Case File Five: Major Spitfire

My quest for interviewees brings me back once more to Cloudsdale. In honesty, it’s hardly surprising, given the city’s new status as the pseudo-capital of Equestria. While New Ponyville has become the population capital, and Canterlot is rapidly becoming the political capital once more, Cloudsdale is still considered to be the bastion of ponykind in these troubled times.

I enter the Altostratus retirement home in something of a daze. The main lobby is vast. Tall, regal pillars of marble mingle with soft, fluffy cloud ceilings, vaulted high above my head. The room is spacious beyond belief, yet cramped with sofas and clouches for the residents of the home. The building was one of the first to be built after the earth pony migration to Cloudsdale, and carries many of the hallmarks of earth-pegasus hybrid architecture. What isn’t expertly sculpted cloud formations is replaced by rustic wooden beams and chandeliers. Somehow, it seems far too regal for a retirement home.

My subject is sitting by the edge of the room, near a vast, glassless bay window opening out over Equestria. The retirement home is fortunate in its placement, standing on the edge of Cloudsdale’s lower districts. As a result, we are treated to a breathtaking panorama of the Applelachian mountains, with the now refurbished jewel that is Canterlot glimmering on their summit. Only one thing mars the beauty of the landscape; a small, burnt area of land, seemingly avoided by the fervent plant-life thriving around it. The site of Old Ponyville.

I take a seat, the pegasus clouches becoming less of a luxury and more of a daily pleasure during these interviews. Despite the disarming nature of the comfortable furniture, I remain intent. My subject sits across from me, idly gazing out over the landscape. I noticed her eyes aren’t pointed at any particular piece of Equestria, merely the sky presiding above it.

“Miss Spitfire?” I clear my throat, gaining more volume. “We talked via letter, about an interview on your career in the EAF?”

Spitfire groans slightly, shifting from her previous comfortable position to face me. She rubs her eyes, evidently the life of the once meteoric pegasus has slowed down lately.

“Quill Stroke, right? Nice to put a name to a face.” She stretches out a hoof, and I shake it firmly. “Now, my stint in the EAF was pretty long, you got a part in particular you wanna hear about?”

I idly leaf through my notes, finding one excerpt in particular.

“How about the time you were flying a mission, and ended up in Froggy Bottom Bog?”

Spitfire eyes me with something of a cautionary glare. I hold the eye contact, slipping my notes back into my saddlebag. She nods slowly as our silent standoff fades away, licking her lips before she begins.

“Well, if you want that story. We’re looking...oh, a month after the dirt kickers at Haltergate got their rumps hoofed to them. The EAF was taken under Governor Sparkle’s control, as was the whole military. We got put on a big diet, cut down to the bone. Combat rigs were scrapped. As well as all our firepower. Pyroclastic Spheres, Inferno Sticks, everything. It all got scrapped and the EAF went to a supply ferrying role.”

“Why was that, didn’t you need the firepower?”

“Not after the, ‘Bodies-to-Bits,’ ratio was invented. We only had Cloudsdale at the time, it couldn’t support a fully-fledged military structure. For every airborne Haywreaker you had in the sky, you had four ponies on the ground, keeping fuel for the combat rig, spare parts for repairs, food for the pilot. The whole thing was expensive, and if Haltergate proved anything, it was that forty pegasi with a payload from the Princesses couldn’t do buck to Zack. Our firepower was designed to maim and debilitate, but killing Zack needs precision we couldn’t have.”

“So what happened, what did you get instead?”

“Combat rigs went, and we got the LRR, Long Range Rig. Cheap as hay, couldn’t pull anywhere near the Mach that the F Ninety-Nine we had before could. Main advantage was it was cheap, it held a magic charge for three times as long, and it only needed one unicorn on the ground crew.”

“Sounds fairly good, despite the lack of speed, at least. I get the impression you dislike them, however.”

Spitfire chuckles, worming her way further into her clouch.

“How do you think I ended up in Froggy Bottom Bog? Me and Soarin were flying a supply run. Cloudsdale used to supply small homesteads with weapons and food. A whole lot of little villages and large buildings that got fortified became our ports in the storm. We could land, the EAF kept refuel teams there as well. Me and Soarin had been through thick and thin, what with the Griffon Wars followed by Zack showing up. It was nice to have familiarity in unfamiliar times. Hay, some of those were the best places to let your mane down after a long flight. They were...outside the law, if you catch my breeze.”

“I’ll ask no questions about that, then. What about the Bog itself, what happened with the rig?”

“Ah, yeh, sorry. Age makes a filly forget, y’know. Right. Yeh, we were right over the bog when the rig started to choke. I only got a second to start pulling the thing off before the vent shot flames out, and bailed right as the thing exploded.”

“It exploded?!”

“Early ‘teething problems.’ Things held a magical charge well, but a fault here and there caused the magic to leak out, then explode. Like prodding a needle in a balloon. Anyway, me and Soarin were flying close at the time, and while I didn’t realise it, I’d bailed my rig straight at him. Needless to say, it hit us both. My right wing got burnt up, and Soarin got knocked straight off course. We both deployed our ‘chutes right as the wind picked up.”

“And you landed in the Bog?”

“Yup, right outside Old Ponyville, heart of Zackestria. I touched down on a nice, dry patch. Soarin was off-course to my east. I had my survival kit out before my hooves hit the ground, and I pounded my way over to where I last saw him. Compass, a radio, and a local map of the area. Twenty years of military training did the rest for me. I buzzed the radio as I ran, but couldn’t call up any nearby outposts.”

“Did you find Soarin?”

“Yeh.” Spitfire sighed, rubbing the side of her head with a hoof. “I heard him first, though. By the time I reached him...no. Zack had got to him first, he was trussed up like a turkey in his parachute cords. Dangling like an apple on a branch. The Zack was still there...chowing down. It had...it had gotten...entangled in him, his innards caught around its neck. So every time it moved, it rang him like a bucking bell!”

Spitfire stifles herself with a hoof, waving over at a nearby attendant. The nurse brings a glass of water, smiling as Spitfire sips it slowly, calming herself.

“I still had my sidearm. Mini-crossbow, perfectly silent. Put one in the Zack while it was busy. Soarin was down. I was all alone...and that’s when she showed up.”

“A pony living in the bog?”

“No, a mare, Skywatcher, on my radio. Frequency just popped up on the thing. ‘I saw an explosion in the sky, is there a flight crew out there? Somepony, anypony, respond!’ So I did. She seemed glad to hear I was okay, and that I’d taken care of the Zack. She was nearby, but the shack she was broadcasting from was surrounded, I couldn’t go there. She helped kick my rump into gear, though. ‘Come on, you’re a military pilot! Look on your map; use those falcon eyes and find a way out. There’s an overpass through the bog between Ponyville and Haltergate, a good place for an airlift.’”

I simply nod my head, slowly, peeking at my notes before Spitfire continues.

“She helped me pull it together, got me to count up my gear, get my sidearm loaded and sorted. I was ready, the overpass was only three klicks away, I could make it if I kept good pace. I was about to leave the clearing before I heard her voice again. ‘Forgetting somepony?’ I turned back around, Soarin had just...turned, still tangled up, but reaching out to me. Friend of twenty years, and the last moment I see him was this. I put a bolt in his brow, sucked it up, and hauled my rump to the overpass.”

“Was it difficult, moving through the bog?”

“Difficult? Hay yeh. Scary, too. Zack doesn’t need air, he can hang out in a swamp for a decade, just waiting. Any pool could have been holding a small army. Just one slip, I fall in. Zack gets that lunch he’s been hoping for. I managed to get a good klick down in an hour, given the terrain, when I heard them. Off to my east, then south, behind me. Then my west, and north. Zack had me surrounded. Boy, he must love the smell of military hardflank. I was at a sorta clearing, there were no trees, and only shallow pools. A cart loaded with food supplies was there, bogged down and abandoned. I climbed up on it, Skywatcher helping me along. ‘First rule of fighting Zack, get as high up as you can.’ I sat there, listening to the howls. Waiting.”

“How many came?”

“Twenty, maybe more. They came one, maybe two at a time. Easy as long as I kept my cool. Skywatcher let me know when one was close. ‘Load, deep breath, fire, repeat. That’s the mantra. Zack ain’t rushing, filly, why are you?’ Let’s just say, when it was done I didn’t need to step in any more puddles on the way out. But that was only the start, when Zack howls, other Zacks hear him, and howl. I’d have the whole bog on me in an hour, at most. That’s when I really start to pull my rump into motion.”

“Skywatcher helped you see the Zeds?”

“She could hear them getting close on the radio. She told me.”

“Okay. Please, continue.”

“Right, I had two klicks down and one left to burn. Whole swamp was alive with that long, droning howl. It’s not like wolves, or something. You can tell the wolves are speaking to each other when they howl, coordinating. There’s intelligence in there. Zack, he just sorta...does it. No real reason or planning why. I ended up at a large cliff; fairly steep, but easy enough to get down. At least, if I didn’t have the hordes of the moon on my tail, and ringing in my ears. I tried to move too quick and slipped, rolled mane over tail, and hit the rock at the bottom. Hard.”

“Were you injured?”

“Pretty badly, yeh. Right, rear hoof was twisted, and my front, right leg got cut by a piece of flint on the rock. Hurt like hay to put weight on them, and you can’t gallop with half your legs. I ended up lying there, sinking into the mud, crying. Waiting for Zack to stumble over and get it done.”

“What stopped you? What...saved you?”

“Skywatcher.” Spitfire’s expression turns to a dreamy smile, staring out once more at the sun, now setting across the sky. “‘Are you hurt, filly? Get up, I can hear Zack loud and clear, and this is on a bucking radio!’ I didn’t wanna, it hurt like a mule and I just wanted it to stop. She yelled every insult I’ve ever heard at me, before she pulled out the big guns. ‘You wanna end up like your mother!?’ That got my rump out of the mud. Got me stumbling, legs burning, eyes streaming. Half a klick left, she said. A hoofstep at a time. I could see the overpass, now. It was only a half-klick away, like she said, so close.”

“What about the Zeds, were they close, too?”

“Closer than I thought. A few fell down the cliff as I was stumbling away. Buckers either didn’t get hurt, or didn’t notice. Quarter-klick left. Skywatcher was pouring it into my head. ‘C’mon Spit, you can do it. Come on, only a few more metres. Don’t stop now, Little Lantern!’ I stumbled, tripped and crawled my way there. I hauled rump up that overpass, and I popped my flare right as I reached the top. Zack was all over the swamp below, whole place lit up like a hive. I didn't care, because I could see two pegasi circling the swamp, heading over to me. Felt like a good idea to black out at the time.”

“And when you came to?”

“I was in the Cirrus Square Military Hospital. Stitches and bandages holding me together. Docs took the tests, mulled over the psych reports, then struck me off active duty, due to trauma. Add to that my legs still being a little stiff, and my right wing...well. It still can’t quite move like it used to do.”

“That seems quite harsh, what caused the psychiatric review?”

Spitifire levels her gaze with me, though her mane has lost its intensity with age, her eyes still carry the kindling of her namesake.

“I recognise those reports in your notes, don’t play dumb with me. I don’t bucking care what some white-coat tells me. I don’t care that they tell me no ponies live near Froggy Bottom Bog, that it’s not a tactical asset. I don’t care that no pony called Skywatcher is on their rolls, not even that she knew about my mother, that my mother was called Skygazer, and she knew the nickname my mother used to give me. You have your story, Quill Stroke. Take it for the words of a crazy mare, or the tale of a troubled filly in even more troubled times. Your choice, but my part in it? It finished just after I woke up in that hospital.”