance to add your wing to my collection.”

Spitfire’s blood ran cold, her entire body going tense. “You… you d-did that to Misty?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, his voice going soft. “I… didn’t like it. I wanted to just end it. I had to know. I had to find the others. She wouldn’t tell me. I had to persuade her, you know? If she’d just cooperated…”

“Goddess, Soarin.” Spitfire began to edge her way towards the door, heart pounding as the fire sparked once more. “What the buck happened to you? I thought you were dead.”

“In a way, I am.” He began to tap on the door.

Spitfire knew what he was up to, for she’d taught him the trick herself. She stepped beside the door, crouched and ready to move. She would have to time the hit just right.

“I know you saw it, Captain. How did it feel, watching as the ponies you pledged to protect became overrun by their neighbors, their friends, their families? To watch our perfect, pristine little world descend to chaos and death?”

Spitfire ground her teeth but said nothing, Hope tucked under one leg as she readied her hoofmace.

“When Wave Chill and Rapidfire went down… it hurt, Captain. I couldn’t leave them like that, shambling around for all eternity. No… I ended it.”

An icicle seemed stuck in Spitfire’s chest, but she ignored it.

“Then I realized just how hopeless it all is. No more joy, no more laughter, only death. Who wants to live in a world like that? I sure as hay don’t.”

He sounded so calm. Spitfire wanted to scream at him, to correct him, to snap him back into shape like she used to do on their missions together. She did none of those things. She merely waited, ignoring her throbbing heart and listening intently as his tapping went to the bottom of the door. Hope spoke up and she hurriedly hushed the infant.

“All that’s left is pain and sadness.” Soarin’s voice was barely audible through the wall. “So now I hunt my friends and give them peace. It’s better than struggling on a hoof-full of senseless hope.”

She cringed, casting a glance down at Hope. The filly stared up at her, eyes shining with curiosity. She brushed Hope’s wild mane and shook her head.

The door burst into the room with a resounding bang, sent flying from its loosened hinges. Spitfire’s momentary distraction left her open, but she was saved by Soarin expecting her to be on the other side of the door. Their eyes locked and his crossbow started to turn towards her, but she rushed into him shoulder first.

He smacked the wall and dropped the weapon.

Spitfire made no attempt to follow up her attack, instead darting into the hallway and running for the stairs with Hope held tight.

“Come back here and fight like a Wonderbolt!”

She turned to the balcony of the greeting hall just in time for a bolt to zip by, so close she felt it graze her withers. Her wings spread and she flew to the closest window. Freedom and safety were just within reach!

Her body jerked before she registered the pain. The bolt hit her foreleg with enough force to alter her course, and she smacked her other shoulder on the windowsill. Her body crashed through the window sideways and she tumbled, and she let out a cry as Hope disappeared from her hooves. She hit the soft clouds on her side and rolled to a stop, grasping her wounded leg. A scream accompanied the bolt from her body as she pulled it out, blood splattering the white fluff. Her jaw locked at the pain, but her mind was focused on the prize she’d lost.

She jerked her head up and saw Hope lying on her belly near the front door, crying but otherwise okay.

Spitfire struggled to her hooves and hobbled as quickly as she could. Her leg and shoulder burned, but she kept her eyes locked on the filly and spread her wings. All she had to do was get away—

Just as she was about to snatch Hope up, the front door banged open and Soarin came darting out in a blur. He collided into Spitfire with a shout and they tumbled to the clouds.

Spitfire landed on her back, snarling and kicking at the crossbow before he could level it at her. He grunted as her hind leg kneed him in the gut, his free hoof struggling to knock hers away. Just as he was about to have the crossbow leveled at her head, she thrust it forward and sank her teeth into his wrist.

He swore and hit at her forehead, but she only ground her teeth more tightly and kept up her kicking. He couldn’t deliver a proper hit with the weapon in his way, and she still had her hoofmace available to bash into his shoulder and side.

At last he dropped the crossbow. Without it limiting his movement, he was able to raise his free foreleg and smash his elbow right on Spitfire’s forehead. Her head flopped back as the world swam in her vision and stars burst in her eyes, but she didn’t stop striking with her hoofmace or bucking.

Soarin jerked back from her, cradling his bleeding wrist. He sat on his haunches and cringed, his side, shoulder and face black and blue from where the hoofmace had found its mark. Dried blood formed an ugly line down his cheek from where she’d hit him before and his breath came in quick gasps.

“Y-you’re vicious, I’ll give you that,” he breathed through gritted teeth. “Definitely a fight worth having.”

Spitfire slowly sat up as her vision cleared. Her shoulder and chest were sore, her head throbbed and her foreleg felt like it was on fire. She stared at him, gasping for breath. For the moment they were both calm, just taking in one another’s image.

“Soarin,” she said at last, “you… you don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t I?” He flexed his bleeding hoof. “It’s over, Captain. Equestria, the Wonderolts… all of it.”

“That’s not true,” she whispered. “There’s still hope.”

“Hope?” He shook his head with a grim chuckle. “I went to every city where you assigned Wonderbolts. They’re gone, Captain. All of them. If the sickness didn’t get them, I did.”

“It’s not over!” She tried to stand, but her forelegs protested and she ended up back on her rump. “The… the princesses will figure things out.”

“The princesses?” He threw his head back and shook with cold laughter. “Ponyville is a ghost town! Canterlot is a mausoleum! Don’t even get me started on the Crystal Empire. The princesses are gone, Captain.”

For a moment – just the barest instant – Spitfire’s confidence wavered, but a glance towards Hope reaffirmed it. “We still have hope. We can find a way, Soarin!”

He glared at her, taking a moment to rub the blood from his wrist. He opened his mouth to speak—

Hope began crying again. The sound caught the attention of them both, Spitfire’s heart stopping at the dark look on Soarin’s face.

“Is that what you think?” he asked, peering at his captain. “You actually believe it?”

She bared her teeth and leaned forward, ready to defend herself once more.

“I do.”

He sneered and looked down at his hooves for a couple seconds. Spitfire began to adjust her hoofmace, ready in case her words weren’t getting through. Yet he wasn’t moving. Maybe there was a chance.

His wings opened and, with a mighty flap, pulled him back from her. “I’ll show you how wrong you are.”

He spun in the air and dove for Hope.

“No!”

Her mind operating on instinct, Spitfire spun about and grabbed the loaded crossbow from the clouds. Hope’s crying changed pitch, and as Spitifre turned back around she saw Soarin flying off with the infant. Cursing, Spitfire gave chase, leveling the crossbow. She hadn’t fired one in years, and she knew she would only get one chance.

The two darted after one another, but Soarin had always been the faster of the two of them. Knowing he’d be out of range in seconds, Spitfire rose up and abruptly closed her wings as she set her sights on her quarry. As her body arched through the sky, she sucked in and held her breath, waiting until she was just at the apex of her flight path to pull the trigger.

She watched the bolt fly, keeping hold of that breath as the projectile seemed to swim through the air in slow motion. She could just make out the wild mane of the filly over Soarin’s shoulder.

A prayer slipped from between her teeth.

The bolt lodged itself into the joint just over Soarin’s right wing. She barely heard him cry out as he tumbled. Spitfire tossed the crossbow aside and glided after him. The clouds below would cushion their fall, and then she could take Hope away at her leisure. Maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to talk some sense into her former friend.

Then something happened she never anticipated: Soarin punched right through the clouds and continued to fall.

“Son of a—”

Spitfire dove, beating her wings as hard as she could. She hit the clouds, entered a world of white and burst into the open air below. It took less than a second to spot the plummeting Soarin. Adjusting her wings and cursing, she darted down in pursuit.

Soarin was hugging Hope tight to his chest, eyes set firmly on the ground far below them. His head shifted as Spitfire approached.

“Soarin! What is wrong with you?”

He held on a little more tightly to Hope and shot her a grin, his mane billowing up across his face. “One way or another, it ends now! Let’s see how much hope you have after the little filly goes splat.”

“You don’t have to do this!” She flew closer, reaching for him. “Please, Soarin, let me help you!”

He beat his good wing, the motion sending him spinning out of her reach. His laughter pierced her ears over the wind, and the fire erupted in her mind.

“Give me that foal!”

She smashed into his back with a scream, her good hoof grasping for Hope. Soarin grunted in pain and held on tight, using his good wing to batter her. For several seconds they tumbled together, rolling and shouting and snarling. She managed to climb around to his side, escaping his beating wing, and tried to push her foreleg under his. Her hoofmace resisted, too big to squeeze through. She caught sight of Hope’s sobbing face. So close…

Soarin brought his forehead down to crack against hers, right where his elbow had struck her before. Her vision went white, stars once again erupted in her vision and suddenly she was alone. She cursed and tried to control her flight, but her world was swimming too much to make that possible.

When her vision at last cleared, she found herself frighteningly closer to the ground. Her head throbbed from the motion, but she jerked it about rapidly in search of her enemy. Her stomach tied in knots as worst case scenarios began to play out in her mind.

She spotted them! Banking, she returned to her steep dive, the plains below swiftly rising up to meet her. Her mind worked frantically for some kind of quick solution to this mess. Something came to mind, and though it was risky she saw no better options.

Pain shot up her wounded foreleg as she reached it over and worked to remove the hoofmace. It took little time, and she clutched it in her good hoof as Soarin’s body grew closer. She had to time it right, had to ignore the earth that loomed below. She pulled her leg back, tensing it in preparation and praying this would work.

Closer…

Closer…

Her foreleg swung like a whip, sending the hoofmace hurtling through the air. Soarin, not more than a dozen feet below her, let out a shout as the weapon smacked his wounded wing. He start to spin head-over-hooves.

Hope slipped from his grasp. She seemed to rise up, and Spitfire quickly changed course to catch her. She held the infant to her shoulder, a grin forming on her lips at Hope’s sobbing. She spread her wings to slow down.

For just an instant, she was able to relax. The fire inside was gone, replaced by that familiar warmth she so deeply appreciated…

…and then she looked down to see Soarin chunking her hoofmace back at her.

She shouted and tried to turn, but knew it was too late to avoid a hit. She twisted her body and closed her eyes, ready for the pain.

Thunk.

Her eyes went wide.

There was no pain.

Soarin’s laughter pounded in her ears for a few extra seconds before cutting off entirely.

Spitfire hovered, staring down at where he’d hit the ground a few hundred feet below. He was surrounded by the similar shapes of unmoving, rotting bodies.

She couldn’t breathe. Her ears twitched, trying to hear over the sound of her thundering heartbeat.

Silence.

Please… let there be any sound other than silence.

Slowly, lip trembling, she looked at the bundle nestled at her shoulder. It was perfectly, horribly still.

“H-Hope?”

Hooves trembling, she held the filly out before her. The breath she’d been holding finally released in a long gasp at the sight of blood trickling down Hope’s chin.

Spitfire’s breath came in ragged gasps as she slowly descended, her hoof reaching up to brush that wild mane aside from tiny, closed eyes.

“C-come on, kid. Cry for me. Laugh? Please…”

Hope ignored her commands. Her head lolled sideways at her touch.

“No…”

She landed and collapsed to her knees, clutching the filly against her chest. Her eyes burned as tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Seconds passed, terrible, long seconds of head shaking and choked sobbing.

The fire exploded, and Spitfire reared back her head to shriek at the sky in a single long, piercing wail. She stared up at the clouds above. Her mind was numb and her body slack as the tears kept flowing.

At last she moved, slowly lowering the infant to the grass. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I tried. I r-really… really did.”

Her eyes rose… and saw blue.

The fire crackled in her heart.

Spitfire was a blur as she darted over the grass and decomposing bodies, landing atop the still form of Soarin. She snarled and shook him by the shoulders. “Come on you bucker, wake up! You better be alive so I can kill you with my own hooves!”

Yet Soarin didn’t indulge her, his body limp and his head shaking loosely. She seethed and glared, letting him fall back to the ground. Her entire body vibrated as the fire continued to blaze.

She slapped his still face. “Damn you! Wake up and give me something to hit!” She struck him again, and again, pounding away with both hooves and screaming. Her wounded leg sent needles up her shoulder, but she enjoyed the pain. She let it drive her actions; even as she kept smashing his face, the tears wouldn’t stop flowing.

At last she flung her head back to scream a second time. When she did her eyes locked on the moon, just visible beneath the clouds.

“You!” She pointed a bloodstained hoof at pale orb, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. “I hate you! You and your bucking sister! Why didn’t you do anything, huh? Why? Where were you when everything went to Tartarus? Where were either of you?”

She began to pace in circles, stomping with every step. “Join the Wonderbolts, I thought. Be a hero, serve the princesses, take on some responsibility, show my bucking dad I was more than some little filly needing to be coddled. Well I don’t want this responsibility, my dad’s been dead for years, I don’t feel at all like a hero and I bucking hate you!” She punctuated the last line with a glare at the moon.

She waited, half-expecting a response. At last she resumed her stomping circle.

“Where did it all go wrong? What was I supposed to do? I was saving lives, I was giving ponies hope, I thought we had a chance! Was a future too much to ask?”

“And you!” She bounded to Soarin, cracking a hoof across his bloody jaw. “We were friends! We practically grew up together! You were my bucking second in command! What happened, huh? Where did that dorky colt go, the one who asked me out and got a laugh for his trouble? The one who chased after me all the way to the Academy?”

She shook him violently. “Where did my stupid, tailchasing Soarin go?”

She slumped over him, but didn’t relax. Her body trembled, her breath came out in sharp gasps through clenched teeth. She glared forward at nothing, letting the flame she’d carefully controlled all her life consume her. She didn’t even register the pain in her leg or the moisture on her cheeks.

“I’ve had it,” she growled. “I’ve had it with this whole bucking mess! I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to think, I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m tired of playing the savior.”

She closed her mouth and eyes and bowed her head. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop the shaking. After a few seconds of concentrating on the inferno within, she let out a sharp shout and bashed her hoof against Soarin’s chest.

Her head jerked up to the sound of moaning. They approached, crawling along on broken bodies. How many of them were there? As she locked on to the closest one, her lips peeled back in a growl.

“Alright.” She stood up and spread her wings wide. She popped her neck before glaring down at Soarin’s calm face. “No hope. Fine. You win.”

She launched and flexed, delighting in the sting of her leg. The creatures moaned and craned their heads towards her, jaws clamping for prey.

The fire was everything. It burned away her thoughts and aspirations, a baptismal inferno clearing her mind of all hopes. She pounded her hooves together as the blaze spread out of control, consuming the pain and the fear and the loss until there was nothing left.

“Okay, you buckers,” she whispered through her grin.

“I’ve got some hunting to do.”

Author's Notes:

The last entry will come out next Friday. Hopefully Bob will be able to start releasing his own stories by then.