Champions Unsung

by SpilledInk

First published 27th of August, 2016

Spitfire and the Wonderbolts are up against motor sport racers

The Wonderbolts are some of the fastest and most elite athletes in Equestria. They've earned their reputation through sweat, grit, and the desire to win, and they stuck with each other like family through the best and worst of times. When a group of motorsports racers arrive and bring a challenge with them, Spitfire isn't so willing to have them damage her team's reputation. Tensions rise, rivalries are made, wills are tested, and careers are put on the line.

Alternate Universe tag because of modern-day technology in Equestria

Editors: Akashic Brony, BaeroRemedy, jeray2000, DashMaster

Part 1: Throwing Down Gauntlets

Every fiber in her body craved for more. The adrenaline, the speed, the wind against her face, Spitfire loved it all. She flapped her wings as hard she could around the oval track, and she had the place all to herself. With a brief glance at her wrist, she checked her speed. There were no other racers. Her only opponent was her own ego.

One-fifty miles an hour! she told herself.

The turn was coming. Spitfire banked to her left, then began her move. The Gs were pushing against her body, but she flapped even harder to try to keep up her speed.

“Come on! Come on! Come on!” she said to herself as she muscled her way through the outside of the turn, fighting against the forces acting on her.

On the exit of the corner, she straightened out and dashed to the finish, which was nothing more than a blur to her now. As far as she was concerned, she was the queen of speed, and she owned that track. She felt a grin on her face as she crossed the line.

“Yes!” she cheered to herself. She then landed with a satisfied thump on the ground. Normally, on an actual show, fans would already be cheering her. She knew that feeling well, having heard millions of voices cry out for her and the Wonderbolts hundreds of times in the past. She felt as though she could already hear the crowd yelling, ‘Spitfire! Spitfire! Spitfire!’

Satisfied with her time, Spitfire picked up her gear. As she wiped away some of her sweat with a towel, she noted the banners advertising the upcoming Athletes’ Cup.

The Athlete’s Cup was an event that featured the best sports-ponies going head-to-head. Various teams from multiple disciplines would go against each other in different games. Nonetheless, the underlying cause was to help raise awareness and funds to aspiring athletes. In fact, one of the main highlights was having profits donated to help those in the junior levels. As a result, an upbeat and cheerful atmosphere was always present among all of the participants, as they knew that whether they won or not, they were still contributing to a greater cause.

This year, the Wonderbolts had decided to run as their own official team. A number of Equestria’s royal guards had also signed up as an independent group, headed by Shining Armor. The roster was quickly filled up with other entries as well, including from hoofball players, other flyers, and triathletes.

Checking her phone, Spitfire found the PR staff’s messages asking for a few words from her for an article about the Athlete’s Cup. Since she had quite a walk back to the gym, she decided to type away.

‘We all had our heroes growing up,’ she wrote, ‘I couldn’t have reached where I am today without inspiration from them. I’m incredibly thankful for all the help and support I got as well. Because of that, I’ve always believed in giving back, especially by helping the next generation of athletes and champions.’

Spitfire found herself smiling to herself as she thought of her next words.

‘After all, I was like them at some point in my life, hungry to prove myself out there to everypony I met. To be part of the Athlete’s Cup is my way showing that, yes, we do know they exist and that we do care about them. We want them to be successful and to achieve greatness. I think knowing that knowing somepony out there is rooting for you makes all the difference.’

“That should keep PR happy for a bit,” Spitfire murmured to herself, then sent the reply.

She stepped through the door and looked around. The Canterlot Performance Center was busy for the day. The place quickly became popular among Equestria's top athletes and passionate fitness enthusiasts. There were sealed off sections on the sides, thus allowing a more personal and private training space. The sight of new and old equipment being moved to and fro was a common occurrence, considering the various talents that walked through the doors.

However, the main highlight of the gym was the fact that the building was also a performance lab. Scientists, experts, and doctors armed with specialized equipment could come up with nutrition and fitness plans for anypony who approached them, and they were always excited to collect data and perform tests. The sight of a scientist testing somepony was a common occurrence.

For Spitfire, the best part of it all was a strict zero tolerance rule to paparazzi and anypony from the media, with an exception to those who were given permission for specific individuals. Spitfire glanced at the rest of the Wonderbolts team being busy with their own exercises, and she was pleased to see that none of them were slacking off.

I should start a few exercises myself, she thought. She checked her watch. Still got some time before that photoshoot.

Grabbing an exercise ball, she balanced her stomach on top of it, then lifted her limbs off the ground and spread herself out, activating all of her muscles to keep herself stabilized. As she was exercising, a pair of stallions, a unicorn and an earth pony, walked past Spitfire, and she managed to overhear the last bits of their conversation. She noted that both of them were sporting sponsored clothing.

“...Because we’re heading off tomorrow, we’ll hit the ground running and do laps in the hotel’s pool,” the unicorn said, scribbling on his clipboard with his magic and floating a bottle out to the earth pony. He had a thick accent from Great Braytain.

The earth pony nodded, grabbing the bottle with his hoof and taking a sip. “Any feedback for our work today?” he asked, his words having an accent between Equestrian and Great Braytain.

“You’re on track in terms of your strength,” the trainer said. “As per your request, we’ll be putting extra focus on reaction, coordination, and mental work when we get back here. However, we’ll still be doing core, upper body, legs, endurance, and the rest of the usual bit as well. Don’t worry, I’ve got some diversity in mind to keep things interesting. If you’ve got some ideas as well, feel free to let me know.”

“Cheers,” the earth pony said.

“See you.” The trainer nodded before making his way.

Spitfire was focused on her routine. However, her eyes turned toward the earth pony stranger with the metallic silver coat and a forest-green mane. Shorter than the average stallion, still, he composed himself as if he was the tallest of them. She almost rolled her eyes at another small-name big ego. However, something somehow stopped her. His demeanor, the way he walked didn’t betray unearned confidence. On the contrary, she felt the impact in his steps and that his arrogant stride was born from skill, experience, and determination.

Spitfire froze in place as he walked her direction. Was he another young buck that wanted to ‘taste the fire’ and ask her on a date?

That would be interesting, she thought as she smirked; she’d delight in swatting him back with her tail. She looked away and swiveled now, only pretending to be focused on her exercise. To her relief, or perhaps disappointment, he walked past her.

She got a good glimpse, though. His emblem on his flanks was a digital RPM gauge at it’s very limit.

Then, Redline shot a look at her, and she diverted her attention away.

Just looking at his cutie mark, Spitfire told herself. On the other hoof, she also got a sight of lean, hardened muscles. Though they were not bulky by any standards, they were still toned and well-sculpted. She blushed at the thought, then quickly got rid of it as she realized that some eyes could be looking at her.

“Ah, Redline, there you are,” a voice said.

Spitfire turned to see Fancy Pants, one of the most well-known names in Canterlot, accompanied by a journalist and one of the gym’s scientists.

“I trust you’re getting comfortable in this performance center?” Fancy Pants asked. “I apologize if we don’t have the specialized equipment for your training.”

“It’s fine,” Redline replied. “My trainer and I are very flexible with getting workouts done.”

Fancy Pants gave a chuckle. “At least it’s better than working out in a hotel.”

Then, he gestured to the scientist and the journalist. “Shall we do your interview and sampling?”

Redline nodded. “Let’s get started.”

The scientist set his kit on the ground and opened it. Then, he went to work, collecting a sample of Redline’s blood. Redline eased back, leaning against the wall near Spitfire.

Then, Fancy Pants faced Spitfire, giving her a warm smile. “Afternoon, Spitfire.”

Spitfire got off the exercise ball and nodded. “Afternoon, Fancy Pants. What brings you here?”

Fancy Pants gave an even wider grin. “I’m his manager.”

“Manager?” Spitfire asked, shocked. Years in Canterlot had taught her that when somepony with a name as prestigious as Fancy Pants’ was concerned, a simple approval could open the floodgates to one’s career and reputation. “I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.”

“I couldn’t resist,” Fancy Pants replied. “Redline has a very unique set of skills, a mix that I have never seen before in Equestria. I thought it’d be a shame if a fine athlete such as him wasn’t given a fair chance to excel.”

Redirecting her focus, Spitfire looked at Redline, but his gaze was low as he was still sipping his drink. Since he was now closer to her, she finally managed to get a better look of him. His eyes were a deeper, richer shade of green. His mane and tail were cut short like a stereotypical work horse, but what truly made him stand out was his size. He was extremely lean and had very little bulk to his toned muscles. However, one area that had considerable build was his thick neck, so much to the point where it was disproportionate to the rest of his body. Because he was still very young, and Spitfire guessed he was on the final moments of his teenage life.

With her break over, Spitfire returned to the same exercise, focusing on her balance over. Nonetheless, she could still keep her attention to Redline. Wondering what makes this kid so special, she thought.

Once the scientist was done taking samples and left them alone, Fancy Pants motioned the journalist. “You can start asking him.”

The journalist nodded, then pulled out a notepad. “Hello, Redline. I’m a writer for Equestrian Athlete and Fitness magazine. ”

Redline nodded again. “Where do we start?”

The journalist flipped open her notebook to a clean page. Her horn lit, and a pencil floated gently on top of the paper. “So, Redline, looking forward to having some fun this Athletes’ Cup?”

“We’re not here to have fun,” Redline replied flatly. “We’re here to win.”

Spitfire rolled her eyes. Oh, great, another hotshot thinking he’s great.

The reporter froze. “Uh… okay, then. What inspired you to be in motorsports?”

“My family brought me to a Formula One race, and it was the first time I’ve ever been exposed to motorsports.” Redline set his drink down, a hint of a smile etched on his lips like a child meeting his hero. “I learned very quickly that pegasi and griffons aren’t the only fast Equestrians that exist… and everything else does feel quite slow after getting out of the car.”

Spitfire’s ears perked up, and her jaw tightened. Keep talking like that, kid, and I’ll make you eat your words.

Redline continued, “When I watched those racers…. It was something. The speed that bent the rules of physics, the Gs that can peak to five, the forces that fought against you, the noise that shook your organs. I fell in love with it all.”

Spitfire scoffed. Five Gs? That’s a normal day of flying in Wonderbolt camp, so what would make this kid so special?

“Inspirational. How do you feel on where you are now?” the journalist asked, her floating pen scribbling energetically.

“I’m extremely thankful. Been a long way since I started in my karting days. Proper, raw racing karts, by the way. You’ve got the most awesome job in existence, and you travel around the world in the process. I look at my mirrors to see some racers that I watched on the telly. I end up thinking, ‘Wow, I’m racing and fighting against my heroes!’ It’s bloody awesome! I’m incredibly thankful for the MareClaren F1 team for choosing me to be part of their young driver program.”

“So what are your thoughts in the racing here in Equestria?” the journalist asked.

“Rather disappointed, actually,” Redline replied. “Sure, you’ve got those student-built, downhill racers, but that’s as far as racing goes, and they’re just built for the sake of fun and appearance like some fashion show. If you see the cars made in Germaneigh, for example, those teams are in it to win. Now that’s something.”

Spitfire arched an eyebrow. Granted, she had seen the derbys done by young students, even competing in a few of her own, but she wouldn’t accept Redline defacing something that made her childhood memories.

“How do you see yourself?” the journalist asked.

“I’m just a regular bloke that you’d see walking down the street,” Redline said with a shrug. “I’ve been given very unique opportunities in life, and I enjoy every moment of it.”

“Any hobbies when you’re not racing?”

“Fitness, triathlons, and cycling. I’ve recently picked up boxing and squash.”

The journalist raised her eyebrows. “Quite an active lifestyle for a race car driver. How much do you train in a day?”

“Six hours.”

“Uhh… come again?” the journalist stuttered

“Six hours,” Redline repeated calmly.

“Okay, then,” the journalist scribbled on her notepad.

Spitfire arched an eyebrow. Her concentration broke, and she caught herself as she fell off the exercise ball. Six hours a day? For what?!

Then, the journalist turned her attention back to Redline. “How’s it like to be representing Equestria, and what are your thoughts on being the first Equestrian racer?”

“It’s a tremendous honour, but I don’t let that get the better of me.”

“Any thoughts on your history from Great Braytain? Your mane and tail are racing green, and that colour has quite the history back there in motorsports.”

“I’m a Brayt, and I’m an Equestrian. Racing’s got a lot of history back in Braytain, I’m hoping to share that enthusiasm here.”

Then, Spitfire caught the journalist giving a brief glance at her.

“So… what are your thoughts on the Wonderbolts?” the journalist asked.

The words were enough to turn the attention towards them. Redline quickly gave a glance at Spitfire, then paused.

Looking around, Spitfire realized that all the Wonderbolts nearby were, in one way or another, anticipating Redline’s response.

Finally, Redline replied, “They’re something, to say the least.”

Spitfire felt at ease, knowing that at least Redline understood how to handle the media.

“Something?’” the journalist pressed on. “Come on, Redline! They’re the fastest ponies in Equestria!”

“I respect their talent and their ethic of being fast together as a team,” Redline said. “It’s fun being fast. I’m not trying to disregard all the other sports out there, but no matter where you are, whether you’re the ‘fastest’ or not, you always want to check your mirrors to keep an eye on who could be right behind you.”

The journalist tilted her head. “Are you… implying something?”

Spitfire gently set her hooves down. She focused on Redline’s response. He didn’t utter a word. Instead, for a brief moment, he gave a subtle smirk, then quickly hid it behind a stoic face.

Come on, kid, Spitfire thought. Spit it out.

“We’re not writing-off any team for the Athletes’ Cup,” Redline said. “We consider all the other teams a threat nonetheless because they all have a trick or two up their sleeves.”

Spitfire knew that language, the kind of words used to make sure one would look good to sponsors. Deep inside, she knew Redline was hiding something.

“Are you saying that you can beat them? That you can win the Athletes’ Cup?” the journalist was barely able to contain her excitement.

Keeping his composure, Redline replied, “None of us racers would be where we are if we didn’t believe we’d win. Our rivals may be stronger than us, they may be bigger than us, but when the competition starts, one of two things will happen: either we win, or we die trying.”

The journalist quickly scribbled her last few notes. “I think that wraps it up for today.”

Redline nodded. Fancy Pants began escorting the journalist out, filling in any extra details.

Spitfire frowned; that was the last straw. She couldn’t simply allow somepony, let alone a teenager, brush aside their work like that. Nonetheless, she held her tongue. Looking over her shoulder, she shared a look with the rest of the Wonderbolts, but one of them was already making their way to Redline.

“So,” Rainbow Dash started, “you go fast, huh?”

“I do it for a living,” Redline replied. “Looking forward to the Athlete’s Cup.”

Rainbow Dash laughed. “You? An athlete? As if! All you do is sit down and turn a wheel all day!”

Redline’s jaw tightened. “Do you have a problem with the sport?”

Rainbow Dash scoffed. “‘Sport?!’ Cute name for a hobby.”

“Are you enjoying your giggle?” Redline grumbled.

“You bet I am, mate!” Rainbow Dash laughed, poorly imitating Redline’s accent.

“Listen, you flyers have to be within two feet of each other. We racers fight down to the millimeter.”

“Ooh, big deal! I’ve read your team roster. One of you ‘athletes’ is a video gamer, and look at you! You’re scrawny! How old are you, twenty?”

“Nineteen,” Redline said sharply.

Rainbow Dash broke into laughter. “Oh, did you get your mommy to help you put your helmet on?!”

Redline dropped his bag and marched his way to Rainbow Dash. Spitfire was quick to jump in and push them apart. “Hey! Both of you! Cut it out!”

Redline grabbed Spitfire’s hoof. He had a steel grip like a weightlifter. “I was just leaving.”

He turned around and grabbed his bag, disappearing as he made his way through the gym.

Spitfire turned to the Wonderbolt, and she could feel herself fuming. “Rainbow Dash, what was that about?!”

“Those motor racers have been prancing around all week like they’re some big deal,” the Rainbow Dash hissed. “They think they can compete with us just because they can sit down and press pedals. That’s an insult to what it means to be an athlete!”

Spitfire paused. She noticed that there were a lot of eyes looking at them, and an awkward silence had filled the gym. “We’ll talk about this later, back at Wonderbolts HQ. In the meantime, stay out of trouble.”

Then, she redirected her attention to the rest of the Wonderbolts in the gym. “That goes for the rest of you, too.”

Another Wonderbolt stepped forward. “But Spitfire! We gotta tone down their egoes!”

“Soarin, the cup’s meant to symbolize unity in helping the next generation of athletes. The last thing we need right now is to get into a fight.” Spitfire gave an irritated sigh as she checked her watch. “Look, our photo shoot’s gonna start soon. Everypony, wrap up your last set.”

Then, she counted the Wonderbolts. “Where’s Fleetfoot?”

“Somepony call my name?” a voice replied. Fleetfoot stepped out of the locker room with her gear ready for the photoshoot. “Heard that there’s already some rivalry in the Athlete’s cup.”

“You heard right,” Spitfire said. “Rainbow Crash over here already started some beef with one of the teams.”

“Which one?” Fleetfoot asked.

“The racecar drivers,” Spitfire replied.

Fleetfoot froze. Her face changed, a mix of both surprise and worry. “Oh… is Redline in the team?”

The nods were enough for her answer.

“Then we’ve got a lot of competition,” Fleetfoot said flatly.

“Wait, you know him?” Spitfire asked.

Fleetfoot nodded. “Media thing not too long ago.”

“Oh, come on.” Spitfire picked up her gear. “What’s a kid like him got that we don’t?”

“You’ll be amazed,” Fleetfoot replied.

The rest of the team picked up their gear and proceeded to one of the gym’s private rooms. Inside, they found the media team set up and ready for the photoshoot. However, another team was in the room. Judging by the thick, fire-resistant suit, colorful helmets, and plentiful sponsorships, the Wonderbolts new all too well who they were, all of them representing their respective teams.

Spitfire found herself gritting her teeth. Oh, for the love of--

“Ahh, there you are!” a voice greeted them. Fancy Pants emerged from the group of racers and waved at the Wonderbolts. “Excellent, now we can get started.”

“I thought we were doing team photos,” Spitfire said.

“Yes, you will,” Fancy Pants replied. “But we’re also doing some ‘rivalry’ pictures. After all, the Athlete’s Cup is all about some friendly competition while helping tomorrow's champions!”

He gestured the racers. “Redline, you’re up.”

Redline stepped forward, his MareClaren racing colors and sponsors decorating his racing suit. His helmet was painted with graceful, elegant lines across the sides which turned bold, angular, and aggressive towards the front. They made Spitfire think of them as some form of warpaint. Spitfire put on her flight suit and goggles, then walked up to the screen.

“Hey,” Spitfire said to Redline in a low tone, low enough so that only he could hear it, “I’m sorry about what happened back there. I know it’s tough not being known, and I understand that racing’s your life. No hard feelings?”

“I don’t have a problem with ponies not knowing me,” Redline said flatly. “It’s when they insult my sport do I have problems.”

“Redline, flip up your visor, please,” the photographer said. “Now, both of you, look angry, like boxers.”

Spitfire knew how to set up the act. She frowned, tilted her chin down, then leaned forward, Redline doing the same. She caught Redline’s stoic gaze and saw that he wasn’t acting. He was serious about this rivalry, and he was ready to give everything he’s got to beat them.

If there was another perk Spitfire loved about her job, it was winning, and she wouldn’t mind putting some egos at their places. Before she knew it, the photos were taken, and the next Wonderbolt and racer were asked for their picture. Spitfire and Redline returned to the company of their teams, who were chatting amongst themselves.

Redline approached a racer, who was busy unzipping his racing suit. Spitfire noticed that he had bits of plating around the back, elbows, and knees of his clothing.

“How’s it going, mate?” Redline asked, shaking the racer’s hoof.

“Pretty well, Red,” the racer replied with a thick accent. He pulled up his sleeves, revealing scars from some form of operation on his forehooves.

“Woah, what happened there?” Redline asked.

“Surgery,” the pony replied. “That’s what happens when you race motorcycles too much.”

“You motorcyclists are insane,” Redline commented.

Another driver approached Redline. “Oi, Red, where’d you find some parking?”

“My apartment’s not too far,” Redline replied. “So I walked. There’s a lot of parking everywhere, nonetheless. Stadiums, restaurants, supermarkets, the bloody M25.”

There were a few laughs among the racers.

“So,” Redline continued, “which among you gents are up for some cycling after this? I know a great path around the mountains.”

Spitfire gave an irritated sigh. She focused back on the Wonderbolts, doing everything she can to block the racers out of her mind.

This is going to be a long competition, Spitfire thought.

The Wonderbolts took their starting positions. Below them, the arena was filled with spectators and cameras. Murmur echoed its way up to them. Almost all of the teams in the Athletes’ Cup had already done their entrances, and now was the time for the Wonderbolts to do theirs. They knew the routine; they rehearsed so much it was second-nature to them.

Then, the music began. Every thought in Spitfire drained out of her head. As the guitar riff began, she could feel the chills travel down her spine, her adrenaline pumping through every vein. At that moment, nothing else mattered, and it was just her, the Wonderbolts, and their flying. She could feel her heart beating faster, and already, she was looking forward to the thrill.

With one big breath, she took a dive, the spotlight turned towards her, and at once, the crowds roared into cheers. She continued her descent. In her peripheral vision, she saw the screens reveal the rest of the Wonderbolts close behind her, moving around like a spiral. Then, at the last moment, they pulled up just as the beat kicked in and began to circle the arena. On cue, they all activated their smoke machines, then spread apart to create a massive smoke formation.

They all gathered into smaller groups and continued the rest of their routine. None of them needed to check on each other because they knew how to trust each other, to believe that everypony would do their job. Those who weren’t performing any routines were circling the stadium.

Before Spitfire knew it, they were at the finale of their routine. The Wonderbolts separated into two groups, and they flew straight towards each other, appearing as though they were in-line. Then, at the last moment, they tilted ninety degrees and narrowly passed each other.

The crowd exploded into cheers as the Wonderbolts landed. The team took a bow, then took their seats.

“A very big thank you to the Wonderbolts for that sensational presentation!” Sapphire Shores said, the MC of the event. She stood on the front stage wearing an elegant dress.

After calming herself down, Spitfire looked around. She realized that there was only one team left.

“And now,” Sapphire Shores continued, “for our final team, they are quite the unexpected bunch! Introducing, the motorsport racers, Team Horsepower!”

The stadium lights darkened. Then, there was the sound of high-revving motors.

Then, projections lit up the walls of the arena. They were showing a group of motorcycle racers take a turn, all of them so low to the track they were scraping their elbows and knees against the asphalt.

Then, one rider on the outside line slipped off his bike, sliding across the gravel on the side of the track. Spitfire recognized him; he was the rider that talked with Redline. Then, he began to tumble, and the camera showed him heading straight towards the barriers.

Spitfire felt her gut twist. Though the gravel area was generous, it wasn’t enough to stop the rider. She sunk in her seat as she saw him smash his helmet against the barrier, then hit the ground.

The feed went black. Another roar of engines rose, and the video cut to an image of two formula cars racing out of a tunnel. Redline was clearly the car behind, and both of them were racing down tight city streets.

“Redline goes on the attack!” a commentator was saying.

Redline started to make a move for the outside line. The two cars slammed on their brakes, but the car in front lost its grip, and its wheels locked, sliding uselessly against the track. To react fast enough was impossible.

“Contact between the two cars!”

Redline’s car slammed right into the other’s rear wheels, and the sheer force was enough to lift the nose of his car.

“Redline’s airborne! He’s going to the barrier!”

Spitfire felt her heart sink. She knew very well that those barriers and the cars themselves should be designed to take a serious hit and keep the driver safely inside, but nothing would stop one’s internal organs from hitting one’s ribcage at speed.

Redline’s car slammed against the barrier, then violently spun as it landed. Debris exploded everywhere, and the wings and suspension had been torn off. Redline was still, his head tilted to the side, resting against his car. Spitfire didn’t see the cocky racecar driver anymore. Instead, all she was looking at was somepony who was fighting for his life.

Then, silence fell.

“Are you okay, Redline?” another voice asked, the radio message between Redline and his team.

No response came. Spitfire realized that the whole arena was silent and that she was holding her breath. She tried to exhale, but only let out a shudder. Why are they showing this? She thought, the graphic scene still on the screens. Why are they showing this?!

“Redline,” the voice continued, “if you can hear me, the medical team’s on the way.”

The video feed split into two. One half cut to the rider stumbling his way back up, and the other showed Redline being carried away in a stretcher with an oxygen mask and a neck brace.

Then, the video cut into black. “When I woke up,” Redline’s voice said, “every part of me hurt, especially my back, but the first thing I asked was when could I get back in the car… Racing is one of the most dangerous sports in the world. All racers have come to terms with that one way or another. But we’re passionate about this sport, and we’ve all given everything to it. This is our life, and we’ll never give it up so easily.”

Finally, the lights filled the arena with colour. Electronic and orchestral music echoed through the air. A racer’s name marched across the displays, and many fans broke into cheers. Then, a trap door on the stage opened. A motorcyclist appeared, wearing the gear of his racing team and bearing the Team Horsepower flag. He was the same rider who hit his head against the barrier.

As he started riding out, circling the stadium, the displays cut to a video of one of his race victories, proudly throwing punching the air with his hooves.

“What a tremendous race!” a commentator said. “He’s a champion for a reason, and he’s just proven it!”

Then, the rider parked his bike to the side and made his way to his seat. At the same time, another car appeared, this time a formula car covered with the livery of a different motorsports team, and the arena lights changed their hue, imitating the colours of the vehicle.

The screens showed the next clip, which were two of those formula cars speeding towards an uphill, blind corner, a kind of turn where one couldn’t see around it.

Any sane pony would ease off and slow down for that, Spitfire thought.

Instead, the cars continued flat-out, and the commentator’s voice boomed through the speakers.

“They’re coming up on Eau Rouge! Camber on the outside line at over three hundred kilometres an hour!”

Spitfire’s jaw fell as the cars sped through the corner and up the hill. They were so fast that sparks flew, but Camber still managed to make the pass.

In the arena, Camber was already parking his car next to the motorcyclist. The next entrance began, and a sportscar appeared.

Spitfire quickly understood the pattern. A quick highlight of each racer, then a slow lap around the stadium. She took an interest in the various vehicles. Most of them were either sportscars or junior formula cars, which made Spitfire think of F1 cars that were much simpler and had the same design. All of their vehicles were covered with scratches, bits of tyre rubber, and dirt, yet the racers still proudly showed them like battle scars, and each of them was covered in the sponsors from their respective motorsports teams. As they assembled, only Redline was left to make an entrance.

As if on cue, the stadium changed colors once more, copying Redline’s racing livery. Then, he appeared on stage. To Spitfire’s surprise, he wasn’t driving a junior formula car. Instead, to her, it looked like an F1 car that had covered wheels and a closed cockpit. Compared to the other racers, Redline looked like he was piloting a spaceship. Around the arena, the passionate motorports fans were on their hooves, waving the flags frantically and cheering. But most of the cheering fans were from Great Braytain.

Looking to the screen, Spitfire watched Redline switching out of the car with another driver in the middle of the night. Then, the video cut to the day and showed Redline back in the race once more, this time crossing the finish line.

“They said young drivers never win it like this, but they’ve done it!” the commentator said. “Redline crosses the finish line! And just like that! Horsche’s third car, the reserve driver team, wins the Twenty-Four Hours of Le Manes!”

Then, Fancy Pants’s voice echoed from the video. “You’ve done it! You’ve made history, Red! You’re the first Equestrian to win Le Manes! Get in there!”

The video feed cut into a shot of Redline in the car, proudly throwing his hooves in the air. He even opened the door to wave at the fans.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Redline’s voice boomed through the radio. “Thank you so much, guys! That was amazing!”

Spitfire looked back towards Redline circling around the arena. Once he finished his lap around the arena, he parked it with the rest of the cars, and the music came to a close as he found his seat. He was smiling as he met the other racers.

Sapphire Shores appeared once more. “One more time! Let’s all give a warm welcome to all of our guests for this year’s Athletes’ Cup!”

The crowd cheered.

“And on top of that,” Sapphire Shores continued, “we would like to say thank you to these athletes for helping us raise awareness and funding for tomorrow’s athletes and future champions. Now that the intros are over, let’s get this party started!”

As the lights came on and the music began, Sapphire shores started her song. Spitfire couldn’t focus on the performance. Instead, she only stared at Redline and the other racers, their racing suits proudly showing each of their sponsors and their respective motorsports teams.

Donating to young athletes, right? She thought. So what’s with the sponsorships?

The first event was a relay race, the distances varying from challenge to challenge. The change from night to day had left a fair bit of moisture on the track, but nopony was necessarily concerned about it.

Spitfire sipped the last bits of her water. She and the Wonderbolts had been chatting amongst the other athletes, especially with the track and field team. Even though they all knew they’d be competing against each other, there was an aura of friendliness and calm moods throughout the track. Many competitors from opposing teams were casually talking amongst themselves, some even giving a good laugh.

“Any other tips?” Spitfire asked the sprinter.

“The dew’s made the track a bit damp today,” the sprinter said, “you may want to be a bit careful with your run.”

Spitfire nodded, then smiled. “Thanks for your help.”

Rainbow Dash gave a wave. “Hey, Spitfire.”

Then, she pointed towards another group. “Guess what the racers are up to now.”

The motorsport racers were surrounded by their engineers. They were wearing full-body suits that were decorated with their personal sponsors and their respective motorsports teams, but whoever supplied them their gear was sure to make themselves known: MareClaren Applied Technologies.

Judging by the engineers’ computer screens, the racers had different sensors embedded within their clothing to monitor biometric info, power output, efficiency, and other details. Some were even testing different shoes that didn’t look like normal track wear.

“Woah,” the sprinter whistled. “You know they’re serious when they’ve got an F1 team’s engineering know-how helping them out. Now that’s something.”

“I know at least a thing or two about flying.” Spitfire gave an irritated sigh. “Those suits will reduce drag, making them run faster.”

“And those shoes,” the sprinter said, pointing to them. “I mean, what are those? Science experiments? They’re using some sort of rubber on their soles, and I bet they’ll get extra grip in these damp conditions!”

“Think that’ll actually help them?” Spitfire asked.

“You tell me,” the sprinter replied sarcastically. “When the summer games were in Braytain, half of the medals won by the Braytish had MareClaren involved with them.”

Spitfire grit her teeth. That level of preparation was making all the others look like amateurs, and she wouldn’t let a group of young teenagers out-stage her team. Damn it, she thought.

“All athletes, please take your positions on the track,” an announcer said.

The non-competitors cleared the track. As Spitfire made her way to her part of the relay, she noted the engineers becoming ever more serious, their eyes glued to their screens.

Spitfire walked up to her line. Redline was beside her.

“Hey, Redline,” Spitfire said.

Redline didn’t respond. He was already in position to run. His eyes were a focused gaze, staring at the track.

As far as Spitfire was concerned, Redline was in the zone, and he’d blocked out any unnecessary thought. She knew that feeling well, the mind focused solely to one task. Fine, be that way, she thought.

“On your marks,” the announcer said.

Spitfire lowered herself, feeling her hooves against the track.

“Set.”

The starting gun was fired, and the crowds cheered as the athletes took off.

Spitfire kept her focus, watching her team intently. Rainbow Dash was quick to pass it to Fleetfoot, who then gave it to Soarin. Though the professional track and field athletes were in a league of their own, they were closely followed by the Wonderbolts and the racers.

Starting her run, Spitfire extended her hoof. Soarin was quick to slap the baton into her grasp, and Spitfire broke into a sprint. As she felt the curve of the track, Spitfire felt her stomach drop as she felt herself struggle with grip against the damp surface, but Redline was pushing on without any hesitation. He managed to overtake her on the curve, but once the track became straight, Spitfire felt the confidence to push even harder. She managed to find her grip, then inch her way past Redline.

By the time the two of them crossed the finish line, the crowd was on their hooves, cheering. Spitfire panted and wiped the sweat off of her forehead. She checked the results. The Wonderbolts were second, and the racers were third. Spitfire had won the race by only a foot, and she felt herself smile at that gap.

Then, Spitfire looked at Redline, who was gritting his teeth. She could sense his irritation.

“Good race, Redline,” Spitfire said, offering her hoof.

Redline nodded and shook it. Spitfire could still see his bitterness. Her smile disappeared.

“Oh, lighten up,” Spitfire said.

“We’re not here for games,” Redline said flatly. “We’re here to win… I need this win.”

Spitfire frowned. “You’re not exactly good at making friends.”

“If I wanted to make friends, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Then why are you here?” Spitfire asked, her voice stern.

“To stay fit to race.”

Spitfire raised an eyebrow. She could see his drive, his determination to win. Even against the odds, he was still giving everything he had. Though she wasn’t on good terms with him, she still respected that attitude. “Well, you got grit, kid. I respect that.”

Redline paused, then nodded. “Thanks.”

He turned and faced a sea of reporters making their way towards them.

The journalists shoved their cameras and microphones at Spitfire’s face. The flashes blinded her, but she managed to keep her composure. She knew how to respond, to keep any hint of tension away. She’d done so many she could do them on autopilot, with half of her mind elsewhere. Once the reporters were satisfied, Spitfire started making her way back to the Wonderbolts. She walked past Redline, who was with two other racers, and she managed to overhear them.

“So, Redline,” one of the reporters said, “you, Flywheel, and Camber have been friends since your early karting days. How were things like back then?”

“It was a lot of fun,” Redline said. “We were all teammates when we first started. When we’d travel, we’d always be together.”

“You should’ve seen us play hoofball,” Flywheel commented. “We were quite the trio of strikers you’d ever see.”

“We still do some cycling together every now and then,” Camber added.

The reporter nodded. “And with the GP2 championship coming up, how has your friendship been?”

“In racing, it’s a competitive world,” Redline said. “The fact that we all drive the same car in GP2 means the real champion will win thanks to skill, so we’re all sizing ourselves up against each other. Unless it’s in endurance racing. Since you share the car, there’s less secrecy among yourselves because you’re sharing perspectives on getting the best out of what you have. The three of us gents would make a good driver team.”

The reporter was scribbling on a notepad. “So has the competition strained the friendship between the three of you? For starters, you’re all being trained by different F1 teams. Redline, you’re with MareClaren. Camber, you’re with Mercedes-Buckz. And Flywheel, you’re with Whinnyams. On top of that, throughout the season, there have been some very close calls with you three, even full-on contact between the cars. Have you three been able to patch things up?”

There was an awkward silence. Spitfire felt her heart drop as she realized what they were implying.

“We… don’t really talk that often anymore,” Flywheel murmured.

“But all three of you are on the verge of F1 contracts,” the reporter emphasized. “Surely, by the time this season’s over, you should be able to get back together, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Camber said dismissively.

“Last question for the three of you,” the reporter said. “Starting with Redline. In a hypothetical situation, if you couldn’t win the last race and had to pick between Camber and Flywheel, who’d you want to see win?”

Spitfire tore herself away from earshot. She couldn’t bear to listen to it anymore. She continued walking, forcing herself to focus ahead of her. By the time she got back to the rest of the Wonderbolts, she was well away from them. Looking back, she saw Redline, Camber, and Flywheel going their separate ways to their engineers, away from the media.

Spitfire found herself sighing. Years in her profession have taught her that the media were like wolves. At the slightest hint of weakness, they would pounce and tear anypony apart. Spitfire had to teach herself how to build a thick skin against journalists, but even then, she knew that they had crossed the line.

Then, she looked at the Wonderbolts. The team had become her family. They stood by each other through the ups and downs of the seasons, yet they still held strong, closer than ever. She looked at Soarin, who was having a good laugh with Fleetfoot. She couldn’t imagine having to put their careers on the line if it meant making sure she’d win.

Spitfire opened her eyes. She found herself on the ground with her head against the floor. Looking around, she realized she was in a boxing ring. Watching her were the racers, their engineers, and the Wonderbolts. Their eyes scrutinized every bit of her, finding even the smallest sign of weakness.

“Come on, Spitfire!” Soarin yelled.

“Get up!” Rainbow Dash barked.

Spitfire forced herself to stand. She turned to the opposite side of the ring. Redline was waiting in his corner, his face serious. He lowered his stance, ready to fight. Without a moment’s hesitation, he charged and threw a punch.

Instinctively, Spitfire ducked. She sidestepped and made some distance between her and Redline. Her heart was beating fast. “Redline, what’s going on?!”

Redline didn’t respond. Instead, he made another move, dashing forward and throwing another punch.

Blocking the blow, Spitfire sidestepped and distanced herself once more. “I’m not going to fight you!”

“You would if your life depended on it!” Redline snarled.

This time, Spitfire was ready. She wasn’t listening to rational thought anymore, and the only thing on her mind was her will to live. She slipped through Redline punch, planted her forehooves to the ground, and readied her hindlegs, aiming for Redline’s head. Then, as she was about to kick with all her strength, she felt a force wrap around her, stopping her. Looking around, she realized that everything was encased in an aura, and time felt like it stopped.

“I think I have seen enough,” a voice said.

A figure appeared before Spitfire. She stood tall and proud, her ethereal mane gracefully flowing. Princess Luna had a subtle frown, unimpressed. She released her magical grasp on Spitfire.

Spitfire gave a bow, embarrassed. “Your highness, I can explain.”

“It seems your ‘rivalry’ is more than for the sake of sport,” Luna commented.

“Princess Luna, he’s an absolute jerk, and those racers and their engineers are ruining the spirit of the Athletes’ Cup!”

Luna paused. “Have you ever questioned why he is so bitter?”

Spitfire was quiet. She tilted her head and furrowed her brow.

“The Wonderbolts are always on the spotlight in Equestria’s sporting scene,” Luna added. “That fame does cast a long shadow, one that could, perhaps, have prevented others from proving their worth. I do not blame him for his drive to beat you, especially after those very… opinionated comments some members of your team have shared with the media.”

Then, Spitfire sighed. She knew the game of publicity. To say that sponsors were generous to the Wonderbolts was an understatement. The money from one show alone was enough for anypony to live comfortably, and the Wonderbolts do multiple throughout their tour. They could easily become the front page of the news without much effort. “He just wants to be given a chance, doesn’t he?”

Luna nodded.

“Your highness,” Spitfire started. “Can I visit him in his dream? I think it’s time for me to talk to him.”

Luna shook her head. “Absolutely not. Dreams are a very sensitive and private topic. Even I tread carefully from one dream to next. As much as I would like to resolve this issue, his businesses is only between you and the Wonderbolts.”

Then, Luna paused. She sighed.

“He hasn’t been sleeping very well,” she finally admitted. “Besides, I believe he will not be willing to talk to you until after he has proven his point.”

“What about his teammates and engineers?” Spitfire asked.

“They have just as much reason to be here as Redline. You can not force him to respect you, nor can he force you to respect him.”

Spitfire sat on the ground, staring at the floor. “Then what should we…”

Her voice trailed off. She sighed as the realization hit her. “What should I do?”

“Compete.”

Part 2: Driven to Win

With the road cycling challenge, the Wonderbolts easily took an early lead from the rest of the field, and they held that position throughout the race, something which gave the team enough confidence to power through the miles. As they reached the last section of the event, Spitfire looked up, realizing they had to go up and down the side of a mountain.

With the uphill path ahead, Spitfire lowered herself on her bike as she shifted through gears. She passed Soarin, indicating that she was taking her turn to lead the group. She looked behind her. The rest of the Wonderbolts were drafting in the slipstream, reducing the effort to use their pedals. The incline going up the mountain made Spitfire’s legs burn, but the roads were dry, giving her as much confidence as possible with her grip.

I hate cardio, she thought while she let out a small, barely audible groan as the path began to go downhill. Then, off in the distance, she spotted the finish line, and a wave of relief washed over her.

“Spitfire!” Soarin yelped. “Team Horsepower is behind us!”

Spitfire turned her head and felt her teeth grit. Redline was leading the group.

“One last push!” Spitfire said to the Wonderbolts. She could already feel the adrenaline filling her system. “We’re almost there!”

But the racers were quick. Before she knew it, Spitfire found Redline next to her. With a brief glance, she saw the racers wearing their low-drag suits, aerodynamic helmets, and specialized bikes. They even had mics and radios amongst themselves.

“Copy that,” Redline said. “You heard him, gents. Let’s push to the finish.”

They then barreled down the road, passing the Wonderbolts. Spitfire’s heart dropped as the whole team was passed so easily.

“Sprint to the finish!” Spitfire barked. Event after event, she’d watched the racers get special treatment from their engineers and scientists in lab coats. They always had the advantage with equipment, and their sponsors also made sure they were known. She’d become sick of that privilege. Determined, she shifted through a gear, then pedaled hard. She caught up to Redline and passed him. He gave her a glance, then moved to the side of the road.

They were approaching a wide left turn. Spitfire knew she’d have the inside line, giving her the advantage. Looking to the side, she saw her and Redline’s shadows, with hers still being ahead. She gave a subtle, sly grin as she knew she’d come out first.

Eat my dust, Red, she thought confidently.

Suddenly, she saw Redline’s shadow peel away. Her heart rushed as she looked to see Redline suddenly swerve, bringing himself to the inside line. Then, he pedalled harder to stay side-by-side with Spitfire, barely leaving any room for her.

Is he pushing me to the wall?! she thought.

Spitfire tried to push that worry aside. Instead, she focused on the corner, then determined how far she was willing to brake. She bled her speed, then started her turn, but immediately straightened out. Redline didn’t yield to her. Instinctively, she stopped herself.

“Hey!” she snarled at him.

Redline ignored her. At the last moment, he finally slammed on his brakes, then took the turn at a sharp angle like a motorcyclist. The racers did the same. Some of them took the turn side-by-side without any hesitation.

“Oh, for buck’s sake!” Spitfire barked.

Then, the rest of the Wonderbolts finally took the turn. Spitfire pedaled to catch up with them, re-forming the group. As she tried to speed up, her legs burned with agony, every fiber of her body telling her to slow down, and the racers easily distanced themselves from the Wonderbolts.

“Geez, they’re endurance machines!” Soarin panted as he strained to keep his pace consistent.

The racers spread themselves out, occupying as much of the road as they could. Suddenly, they began to slow down. The Wonderbolts caught up to their slipstream. Spitfire made a move in an attempt to pass some of the racers. Instead, the they kept their formation, and they offered barely any space. At that moment, their message was clear: either we respect each others’ space, or we go down together.

Spitfire didn’t want to take the risk. She knew very well that with enough precision, she could weave through that traffic, but the dangers of harming herself and the racers were too much for her to ignore.

The racers crossed the finish line to the applause of a number of spectators, and they cheered amongst themselves, shaking each others’ hooves.

Spitfire was holding her handlebars with an iron group. She got off her bike, then marched towards Redline.

“Hey, Redline!” she started. “What was that about?!”

“It was a race,” Redline said nonchalantly. “There was a gap, and we went for it.”

“What you did was outright reckless!” Spitfire could see her reflection on Redline’s visor, and she was fuming.

“And I gave you a gap,” Redline said harshly, “but you didn’t take it. If you don’t got for a gap that exists, then you’re not racing. We’re here to win. The main motivation for all of us is to win, not hit second or third. If you’re competing without any desire to win, why are you there in the first place?”

Spitfire was silent. She could feel every fibre of her body yelling at her to punch him. She was baring her teeth, and her wings were flared out in aggression. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the media taking photos of them. Already, she realized that she looked like she was the bully, and they were only making Redline look like the underdog. There was no way she could win this moment without looking like a fool.

Spitfire gave a sharp breath.

Remember what he’s trying to do, she told herself. She bit her lip, then sighed and relaxed her stance. She swallowed her pride, putting aside all her memories of her victories and accomplishments.“You’re right, Red.”

The words caught Redline off his guard. He froze, staring at her for a moment. Then, he remained silent.

“You win this challenge, by every word of the rules,” Spitfire added, forcing the words through her mouth. She turned, making her way to the Wonderbolts. But not with the spirit of it, she added in thought.

“Spitfire,” Redline said.

Spitfire ignored him.

“You’d make a good racer.”

The words made Spitfire stop. She felt her hooves stick to the ground. Turning her head, she looked at Redline. He didn’t look like he had any bitterness in him. Instead, it was respect, and for the first time, Spitfire felt that Redline was seeing her as an equal. Then, he gave her a nod.

Spitfire returned the gesture. Not only did she feel relieved, but, for some odd reason, she knew she accomplished something. She turned once more, continuing her way to the Wonderbolts’ team tent.

When she arrived at the table, she collapsed on a seat and gave a small groan. Now that the adrenaline was leaving her system, she finally realized how tired she was.

Fleetfoot walked by and offered her a drink. “You need a sip, Spitfire?”

“I need a massage, that’s what,” Spitfire replied. She eased back on the chair and watched the racers cheer among themselves. Geez, they don’t even look that winded.

“I know that look, Spitfire,” Fleetfoot said. “You’ve had that since the end of the first event. Something’s on your mind. We’ve all noticed it, and we’re getting worried.”

“Team Horspower,” Spitfire murmured.

“The racers?” Fleetfoot asked.

“I’m thinking that this whole little ‘rivalry’ we take for fun is a serious make-or-break deal for them.”

Fleetfoot sighed. “I can’t argue with that.”

Spitfire scanned through the gym of the Canterlot Performance Center. Today was a busy day, but what caught her attention was the fact that majority of the users were the pit crews from the various racing teams. Even in the private rooms, the teams had models of their cars so that they could practice.

Why would a pit crew need to be fit? Spitfire asked in thought.

She trotted past one of the rooms, watching the F1 team practice. A live timer was mounted on the wall. Then, they performed a tyre change, switching all four in two-and-a-half seconds. Spitfire raised her eyebrows, impressed with their reaction time and coordination, but she saw the team shaking their heads among themselves.

“One-point-nine seconds won’t beat itself, gents!” one of the pit crew commented. “Let’s do this again!”

Spitfire blinked in disbelief. Looks like even the pit crews are in a race, she thought with amusement.

She continued making her way. The next room was of another team practicing on the closed-cockpit car that Redline brought in. This time, she noted how there were only a few mechanics working on the car at a given time. In fact, some were sprinting back and forth as they were switching the tyres. She was impressed with how well they were rehearsing, with different crew members changing from one job to the next without any delay.

Could make a great exercise for coordination, she thought. Maybe we could learn a thing or two.

Then, she climbed up the stairs. Eventually, the sounds of the gym disappeared. Up ahead, she could hear Redline talking, and judging by his voice, she guessed he was in a conversation. Looking down, she found a piece of paper on the floor.

Spitfire reached down and grabbed the piece of paper. Flipping it around, she saw a table with Redline’s sponsors and times stamped next to them.

Why would Redline need to know how long his sponsors were seen by the cameras? Spitfire asked. Unless…

Then, she looked at the bottom, reading the first line of text:

‘Podium Bonuses:’

She folded away the paper. She didn’t need to see anything else because she knew all too well what was happening. The racers’ motivations to compete in the Athletes’ Cup finally all made sense to her. The sponsorships, the special treatment from engineers, and the bespoke gear.

Redline and the racers were getting paid by their sponsors to be there. They weren’t participating to help raise funding or awareness for young athletes; they were there just to earn money.

That jerk! Spitfire thought. She grit her teeth, then marched down the hall.

“Hey, Redline!” Spitfire called out.

Redline's voice paused. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Redline walked around the corner, stashing away his phone into his pocket.

Spitfire shoved the paper into Redline’s chest. “You dropped this,” she said harshly.

Before she knew it, she found herself forcing him against the wall. She even found her other hoof raised. She wanted to punch him, to beat him down to the ground. Every inch of her body wanted to start a fight.

But Redline didn’t flinch. Instead, he raised his foreleg to block her, then planted his other hoof against her chest. His reactions were fast, and he stared at her with a cold gaze.

At that moment, he sent one clear message: Your move.

Just do it, Spitfire, a voice said in Spitfire’s head. Just give him what he deserves.

Spitfire brought her hoof back, ready for the blow. Then, she hesitated.

With every ounce of willpower she could find, Spitfire let go of Redline. She wanted to say something back, but she shook her head instead. “You disgust me.”

“Our sponsors made their contribution for the young athletes,” Redline said flatly. “It just so happens that we get paid as well. Besides, your sponsors are still paying you to do whatever the hell you want.”

“Shut up!” Spitfire snarled. Then, she turned and marched down the stairs. She felt a small knot in her, knowing all too well that Redline had a point. Nonetheless, she brushed the thought aside.

If you want a fight for that win, Red, Spitfire thought. You’ll get a fight.

Once she was back on the main fitness area, Spitfire scanned the floor. Then, she found him doing pull ups. She walked up to him and gave a salute.

“Your highness,” Spitfire said.

“You don’t have to call me that when I’m off-duty, Spitfire,” Shining Armor said. He gave small grunt as he finished his last pull-up. “Nor do you need to call me ‘sir.’ So, can I help you with something?”

“Oh, nothing,” Spitfire said. “So, how you feeling about your soccer match against the racers tomorrow?”

“Looking forward to it!” Shining beamed with a massive grin. “Oh, I bet it’s gonna be fun! Cadance and Twilight are gonna be watching, so I’ve got some extra incentive to win!”

Spitfire sat on a bench. “Well, after going head-to-head against the racers on a number of occasions, I did learn a thing or two about them.”

Shining Armor tilted his head. “Like what?”

“They’re generally on the shorter side. They’ll try to use that to their advantage, but you’ve got reach. They’ll want to tire you out, so you just want to make sure your team will stay in formation…”

Throughout the soccer match, the score had been zero-zero. The majority of the time, the royal guards had stayed within their formation, and the racers kept on passing the ball among themselves, hoping to draw them out.

By the time the match was in overtime, everypony was itching to find a goal, but even then, both teams were holding out strong.

The Wonderbolts sat comfortably from their private box, the whole team fully engaged in what they were watching. They had won their match, but the winner of this final game would determine who would also win the Athletes’ Cup. If the racers lost, then the Wonderbolts would win.

“Guess those racers really are something, aren’t they?” Soarin commented.

“Mm-hmm,” Fleetfoot said. “Still can’t believe they do triathlons in their spare time.”

Spitfire ignored them. Instead, she focused on the match.

Suddenly, the trio of racers broke into a sprint, heading straight towards the goal with the rest of their team nearby. They passed the ball amongst each other and found themselves near Shining Armor, who was the goalie. Then, Redline kicked, but a defender blocked it, sending the ball out of the field. The referee blew a whistle and gestured for a corner kick.

The crowd started cheering. Spitfire stood up, gripping the handlebars in anticipation. She could feel her heart beating against her chest, the tension filling the air.

Camber took the corner kick and sent the ball through the air. All the players scrambled. Amongst the chaos, one figure rose above it. Flywheel jumped to the air and used his head.

Shining Armor dove, but he was too late.

The crowd broke into a frenzy of cheers. Spitfire sighed, then fell to her seat. Granted, she was disappointed that she and the Wonderbolts lost. However, she also felt relieved, thankful that the cup was over. She was done with putting up a facade.

She looked back at the field. The racers were celebrating amongst themselves. They may be at each others’ throats, but in that moment, she saw them as brothers, a family who understood and respected each other because they all knew what they were going through.

Finally, they got up, then shook hooves with the royal guards. They even started exchanging jerseys among each other.

Spitfire got off her seat. “Well, the award ceremony’s starting soon,” she said. “Let’s head to the podium.”

The Wonderbolts nodded in agreement. They proceeded down the stairs and met the royal guard team and the racers, who were already provided caps and watches by their sponsors.

Spitfire went to Redline, and they shared a look. “Well, Redline,” she said, “you win. You’re right. You racers proved yourselves to be among the top athletes of the world. Congrats.”

Without waiting for a response, she then approached Shining Armor and shook his hoof. “Good game.”

Shining Armor smiled. “Thanks.”

“Spitfire,” a voice said.

Spitfire turned and saw Redline.

“You Wonderbolts were a tough team,” he said. He extended his hoof, then gave a smile. “But it’s been a ton of fun.”

They shook hooves. For the first time, Spitfire saw Redline genuinely smile at her, and he didn’t have any hint of hostility. In fact, she, too, found herself smiling, and she felt grateful as she could feel the tension wash away.

Shining Armor approached the two of them. “It’s been quite the competition. How about the three of us grab some lunch after this?”

Spitfire and Redline nodded.

“Sounds good,” Spitfire said.

“Excuse me, athletes,” a staff member announced, “please proceed outside, we’ll be having the awards ceremony.”

All of them then proceeded outside, where a podium was waiting for them. The royal guard team took up the third place spot, the Wonderbolts second, and the racers first.

Princess Celestia and Princess Luna appeared, the trophies floating in their magical grasps.

“In third place, the royal guards!” Celestia’s voice boomed throughout the arena as she and Luna handed Shining Armor and his team. The crowds cheered and clapped.

The princesses then gave the Wonderbolts their trophies, and Princess Luna gave a small smile and nod to Spitfire.

“In second place,” Celestia announced, “the Wonderbolts!”

The arena was filled with cheers.

“And finally, first place!” Celestia said. “The racers, Team Horsepower!”

The racers held their trophies high to the applause of the stadium. Some even gave theirs a light toss in the air before catching it and giving it a kiss.

Then, Luna and Celestia were quick to scurry away from the podium.

Spitfire frowned. What’s gotten them in such a hurry?

She looked down and saw giant glass bottles neatly tucked away beneath the floor, out of sight from the fans. By the time she realized what was about to happen, the racers were ready.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers. “And now, the champagne!”

The racers shook their bottles, spraying amongst themselves. To everyone’s surprise, they were incredibly accurate with directing the flow to each others’ faces. The royal guards and the Wonderbolts did the same, albeit with sloppier aim.

Spitfire stared at the bottle in her hooves. She wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. After all, she was just beaten by a teenager in front of millions of spectators, and she didn’t care if second place was still a podium finish. Sure, she did what she set out to do, to give everything she had so Redline could prove himself, but it was all a hollow victory. The whole spirit of the Athletes’ Cup had been ruined, at least for her. At the end of the day, Redline and the racers won, but they were never interested in helping the next generation of athletes in the first place.

Looking down at the bottle, Spitfire lifted it to her head, pressed her lips against the top, then drank it by the mouthful. It had been out for a while, and the champagne had gone warm. Nonetheless, she drank as much as she could, hoping to wash away the sickening feeling in her gut.

Suddenly, a splash of champagne got on her face, and her eye stung. After wiping it off, she found Soarin smiling at her, knowing that he’d aimed his spray properly. Forcing a smile, Spitfire shook her bottle, then returned the gesture. She thought of the celebration as wasteful, but she might as well try to look like she was having fun.

Spitfire sat with Shining Armor and Redline in Canterlot Castle, and they had the dining room to themselves. She noted, though, that Redline was given his MareClaren shirt as well as a watch from one of his sponsors. Even with the Athletes’ Cup done, she still didn’t feel completely at ease with him. Somehow, something in her was telling her that Redline was still trying to prove something. Outside, the sun was shining, and one could see the numerous tourists visiting Canterlot.

“So, Redline,” Shining Armor started. “Heard motorsports will keep Equestria occupied for next weekend.”

Redline nodded. “We’ll be having a very busy week. Junior championships like GP2, F1, and the World Endurance Championship.”

“World Endurance Championship?” Spitfire asked.

Redline sported a grin. “It may have endurance in its name, but that’s not the case anymore. The sports cars are so well-developed you don’t have to hold back on performance, so you’re practically sprinting the whole race, and the races range from six to twenty-four hours. The only things that stop you would be re-fueling, tyre changes, and swapping the drivers.”

“And I assume an endurance car was the spaceship of a thing you drove in the opening ceremony?” Spitfire asked.

Redline nodded. “Specifically, it was a Le Manes Prototype. A tiny bit slower than F1 cars, but they’re a ton of fun to drive. What makes endurance racing so special is the fact that you race with other classes as well. In the LMP class, you’re the fastest, so you have to find way to weave through the traffic while driving with the slower classes who are also fighting among themselves.”

Spitfire’s jaw fell. In the realm of flying, she knew very well that racing around other, slower flyers was inherently reckless. “That’s dangerous!”

“The slower cars must keep to their racing lines,” Redline said, “and it’s the faster cars’ responsibility to drive around them. Being at the right place at the right time can allow you to catch up to your opponent, who could be caught up in the traffic. Your two second lead could disappear right then and there. Combine that with racing at night, the whole thing becomes quite special.”

Frowning, Spitfire held herself back from shaking her head. You racers are insane.

“So, Redline,” Shining Armor said, “If you’re in MareClaren’s junior F1 program, how’d you get to race with Horsche?”

“Typically, a lot of non-F1 drivers race in multiple series,” Redline said. “Since GP2 doesn’t race as often as F1, I was able to carve out some free time to race at other series. MareClaren’s got a lot of involvement in other non-F1 races as well, so when I wasn’t training for GP2, I was training for a twelve or twenty-four hour race for sports cars. Eventually, I set my goal for Le Manes; it’s the one race that every racer in the world wants to do someday, and teams go out of their way to field a third reserve car because they want to win it that badly. After talking with MareClaren for a bit, they let me race for Horsche’s third driver team in the Le Manes Prototype class.”

“So am I right to assume that the driver teams for the third car are there for a one-off kind of thing?” Spitfire asked.

Redline nodded, then smiled. “Still had the best time of my life.”

“Is it possible for an F1 driver to race at Le Manes?” Spitfire asked.

“Yes, but only one driver has done it so far,” Redline replied.

“Any heroes you look up to?” Spitfire asked.

“The usual, really,” Redline replied. “Hayrton Senna, Mika Hakkineigh. All those greats. One of my favourite moments was watching Senna race at home. Everything seemed against him.”

Suddenly, his voice changed. Spitfire knew that kind of tone, one rich with enthusiasm and passion that came from every fiber of his existence. Redline was speaking from his heart.

“The weather was deteriorating, his tyres were having problems, and his gearbox was stuck. Hayrton had to fight the car with everything he had, and his shoulders and his neck were getting spasms. He ended up getting a fever during the race. His closest rival was only one bad turn away from stealing his win, but Senna kept pushing on.”

Redline then smiled. “Then, he did it. For the first time, he won at home. He was so beaten up by his car that he couldn’t even stand, but somehow, he managed to find the strength to wave his flag. His whole country was cheering his name.”

Then, there was silence. Redline lowered his head, regaining his composure. Everypony kept quiet as they took it all in.

“Wow,” Shining Armor said.

Redline nodded with a smile.

Their meals arrived. Shining Armor and Spitfire helped themselves to generous portions of carbohydrates, proteins, and vegetables.

Redline, however, had only a meager serving of some vegetables, nuts, black beans, and a tiny portion of a sweet potato. It would’ve made anypony miserable, but Redline appeared to take it well.

“That’s all you’re having?” Shining Armor commented.

Redline nodded. His stomach grumbled. “You didn’t hear that.”

“Geez, Red,” Spitfire said, “if that’s your lunch, what’d you have for breakfast?”

“A protein shake and some raisins,” Redline replied.

Spitfire frowned. “That’s it? How do you get your energy? Don’t you need carbohydrates?”

Redline pointed to the tiny cube on his plate. “Sweet potato, but even then, that’s rare. I usually eat some brown rice at night for recovery. Because I have some serious training tomorrow, I’ll be eating extra tonight.”

“So why are all of you racers so fit?” Shining Armor asked. “Why do you train for such a high level?”

“You’ve already seen how much we’ve worked on our endurance,” Redline replied. “Throughout the whole time we’re on track, we’re operating at a hundred percent because we’re pushing for every advantage, so strength is good, but bulk is bad. If you feel tired, your mental performance would’ve dropped, and that would put you in danger of making a mistake, one that would make you a hazard to yourself and the other drivers.”

Spitfire nodded. Flying had taught her that lesson well. A small mistake in the middle of an aerial routine would have serious consequences, but with her situation, everypony was in it together, and they get to take a break in between the different parts of their routine. For the racers, she saw a competitive, cut-throat world that didn’t offer any time to relax.

“And then there’s the actual car,” Redline continued. “It’s a bloody sauna inside. We sweat so much we lose fluids by the liters. I remember hopping out of the car two kilos lighter. The steering wheel’s like shoulder-pressing a forty pound weight, and we need to use one hundred-seventy pounds of force for the pedals.”

“Wow,” Shining Armor said. “And you’re in the car for how long?”

“Hour and a half… two hours a stint, maybe,” Redline said. “In endurance racing, you still have to prepare yourself for your next session. Ideally, each driver would get eight hours of racing in total so that you’re all split evenly over a twenty-four hour race, but that’s not always the case.”

“I noticed that your neck is one of the bulkiest parts you have,” Spitfire commented.

“We can go somewhere from three to five Gs when we take the corners,” Redline replied. “Sure, you flyers go through more, but the Gs are parallel to your body. For us, they’re perpendicular, and that’s the tricky bit. The weight of your head and helmet get multiplied by the G-forces, so your neck would need to withstand something like thirty-five kilos, or seventy-seven pounds. It’s tough replicating those conditions in the gym.”

There was an awkward silence as Shining Armor and Spitfire looked at each other in disbelief. Spitfire could only imagine what Redline did in the gym to get his neck in shape.

“Bet that kills your neck muscles,” Spitfire commented.

Redline nodded. He pointed to Shining Armor’s plate. “Mind if I have a walnut?”

“Sure,” Shining Armor said as he floated the nut to Redline’s hoof.

Redline then gently placed the walnut on his shoulder and pressed his cheek against it. With a sly grin, he flexed his neck muscles, and a loud crack popped through the air. Shining Armor yelped, and Spitfire felt a cold shiver down her spine and held the sides of her neck.

With a mischievous smile, Redline opened up the walnut and ate it. “Needless to say,” he continued, “my trainer and I try to mix things up every now and then to keep it interesting. Skiing, triathlons, cycling, rowing, squash, among others. I’ve recently discovered boxing.”

“Oh?” Shining Armor commented, regaining his composure. “Want to spar someday?”

“Hopefully,” Redline said wistfully. “Can we agree to light punches only?”

“Agreed,” Shining Armor said confidently. “The last thing we need is for somepony to get hurt. But with your neck muscles, I’m pretty sure you can take a punch quite well.”

“A match between you two? Now that’s something I want to see,” Spitfire added with a smile. A small part of her wanted to see Shining Armor beat up Redline and knock down his ego a few notches.

“So, Redline,” Shining Armor started, “do you have a special somepony watching you while you race?”

Redline shook his head. “Never had relationship before.”

“Aww, how?” Shining Armor asked playfully. “With a hotshot like you, I’m pretty sure you can find at least somepony out there who can be with you.”

Then, Redline sighed. “A relationship is just another thing that could distract me. I need to be a hundred percent focused on racing with nothing holding me back. The last thing I need in the car is a thought telling me I’ve got something to lose.”

Another awkward silence blanketed the room. The conversation took a pause as they all continued eating their meals. Spitfire couldn’t think of anything to say. She was thankful when she felt her phone vibrate, something to distract her. With a brief glance, she gave a small sigh.

More PR work, she thought to herself irritably. Then, she shifted her attention to Redline. “So after the GP2 championship, where do you go after that?”

“F1,” Redline replied instantly. “It’s the pinnacle of motorsport.”

“But I’ve been reading up on F1 lately,” Shining Armor added. “Basically, it’s been only one or two teams dominating the whole season…. And a lot of fans and teams nowadays aren’t really happy with the current set of rules.”

Redline paused. “The point of racing is to help push forward road technology. It just so happens that some teams get the solution right better than others. F1 needs to stay relevant to the worlds’ needs and trends, so it has to change the rules every now and then to reflect said trends.”

Spitfire raised an eyebrow. She knew that kind of language anywhere, and Redline’s sponsor gear only confirmed it. Then, she shared a look with Shining Armor, who also understood what was happening.

Then, Shining Armor leaned forward. “Redline, you talk as though you’re tied down by sponsorship contracts. In here, you’re free to share you mind, and it’ll be safe with us.”

After pausing for a moment, Redline gave a defeated sigh. “F1’s a mess now. The rules are so strict they’re basically down to the molecule. All F1 teams are required to use a specific layout of engine with a specific type of hybrid system, and the rubber we use in GP2 and F1 are inherently designed to degrade. At its worst, all the F1 cars were practically the same, and the only difference between them was in the aerodynamics. This isn’t making technology to help road cars anymore, it’s putting on a show for the hell of it.”

Spitfire saw Redline’s face change. This time, he was filled with bitter frustration, and he was tense. She wanted to get him to stop, but he quickly continued.

“But look at the endurance cars. Each team is running a completely different setup. In the LMPs, you can have three completely different hybrid systems. Bloody hell, we had a diesel hybrid race against in a petrol hybrid, two designs that were worlds apart. And in this series, the tyres are built to last as long as possible! With the rising popularity of hybrid and electric vehicles, the knowledge learned from the WEC will actually be useful!”

“But you’re just cherry picking one series,” Shining Armor said.

Redline shook his head. “There’s a new formula series that’s been going around, one where all the cars are electric. Some teams have one motor with multiple gears, while others have two motors and one gear. And yes, the tyres are built to last as long as possible.”

Spitfire frowned. “Then why is F1 still more popular?”

“Because it’s all just a political money game,” Redline hissed. “F1 has its name. Some drivers racing for F1 and GP2 nowadays are jokes. They got there because their sponsors were extra generous with the money they brought. Meanwhile… a lot of us racers are doing anything for our sponsors to make ends meet.”

Shining Armor floated a glass of water to his lips. “How much does it cost you to race?”

Lowering his head, Redlined kept his gaze low. “Two-point-two million a year for GP2,” he murmured.

Shining Armor choked on his water. Spitfire felt her gut twist, and she sank in her seat.

“When I won Le Manes,” Redline said, “I felt honoured to have been part of a team who made history…. And the bonus Horsche paid me on that one win was so much that I was able to pay all me racing fees in full and still live comfortably.”

As Shining Armor cleared his throat, Spitfire forced herself to lean on the table, the sinking feeling still inside her. “Then why do you still want to be in F1?” she asked.

“Because I’ve watched my heroes race in F1 and make history,” Redline said. “I want to be the first Equestrian F1 racer and, ultimately, the first Equestrian champion.”

“So, you’re half Equestrian, half Braytish, right?” Shining Armor asked, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Yes,” Redline replied.

“How’s the racing scene back in Braytain?”

“Lots of racers. I could easily walk down the street and have a fan ask for an autograph. Braytain’s got a lot of racers, but Equestria has none. I thought I’d make myself the first. But… there’s a problem. No matter how much I try to find sponsors, other athletes end up getting chosen over me.”

Spitfire frowned. She knew that sponsors would be all over anything that would be a first in history. “Why?”

“Because professional motor racing is basically unknown here, sponsors think funding a racer is a waste of time and effort… and they’d be more than happy to fund the next star in the Wonderbolts.”

Then, Spitfire felt her heart skip a beat. Is he… blaming me?

Redline sighed. “I was tempted to change my license from Equestrian to Brayt. It’ll make myself more attractive to other sponsors outside of Equestria.”

Forcing her gaze away, Spitfire brought her eyes back down to her food. On the one hoof, she felt disgusted, knowing all too well how willing Redline was to sell himself away. On the other, she saw desperation and commitment, somepony who was willing to stick to his goal to the end. She knew that world, the road to get to the top. The environment was selfish, and so was the competition. Spitfire remembered how much she gave up to get to where she was, the rivals she made, the friends she lost, and the opportunities she passed. At that moment, she didn’t see Redline anymore; she was looking at herself.

“So why did you stay?” she asked.

Redlined sighed. “Fancy Pants convinced me to give Equestrian sponsors one more try. If that didn’t work, we’d dump them in favour of Braytish sponsors, and I’d change my license.”

Spitfire was silent. She felt her gut twist. This is not helping.

“So that’s it, then,” Shining Armor said in a low tone. “Money.”

Redline lowered his head. “Wait… there’s one more thing. Whenever I visit here, I’d see the crowds watch the Wonderbolts and other aerial teams perform their tricks. Every flying Equestrian foal has that sparkle in their eye with the hope that one day, they could fly like that. But for the grounded little ones, I only saw a depressing defeat. They know they can never be that fast.

“I wanted to be the first Equestrian racer to show them that we can be fast… that we can even be faster, even. I want to give them hope, to reignite that passion. Bloody hell, when we race in GP2 we can be having a go at each other at around 330 kilometers an hour… or 205 miles an hour.”

Spitfire blinked. Granted, she was impressed with an earthy pony staying confident at those kinds of speeds, but she still couldn’t get over the fact that Redline was so willing to sell himself out so easily. Yet, somehow, something told her that she couldn’t be mad at him, an athlete who’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. “You really believe in yourself that much?”

Redline paused, then nodded. He had finished his plate, then checked his watch. He promptly got off from his seat. “I apologize, but I need to go. More training.”

He quickly made his way out, shutting the door behind him.

Shining Armor sighed. “He really is something, huh?”

Spitfire nodded silently. She felt her phone once more. “Excuse me for a moment.”

She checked the message, and her eyes widened. She didn’t know how to respond or feel, so she only replied with an ‘ok’.

She lifted her head back up and looked at Shining Armor. “I need to go, too. Thank you for the meal.”

As she made her way to the door, a thousand thoughts raced through her mind. She checked the message once again, reading every word to make sure she got it right. After the reality set in, she took a breath. She’d done countless PR events and stunts before, but nothing like this. She hoped Redline would be a good coach. After all, he only had five days to turn her into a racing driver.

Part 3: The Winning Formula

Video games? Spitfire thought. Really?

She stared at the setup in front of the Canterlot Performance Center. A massive tent had been erected, and inside, she found rows of screens, seats, and racing setups. Countless fans had turned up, itching to try the simulators, and, obviously, the sponsor was showing the latest in how much they could replicate reality in the virtual world. Spitfire walked through the crowd and saw the racers’ cars parked by the side.

Eventually, she found the Horsche prototype, which was sitting next to a MareClaren Formula 1 car. In front of them was a tall trophy with a large ‘24’ on top of it. Spitfire scanned through the different plaques. Then, she found it, Redline’s name, engraved among two other drivers.

With the trophy in mind, Spitfire thought of her own accomplishments, how much she dedicated to training to be the best she could be. Knowing how much Redline had sacrificed, she thought he deserved to be recognized at least somewhere.

“Thoughts?” a voice asked.

Spitfire turned and found Redline, who had the media team behind him.

“Impressive stuff, Red,” Spitfire said.

Redline gestured a pair of stools in front of the cars. “Shall we get started?’

They took their seats, and the media team set up their equipment. Once the lights were lit, they were ready. Spitfire had already been briefed. All the Wonderbolts were to be trained by the racers for a race in five days. They would go through the various stages of driver development, from physical fitness to driving skill, and a media team would record them every now and then.

The cameras focused on Redline, who was facing Spitfire.

“In racing,” he started, “it could look easy because we’re doing laps over and over again, but it’s a very different story if you’re driving it. You need to be a hundred percent dedicated to what you do, and you’re challenged both physically and mentally. It’s not like flying or karting where you can throw yourself into a corner and muscle your way through. With these cars, you need finesse and precision that adds up, one on top of the other. A small adjustment here and there will mean the difference between winning or losing.”

Then, he got up, reached into the MareClaren car’s cockpit, and pulled out the steering wheel. He passed it to Spitfire, who held it delicately.

Her eyes widened at what she saw. There were over twenty different buttons, six knobs, and six pedals behind the wheel. There was even a screen that could display information, all of these meant to make a change to the car on-the-fly.

“Geez, you’re playing the piano while going two hundred miles an hour,” Spitfire commented.

“That screen can display over a hundred different pages of information,” Redline added.

Spitfire blinked. “What?”

“And the steering wheel costs thirty thousand pounds.”

Spitfire’s jaw fell. She looked at the wheel. Even though she knew it was designed to take the force of a racer wrestling for grip, she carefully gave it back to Redline like it was a delicate crystal wine glass.

“Fortunately,” Redline added in a more positive note, “the car all of you will be driving is the most basic formula car, the kind of thing new racers would drive after graduating from karting.”

He gestured to a car off in the distance. Spitfire and Redline got off their seats to take a look at it. To Spitfire, it was a smaller, simpler car compared to F1. Instead of complicated curves and shapes here and there, there were plain, straightforward panels. Looking at the steering wheel, she felt relieved as she saw a much simpler design with only a quarter of the buttons. Instead of pedals for shifting gears, she found a small lever to the side.

Already, Spitfire felt herself looking forward to driving it and showing her skills.

“Any concerns you think you’ll have while teaching me?” Spitfire asked.

“Teaching you how to turn right.” Redline sported a cocky grin. “Now, this may be a very foreign concept to you, but outside of oval racing, you’ll be amazed how useful it is.”

“Haha,” Spitfire replied sarcastically. Wipe that grin off your face before I punch it off.

“So, what’s first?” she asked Redline.

Redline grinned even more. “Video games!”

Spitfire sat in the seat as she let the game to load. Looking to her side, she saw the rest of the Wonderbolts waiting as well, and the fans and the cameras were watching them intently.

Can’t believe we’re wasting time playing video games, Spitfire thought bitterly.

Then, Redline appeared and gave her a virtual reality headset. He placed it over her head and secured it, and he brought himself close to her ear.

“These are incredibly accurate nowadays,” he whispered. “Keep your mind open. I never had tech like this when I was smaller, and I bloody wish I did.”

The headset came to life, and Spitfire looked around, testing the equipment. Then, Redline placed a pair of headphones over her ears.

Suddenly, it was as if the outside world had been completely blocked off. In front of Spitfire was a lap of the circuit. After a brief moment, it moved to the top-left of her view. Then, the environment materialized. She was sitting in a formula car now, the hum of the engine filling her ears. It was driving down a straight, and she gripped the steering wheel in anticipation.

The game gave control to her, the steering wheel tightened as the motors activated, and Spitfire was quick to get on the power. The car accelerated faster than anything she’d experienced, the roar of the engine filling her ears. As the left-turn was rapidly approaching, Spitfire slammed on the brakes, and the car slowed down quicker than she realized. Releasing the brake, Spitfire then used whatever momentum she had to take turn. She could feel the steering wheel jerk against her as the car drove over the changing surface. Glancing to her mirror, she made sure nothing was next to her.

On the exit of the corner, she got on the power once more, sending herself off like a rocket. Suddenly, the rear end slipped. Spitfire lifted off the accelerator and jerked the wheel, the tyres screeching as they scrapped the track. She could feel her hairs stand and the adrenaline in her system when she regained control of the car. She didn’t care if she was just playing video games. As far as she was concerned, she was fully immersed, and she was racing.

Turn after turn, straight after straight, Spitfire slowly built her confidence with the car’s grip. By the time she felt sure about herself, the word ‘Finish’ appeared on her screen.

“Oh, come on!” Spitfire murmured.

She took off her virtual reality headset and headphones. The mental task of racing had made her so focused she ran out of breath. The adrenaline in her system was making her fidgety in her seat. Looking to the side, the rest of the Wonderbolts were in the same state.

“Well, you had fun,” Redline said, grinning at her.

“So, how’d I do?” Spitfire asked with a smirk.

Redline’s smile disappeared. He then looked at the screen. “We’ve got some work ahead of us.”

Frowning, Spitfire then looked at her results, and her heart sank at the realization. She and most of the Wonderbolts were three seconds behind the fastest lap, with Fleetfoot only being two seconds behind pole position. As a whole, their rankings were far away from anything respectable. It was the fastest ego-check in Spitfire’s life.

In the Canterlot Performance Center, Redline and Spitfire had a private space all to themselves. All round them were a number of weights, equipment, and machines, none of which were familiar to Spitfire. All of them were clean, neat, and elegant, as if they were straight out of a Haymes Bond lair. They even had another simulator setup all to themselves.

Redline’s trainer began his talk to the media, focusing on the core and strength involved in racing. Redline sat on top of the exercise ball, lifted his hooves off the ground, then began turning the weight like a steering wheel. Spitfire did the same.

Thanks to her experience in training, Spitfire was comfortable with keeping herself stable as she moved the weight. Once the media team got the shots they needed, they were quickly ushered out by Redline’s trainer.

“So you just kicked them out like that?” Spitfire asked.

Redline’s trainer smiled. “Well, you never want to release any details that could give you away to your competitors.”

Spitfire laughed. “We should use that! So, how long should we be doing this?”

The trainer checked his watch. “Two-minutes, thirty seconds. We’re halfway there, we just need baselines for your physical performance.”

Already, Spitfire could feel some strain on her forehooves. Gritting her teeth, she took a deep breath and kept up the same rhythm with Redline. Every second felt like an eternity. She tried to distract herself by focusing on her balance. By the time they were done, Spitfire could feel her shoulders beginning to burn.

“Right,” the trainer said, “we’ll be working on your neck.”

He gestured the next machine, a modified cable machine that was attached to a helmet. It even had a seat. Spitfire gulped. She never thought she’d ever use weights for her neck muscles, and she thought the machine looked like something meant for torture.

“Fortunately,” the trainer added, “because you’re a Wonderbolt, the cars you’ll be driving shouldn’t be that physically difficult. Even better, your race is only thirty minutes, so with a tiny bit of training here and there, we can get you up to speed.”

Spitfire was silent as she got in the seat. Sliding on the helmet, she breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the trainer set the machine to a light weight. Then, she began tilting her head to the right.

“Redline, do some pull-ups,” the trainer added, still keeping a careful eye on Spitfire. “The minimum.”

“Got it,” Redline replied.

As Spitfire got a feel of her neck muscles, she looked at Redline performing the pull-ups. By the time he was passed twelve reps, she arched an eyebrow, impressed with his upper body endurance.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Spitfire started. “How many does he have to do?”

“Twenty,” the trainer replied nonchalantly.

Spitfire blinked. “And that’s the minimum? Minimum for what?”

“The MareClaren standard for their driver program. Also, your set should be fine now.” The trainer unhooked the cables, rotated Spitfire’s chair, then attached hooked up the front of her helmet, and the process repeated.

Once Spitfire finished the rest of her neck, the trainer then directed her and Redline to a large board that had a number of buttons spread out.

“Now, we’ll test your reaction times,” the trainer said.

Spitfire stood in front of the board, lowering her stance. One button lit up, and she pressed it quickly, followed immediately by another button. Press after press, Spitfire kept up her speed, testing her peripheral vision and hand-hoof coordination. The room filled with the tapping sound of her hoof against the machine. Even though it was running only for a minute, it felt like forever, but she kept her focussed. Finally, once the timer was over, she breathed a sigh of relief.

“One hundred and thirty,” Spitfire said confidently.

“Impressive,” the trainer commented. “That’s more than enough for your race.”

“Faster than some F1 racers back then,” Redline added.

Spitfire’s ears perked up. It was the best thing she heard all week, and she felt herself smile as she realized she could amount to something of a racer. “Really?!”

“Back then,” Redline emphasized. Then, he give a cocky smirk. “Now every driver’s got some reaction training in their regiment.”

Spitfire frowned. Even in a casual setting, you still have to win, huh?

“Okay, you two,” the trainer said. “That’s enough of the rivalry.”

“Come on, mate,” Redline said playfully, “it’s always fun to see who’d win here and there.”

Then, he approached the reaction board and readied his stance. The test began, and Redline dove straight into the action. He was fast. From light to light, he moved without even a slight pause, and his focus was unbreakable.

“One-fifty?” Redline grumbled as he was inspecting his score. “Bloody hell, I’m slow today.”

“Give it a break, Red,” the trainer said, “your body’s calm and relaxed.”

“That’s slow for you?” Spitfire asked.

“Some racers managed to get two hundred,” Redline added. “At the start of a race, drivers’ hearts are going so fast that their reaction times are down to under a tenth of a second. In a few other sports, that kind of reaction time is considered a false start.”

Spitfire raised her eyebrows, impressed.

Then, Redline looked at his trainer. “So, what’s next?”

“Cardio and heat training,” the trainer replied.

Spitfire’s ears fell backwards, and she felt a lump in her throat, knowing all too well what level of endurance was expected of Redline. “Oh, cardio? So we’ll have to be going all-out for two hours?”

“Just thirty minutes,” the trainer replied. “That’s how long your race will be, anyway.”

Spitfire breathed a sigh of relief, and the three of them made their way out of the room and down the hall. When she stared at the setup inside the chamber, she felt her gut twist. Two bikes were waiting for her and Redline, surrounded by a team of scientists. Judging by the gauges, the environment was as warm and as humid as possible.

“Spin biking in a sauna?” Spitfire asked.

“Thirty minutes, Spitfire,” Redline said. “Think of cycling in the tropics.”

He checked the temperature and humidity. “Actually, it is exactly like cycling in the tropics.”

“In the most miserable conditions in the tropics,” Spitfire mumbled irritably. If there was one thing Spitfire loved about flying, it was having the wind against her cooling her off despite being in a very thick flightsuit.

Then, the trainer offered both of them a pill to keep track of core temperatures and a specialized suit to note their performance.

Redline and Spitfire got on their bikes. The scientists pricked their hooves for a blood sample, gave both of them oxygen masks, and they began.

Keeping her gaze down, Spitfire focused on the screen in front of her. In an attempt to distract herself, she concentrated on keeping her power constant, one that demanded her to be in a near-sprint. A few minutes in, she could already feel the layer of sweat forming on her coat. Nonetheless, she kept her focus, maintaining her speed.

The heat and humidity sapped away her willpower, slowing her down. Grimacing, she shut her eyes and focused on her speed. Every minute felt like an eternity. Her legs began to burn, and she was starving for water or anything to cool her off. The fact that the scientists were still pricking her for a sample periodically only emphasized her misery. Looking down, she saw a puddle of her sweat, and the handlebars on her spin bike were dripping as well.

Come on, Spitfire, she told herself. Remember what Redline said. Stay focused if you want to stay alive on the race.

Somehow, she found strength in those words. She kicked up her speed, this time making sure her speed was up to par, her will to live overwriting her desire to stop

“Time!” the trainer barked.

Spitfire slammed on the stop, and she collapsed in the saddle, her forehead against the handlebars. Looking down, the puddle below her was now a pool. She never knew she could sweat that much. She felt a hoof pat her on the shoulder. Rolling her head to the side, she saw Redline, who was also covered in sweat, but compared to her, he looked like he was taking the dehydration fine.

“You did good, Spitfire,” Redline said. He was quick to hand her a bottle, and she took it hungrily, drinking everything down in a few seconds.

To Spitfire, the drink they gave her tasted like warm, unsavoury tea, but as far as she cared, it was the best thing she’d ever tasted. She wanted to reply and say her thanks, but she was panting so much she could only nod.

After the scientists got a larger sample of her blood, Redline and his trainer picked her up and helped her to the next room. Inside, there was a small inflatable pool of water. After letting Spitfire peel off the suit, they put her in, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the cold water did its work.

Opening her eyes, she found Redline and his trainer looking at her.

“You alright?” the trainer asked.

Spitfire nodded.

“Heat acclimation training is a pain,” the trainer said, “but it helps your blood plasma, and it’ll improve your circulation when you’re pushing yourself, especially in the hot confines of a racecar.”

Then, he turned to Redline. “Red, go down to the pool for more laps. I want to check on Spitfire for a little bit longer, and I’ll meet you there.”

Redline nodded and disappeared down the hall.

The trainer’s horn lit, and he summoned the scientists’ results. He then hovered out another bottle of fluids, then gave it to Spitfire. “Take the rest of the day off. We have a baseline, so we know what kind of work is ahead of us. Meet me here later tonight for a sports massage.”

Sipping on the drink, Spitfire nodded, rested her head against the back of the pool, and closed her eyes. Despite her rigid training regimen to keep in shape for the Wonderbolts, she knew she had an enormous mountain to climb.

Sitting in the garage, the formula car was lifted on stands as the engineers were working on it. Despite its simple design, it was still an impressive assembly of carbon fiber, aluminum, and other lightweight materials.

As Spitfire settled herself into the seat, she felt like she was awkwardly sitting in a bathtub with her rear hooves at eye level. The sides of the car were extremely snug around her, making her feel claustrophobic. Her butt was so low she thought it’d practically be scraping against the track. The fireproof racing suit and balaclava on her head offered no breathability, and she was already sweating because the car was so hot.

Redline appeared, carrying a helmet. He gave it to Spitfire. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Spitfire replied as she put on the helmet. With a quick glance up, she saw the monitor showing the countless fans who turned up for the event. She noted, though, that almost all of them were wearing Wonderbolt gear.

“Remember,” Redline said, “get a feel of a track first before you try to get the fastest lap.”

Spitfire nodded. Redline stepped back, and the radio crackled to life.

The engineer next to the car touched his headphones. “Radio check,” he said through the radio.

Pressing the radio button on the wheel, Spitfire replied, “Copy, radio check.”

“Confirmed,” the engineer replied. He tapped away at his laptop connected to the car. “Turning on the engine.”

Spitfire hit the ‘OK’ button on the wheel.

Then, with a loud snarl, the engine came to life. Spitfire felt a tingle travel down her spine as she could feel the whole car rumble.

“Give it a few revs,” the engineer said over the radio.

Spitfire tapped the gas with her hoof. The pedals were heavily sprung as the engine gave a growl. Even though she knew that countless hours of engineering had gone into the car, all she thought of was being strapped to a wild, raging beast, and she was merely a passenger. Her heart was racing at the thought of having to somehow keep this machine under her control.

“Everything’s looking good,” the engineer said over the radio. “We’ll lower the car.”

The team then got the car off the jacks and down to the ground. Another engineer stepped out of the garage and motioned Spitfire to drive out. She gently rolled the car out, then drove down the pit lane, maintaining the restricted speed. The steering was very direct and heavy, and she thought she could feel even the slightest change on the surface of the road. Then, once she was out the pits, she got on the accelerator.

And then, all hell broke lose.

The engine gave a snarl, and Spitfire was forced deeper into the seat. The car was fast, so much that she had to lift off the accelerator early to get her mind up to speed. As she approached the corner, she got on the brakes, braced her core, and flexed her neck.

The G forces pushed against her body, and she immediately felt thankful for all the training she’d done on her neck. Remembering her practice, she hit the apex of the turn, then used as much of the track as possible to get back on the power. As she straightened out and accelerated once more, her yes widened, the adrenaline flowing in her system.

She took it all in, the deafening roar of the engine, the speed and grip of the car, the weight of the steering wheel, the aero pushing her down, and the stiff ride. It was a glorious, all-out assault on all the senses, and it wasn’t anything like flying. At that moment, she didn’t care about the fans, and it was only her, the car, and the track. She felt alive, every fiber of her being focused on the moment.

Turn after turn, she built her confidence and savoured every second, each moment telling her that she could go faster and push harder. As she began braking for the corner, she felt tyres lockup.

Darn it, she thought. If I was only a little lighter on the brake--

Suddenly, she realized she’d turned-in too aggressively towards the apex of the turn. When she tried to correct herself, she was too late. The car bumped the kerb hard, upsetting the balance. It then slid across the grass and slammed into the barrier, breaking its front wings.

“For buck’s sake!” Spitfire swore. She punched her steering wheel as she yelled in frustration.

“Box this lap,” the engineer said calmly over the radio. “Watch for the blue flags.”

Spitfire drew a harsh breath as she hit the ‘OK’ button. Circling around, she cautiously made her way back on to the track and stayed off the racing line. She drew extra attention to check her mirrors to make sure she wouldn’t hit the other Wonderbolts. Even with that one lockup, she could already feel that her wheels were out of shape. A blue light turned on at the top of her steering wheel, followed closely by blue flags from the marshalls. Moving aside, she let the other Wonderbolts in their cars pass by.

Back at the pits, the team pulled the car back into the garage. They killed the engine, and Spitfire flipped her visor up and took off her helmet. With a few clicks, the engineers were quick to take off the broken front wings, do a brief inspection, then attach the replacement. They also managed to change her tyres while they were at it.

Redline appeared and took a seat next to Spitfire. “You alright?”

Spitfire gave a nod and an irritated huff. After hundreds of laps in the simulator and hours gym, she practically memorized the track, yet she still made a mistake and damage precious equipment in front of all of Equestria. With a sigh, she looked down in embarrassment. She felt a pat on her shoulder.

“You win some, you lose some, you wreck some,” Redline said. “Remember what we practiced in the simulator. Focus on the moment. If you make a mistake, forget everything outside of you like how that’ll look on camera or the results. Instead, only focus on yourself and your process, bringing the car back up to the proper pace.”

With a nod, Spitfire gave a deep breath. She’d listened to that kind of talk countless times throughout her career, even giving a few of them herself, but she felt comforted hearing words once again.

She saw Redline bring up one of her used tyres. He gestured the flat spot, where she locked up. He was putting extra attention to how the compound was falling apart. “Once you’ve abused your tyres, you can’t go back from it, so you have to be aware of saving them. You need to understand how they behave now and several laps later. Your grip is limited, so use it wisely. Yes, I do sacrifice a bit of speed in the corners, but the payoff of more grip later on is worth it for me. For the other drivers, you locking up is like a shark finding a wounded animal; they smell blood.”

Spitfire arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just contradict yourself by saying to go slow while trying to push?”

“I’m not slow,” Redline replied flatly. “I didn’t say anything about going slow.”

“So how do I know if I’m pushing the car too much?

“You feel it through your bum.”

The engineers lowered the car, and they restarted the motor.

“Qualifying’s about to start,” the race engineer said through the radio. “Warm up your tyres and your brakes with a lap, and go set your time.”

Spitfire hit the ‘OK’ button and rolled out of the garage. After quickly doing her warmup lap, she stepped on the power and dove into the first corner. Her heart rate picked up, and she could feel her pulse higher than ever before. Digging deep, she found as much courage as possible while getting on the power, and she was pleased to find the other Wonderbolts staying out of the racing line.

Suddenly, she felt like she wasn’t thinking anymore. As each turn approached, she felt like she was on autopilot, as if everything was automatic for her. Somehow, everything was coming together naturally, and strangely, she felt at peace. She was connected and at one with the car, and she didn’t have a single thought that distracted her. The whole track had become a tunnel to her, and before she knew it, she crossed the finish line.

“You’re third,” the race engineer said calmly. “Form up behind the safety car for the formation lap.”

With a sigh of relief, Spitfire hit the ‘OK’ button. She smiled, knowing that all that work in the simulator had amounted to something. Catching up to the safety car, she kept behind it. She glanced at her mirror. Ten other cars shared the track with her, the Wonderbolts shuffling among themselves as they got to their proper track position. Soarin and Fleetfoot were fourth and second, respectively.

Then, they moved to the starting grid. Spitfire pulled back the clutch, then waited.

Well, she thought to herself, this is it. Us Wonderbolts fighting against each other at over a hundred-twenty miles an hour.

With a glance of her mirror, she saw one Wonderbolt’s helmet, lowered slightly and staring at the track ahead. It was an intense focus. Looking forward, Spitfire watched the lights. At that moment, they weren’t teammates anymore. Instead, they were rivals, competitors, and enemies.

The starting lights came to life. Spitfire revved the motor, her heart rate rising, the roar of the engine filling her ears. Then, once the green lights were shown, she released the clutch and got on the accelerator.

A scraping sound reached her ears, and she could feel her car shake.

Too much wheelspin, she thought, easing off the accelerator lightly. But that costed her dearly. Soarin surrounded her, sandwiching her in between him and the track limits. Spitfire got on the power once her tyres got their grip again, catching up to Fleetfoot ahead. They dove into the corner, three-abreast with barely any room for error. Fleetfoot had the most inside line.

Spitfire took the corner easy, frantically checking her mirrors to make sure Soarin wasn’t trying a move. To her pleasure, he wasn’t.

However, on the straightaway, Spitfire instinctively moved defensively towards the center of the track, Soarin right behind her, but as they approached turn, she realized that she’d ruined her racing line.

Damn it, Soarin, Spitfire thought as she saw Fleetfoot and the other front-runners get away. With another glance at the mirror, she saw the long line of cars forming up behind her, waiting to strike.

Suddenly, a new experience. The drivers nipping at her heels, flicking from wing mirror to wing mirror, and the anticipation to overtake another racer ahead. This was an all-out fight at over a hundred miles an hour. Spitfire could feel her heart beating the fastest it’s ever been. With the adrenaline in her system, she became ever more sensitive to her car, the slightest twitch, bump, or roll here and there, and she could feel everything directly. A slight correction to her steering wheel came with lightning-fast reflexes.

No wonder Redline loves this! She thought cheerfully.

As the pace of the race continued, Spitfire kept up her speed. Already, she realized that she needed to set up an attempt to pass several turns, even laps, ahead of time. She had to use every advantage she could find, from the slipstream ahead to the timing of the gear shifts, to carve out her chance for an overtake. Then, she spotted an opportunity. Fleetfoot had locked up her tyres in front of her, but recovered just in time for the turn.

Like a shark smelling blood, Spitfire found a weakness. She knew that Fleetfoot’s one lockup would’ve done enough damage to her tyres to slow her down, compromising her braking, and she’d need to be even earlier on the brake. With a quick glance at the mirror, she realized that she lost track of Soarin.

Suddenly, a car appeared right next to her, holding the inside line. Spitfire didn’t try to fight back. Instead, she remained focused on maintaining her line through the corner, but Soarin wasn’t done. He quickly made another move, this time on Fleefoot, who had taken a defensive path.

Their fighting had compromised their speed. Spitfire opted to hold back, maintaining her tyres.

“How much are their lap times falling?” Spitfire asked on the radio.

“At least a tenth of a second each sector,” the race engineer replied. “If you take it easy, you can easily catch up without hurting your tyres.”

Spitfire hit the ‘OK’ button. A tenth, she thought, they’re losing a lot of time.

She let the two of them battle it out, and she kept her distance. With a quick glance at her steering wheel’s screen, she realized that there were only two laps left.

If they don’t fight it out soon, I won’t get a chance to pass, Spitfire thought.

Suddenly, she saw Soarin make a dive, and he and Fleetfoot began their side-by-side battle. Seizing her opportunity, Spitfire then began to push. She could feel her tyres showing their wear, her loss of grip, but she managed to catch up nonetheless. At the straightaway, she took the inside line, and they were three abreast.

As they were approaching the turn, Soarin and Fleetfoot had to get on the brake early, disappearing from Spitfire’s sight. She felt a smile, then braked hard. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized that after the initial bite of the tyres, they locked up.

“Darn it!” she swore, letting off the brake. There goes my turn!

Once her tyres found their grip, Spitfire was deep into the corner. She turned-in with whatever she had left, and Soarin and Fleetfoot were right next to her once more.

Since Fleetfoot had the best line, she managed to get away from them quickly. Instead, Spitfire decided to focus on Soarin, who was within striking range ahead of her.

Up ahead was the final section of the track before the finish line, an S-shaped chicane before a left-hand turn.

Following him closely, Spitfire tried to attack Soarin on the outside line, but out of the chicanes, Soarin held the inside line into the turn. Getting hard and quick on the power, Spitfire felt the rear and slip. Promptly getting off the gas, she corrected herself with a quick flick of the wheel. As they made their way to the exit, Spitfire could only grit her teeth as she crossed the finish line with only a car length separating her and Soarin, the chequered flag waving above their heads.

“Good racing, Spitfire,” the race engineer said calmly over the radio.

“I had him!” Spitfire barked, fuming. “Just one more lap, and I would’ve gotten the position!”

The race engineer gave a laugh. “We all know that feeling. Bring the car back to the garage.”

Huffing in irritation, Spitfire hit the ‘OK’ button and proceeded to the pits.

Fourth place, she thought irritably. So close to a podium.

Once the engineers brought the car into the garage and shut off the engine, Spitfire sighed, resting her head against the back of her seat. Now that she adrenaline was making its way out of her system, she finally realized how much she was sweating and that she simply couldn’t get out of the seat, not because she just had the time of her life, which she did, but because she had been cramped in the seating position for so long that she’d gone stiff. She couldn’t physically get up.

Redline’s trainer appeared. He handed her a drink bottle and helped her take off her helmet and unbuckle her six-point seat belt.

“Arse cheeks sore?” he asked.

“Everything’s sore,” Spitfire replied.

The trainer nodded. “Lucky for you, I’ve got my setup nearby. Once you’re done with all the media, meet me at the Canterlot Performance Center your recovery massage.”

Spitfire nodded, then held out her hoof. “A little help, please?”

“That bad, hmm?” He grabbed her hoof and yanked her out of the car.

Spitfire gave a small groan as she got out. Then, she peeled off half of the racing suit, revealing a form-fitting layer of fire-retardant material. Nonetheless, she was allowing her body to breath. Stretching her limbs for a bit, she walked around the garage to get herself moving. She hissed as she felt a sensation on her elbows and knees. As she took off her last layer, she realized that they’d been bruised from hitting the sides of the car too much. Rather embarrassingly, she opted to wear her flight suit to cover them up.

Moving towards the back, she found her way up towards one of the hospitality rooms. Inside, she found Redline, Camber, and Flywheel watching the screens. She wanted to approach them, to tell them how much fun she had. Already, she could feel a small smile on her face.

But she stopped herself as she realized the look on their faces. They were wistful as they watched the screens. And they all sat with their forehooves crossed, as if disappointed.

What’d get them so down like that? Spitfire thought.

“They’re pretty damn good for beginners,” Flywheel commented.

The three of them nodded in agreement. Then, the screen showed a shot of all the Wonderbolt fans who showed up for the event, filling up almost all the grandstands.

“If only we could get that much support on our races,” Redline said wistfully.

Spitfire retreated, this time attempting to hide herself behind the door. She still kept herself within earshot.

“Come on,” Flywheel commented, “we know the routine. Empty grandstands, some begging to sponsors, and a bloody expensive racing fee.”

“Well, we gotta make do with what we got, right?” Camber said with a sigh. “See you lads on the track.”

They parted ways. Spitfire hid in the doorway, lowering her head. Once she knew the room was clear, she made her way in. The hospitality suite was already prepared for the top-paying Equestrians hoping to watch the F1 race. She glanced at the elegant tables, elaborate bar, and multiple screens that gave exclusive coverage. Then, she went to the window, which had a view of the pit lane and the start/finish straight. She stared at the grandstands, the fans eagerly cheering the Wonderbolts who were on the podium. Then, she looked at her own reflection, her eyes looking right back at her.

Spitfire realized, then, that she represented everything that made Redline bitter. Easy contracts, countless support from fans and home, and very generous sponsors. For her, a day on the job was surrounded by countless staff who were more than ready to jump in and help her out of a situation, and she had a team who had her back.

As for Redline, he put his life on the line on a regular basis, on every turn and speck of brake dust, and when disaster struck, whether he’d be colliding with a barrier or another car, it was only him, his will to live, and the hope that the car will hold together. His closest friends were also his rivals, and every driver around him wanted to race him down to the ground. To say that it was a lonely road was an understatement, and the race here was his last chance at getting any help from Equestria.

Looking down, Spitfire found an army of reporters flooding the pit lane. She knew what she had to do. Rushing down the stairs, she hurried back to the garage, and she quickly found mics and camera flashes shoved right at her face.

“Spitfire! That was some serious action on the track! How was the race?! How was it like training to be a racecar driver?!”

The journalist’s voice was quickly drowned out by the other questions.

Spitfire kept her composure. She didn’t like how she had to make another facade, but she knew something had to be done. Straightening out, she then put up a smile. “This has been an incredibly humbling experience. I’ve learned a lot about the will to win and fighting for every little inch. I’m bruised, beaten-up, and mentally and physically shattered, but I’d be more than happy to do it again. I’d like to thank Redline and his team for all their help. My respect goes out to every racing driver out there. It isn’t easy giving a hundred percent of yourself for so long, and to dance with danger on a regular basis takes a real heart of courage.”

Then, she saw her opportunity. “I mean, if everyone enjoyed our racing, I think it’s time to let the pros show us how it’s done, and that includes the drivers in GP2. It may be a junior championship, but they’re almost as fast as F1 nowadays. Since all the cars are the same in that series, the real winner will be the one who knows how to drive the best. I’m looking forward to seeing somepony like Redline get to work on track and show us how it’s done!”

More questions quickly followed. Spitfire immediately felt herself fall back into her autopilot mode. She easily answered whatever questions the media had, the only thing in her mind being her desire to rest. Once the journalists were satisfied, she took off and made her way to the Canterlot Performance Center.

Once inside, she glanced at the screens as she made her way. They were showing a highlight reel of the different racing series coming to Equestria. Spitfire noted how the endurance cars fought each other on track, how the prototypes made their time by weaving through the traffic of the slower cars. Four racers from different classes tackling a turn all at once was probably just another day on the job for them. The mental demands of their racing made Spitfire think that she and the Wonderbolts had the easier task.

Then, entering one of the private rooms, Spitfire found Redline’s trainer set up with a massaging bed.

“Any areas of concern?” the trainer asked.

“Nothing specific,” Spitfire replied as she took off her flight suit. Then, she set herself on top of the massaging bed.

The trainer got straight to work, poking Spitfire’s body with his hoof. Then, he first focused on her neck and back muscles.

Spitfire gave a small moan, feeling how much she overworked her muscles. The fatigue finally caught up to her, and before she knew it, she dozed off.

Spitfire looked at herself on the mirror. She never thought she’d actually be doing this, given how not too long ago she’d despised the livery. She stared at the racing colours on the shirt, then gave a smile.

MareClaren looks good on me, she thought.

Spitfire made sure to read up on the race schedule so she’d show up on time. GP2 was right before F1, and they had two races. One feature race, followed by a sprint race the next day, which had less laps, no tyre change requirements, and required the top eight drivers to go in a reverse grid. Even though every part of her body felt weak like spaghetti and on the brink of falling off, Spitfire wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Stepping through the entrance, Spitfire already saw media cameras trained on her. Ignoring them, she then made her way to the pit lane. After showing the staff her pass, she then walked into hospitality room. Already, it was filled with Equestria’s most prestigious ponies, and they were all busy mingling among themselves.

“Ah, Spitfire!” Fancy Pants greeted her with a grin. He shook her hoof. “What a wonderful honour to have you here!”

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” Spitfire replied with a grin. “I think I’ve come to like motorsports ever since that race yesterday.”

“Well, your comments sure made waves!” Fancy Pants was smiling cheek-to-cheek. “Ticket sales have been so overwhelming, we had to open the entire track to accommodate the spectators. And we still ran out of space! We had to set up a stream outside the track so the other fans can watch!”

“Anything to help,” Spitfire replied.

Then, she took a seat next to the window and watched the starting grid, where twenty-two cars waited in anticipation. Redline had qualified sixth, and Camber and Flywheel were ahead of him.

Geez, he’s got a lot of work ahead of him, Spitfire thought.

The starting lights lit up for the countdown. The high-pitched wails of the engines filled the room, and the cars took off. Redline got a good start off the line, and he immediately sandwiched himself between the two cars ahead of him. Miraculously, he held his position strong, and he didn’t back down.

Spitfire bit her lip as she saw that Redline barely had any space either side, and all the cars were approaching the first corner.

As the cars braked, they were mere inches away from each other, side-to-side and nose-to-tail. Somehow, there was no contact between any cars.

Then, on the exit, the cars began to follow the racing line, finally spreading out over the next few turns and creating the long line of drivers waiting for a moment to strike.

With a sigh of relief, Spitfire stood up. They’ve got a lot of laps to go, she thought.

Making her way towards the drinks, Spitfire approached one of the staff. “Anything non-alcoholic?”

“We’ve got a ice tea made with green tea,” the staff member replied.

“Sure, I’ll take that.” Spitfire then leaned against the table and diverted her attention elsewhere. All around, the various guests were mingling amongst themselves, and she was glad that she didn’t have to deal with any of them. As far as she was concerned, all she wanted to do was enjoy the race.

“Didn’t expect to see a Wonderbolt like you around here,” a voice said.

Spitfire turned. She knew that voice. “Fleetfoot?”

Fleetfoot smiled and leaned against the table. “So, what brings Redline’s rival to a place like this?” she asked playfully.

“Gotta support other Equestrians, right?” Spitfire replied. “You?”

“I just want to watch some racing.”

The bartender returned with Spitfire’s drink, and the two of them walked back towards the window.

The cars were coming up on the start/finish straight, and Spitfire watched Redline. Then, as the cars in front of him slowed, she heard something different from his car. He had lifted off the gas earlier, then began his braking sooner as well.

Spitfire frowned. She felt nervous that perhaps something was off, that Redline wasn’t pushing at a hundred percent. “Something wrong with Redline’s car?”

“What do you mean?” Fleetfoot asked.

Spitfire looked up at the screens and tuned in on the audio. She found a shot of Redline’s car, even found the timing charts that showed he was sacrificing some speed compared to the other racers mid-corner.

“There, you hear it?” Spitfire then showed a camera view that was on top of Redline’s car. The difference was now more noticeable as he entered the corner, even taking a less aggressive racing line.

“He’s lifting and coasting,” Fleetfoot said, “saving some gas. He’s also taking a smoother line.”

Spitfire arched an eyebrow. “Why not fight for first the whole way?”

“Mark of an endurance racer,” Fleetfoot added, “watching the fuel and keeping the tyres for as long as possible. Smooth is fast, as they say. Well, that’s what Camber told me when he was training me for our race.”

Spitfire then looked at the timing charts, and she gulped at the sight. “Well, Redline better keep up, because he’s a few tenths behind his friends.”

The laps passed. The racers fought amongst themselves, many moving towards an aggressive line in hopes to pass, only to be forced back on the racing line. Meanwhile, Redline wasn’t trying to go make an offensive move. Instead, he only kept to his smooth approach and occasionally took a defensive maneuver, and the only time he’d try to pass was with a setup that took him a long time to prepare, using everything from the slipstream ahead of him to the way he carried his momentum a few turns ago. The result was an overtake that looked effortless.

Then, some cars began to change their tyres. All the racers ahead of Redline dashed into the pit lane, but he stayed out on track.

Suddenly, a small dialogue box appeared on the screens, a radio conversation between Redline and his team.

“Okay, Redline,” the race engineer said, “fuel flow max, push to the finish!”

Spitfire felt her anticipation grow, a jolt of excitement travelling down her spine as she watched Redline twist a dial on his car’s steering wheel. He passed every driver still in the pit lane, and he was now first.

Almost immediately, his driving style changed. Rather than lift and coast, he became fully committed to his braking, going even later than the other racers yet still keeping his smooth line. He was giving everything he had.

Come on, Red, Spitfire thought. Make it count!

Once Redline completed the lap, Spitfire’ jaw fell. He was a second and a half quicker. Even then, once all the drivers had change their tyres and gone back out to the track, he still stayed out, continuing his lead and making the fastest laps. Suddenly, Spitfire felt as though she’d forgotten the fact that he was nineteen. Instead, all she saw was a racer who had spent thousands upon thousands of hours perfecting his craft, learning from every lap and every turn he made, and all that effort was paying off.

By the time Redline entered the pits four laps later, he had a dominating lead ahead of Camber and Flywheel. Spitfire felt a knot form in her gut as she watched Redline slow his speed, his team ready. Once they lifted the car, they were quick to give him a fresh set of tyres.

Then, as the car rolled out of the pits, Spitfire felt a sigh of relief as she saw Camber and Flywheel still ways away, and Redline would still be ahead of them as he left the pit lane.

“Redline’s got a fight ahead of him,” Fleetfoot sighed.

“How?” Spitfire asked.

“He needs to get his tyres up to temperature,” Fleetfoot replied.

Spitfire frowned. Looking at the screens, it became obvious that Redline couldn’t push as hard at the moment, his sector times suffering as he tried to get his tyres warmed up. Once Camber and Flywheel caught up to him, he took a defensive line, slowing them down, but on the following corners, they passed him without any difficulty.

With a sigh, Spitfire eased back on her seat. There were still a lot of laps to go. “So how did you get to know Redline?”

“Filming for an ad,” Fleetfoot replied. “The story of it is that all the racers put aside their differences to compete in the Athletes’ Cup. Then they got in their cars, drove to Wonderbolt HQ, and wrote out ‘You’re on’ in tyre marks. All I had to do was look angry.”

Fleetfoot laughed. “You know, while we were on break, Redline was telling me how he was irritated by our flight suits, said he hated the patches we put for design.”

“What?” Spitfire asked.

“Yeah, Redline said patching and stitching ‘add too much weight’ and that we should have our designs printed instead, makes us lighter.” Fleetfoot was shaking her head with a grin. “Geez, those racers are obsessed with everything, aren’t they? What’s next? A good polishing on the car or sitting a millimeter lower can help cut down on lap times?”

Spitfire got a good chuckle as well. Indeed, getting fussy over a few grams of weight was ridiculous, but when she diverted her attention back to the screen to watch the drivers, she noted how precise they were in their racing, how even being the slightest bit off would warrant a consequence for them. They were all trading tenths between their lap times from all their subtleties.

She remembered her training, how Redline taught her how to turn the wheel deliberately and minimally. Maybe Redline’s got a point, she thought.

Eventually, an eruption of cheers rose among the audience. Spitfire glanced back up at the screens, and Redline was in the middle of fighting Flywheel in front of him and Camber behind him.

Then, Redline made a dash for the outside line. He and Flywheel barely gave each other space as they entered the corner. Suddenly, Redline dove towards the inside, putting the cars side-by-side. As they approached the next corner, Flywheel got on the power early, to the point where his rear end slipped.

Before Spitfire could’ve even reacted, Flywheel was quick to correct himself and steer himself back in the right direction, his hooves as quick as lightning. Redline didn’t even flinch.

The next corner, Redline was last on the brake, allowing himself to take yet another defensive line. All that fighting had allowed Camber to get on the power the earliest, and he easily overtook them in the straightaway.

But Redline saw him coming. The moment Camber was ahead of him on the racing line, he moved to the outside as they approached the S-shaped chicanes. At the left-hand turn, he came out first.

Camber tried to make a move, but his car wiggled slightly as he tried to accelerate.

A radio box appeared, showing Camber’s name. “I’m losing the rears! I’m losing the rears!”

Spitfire clapped at the show, and she could hear the fans cheering at the quality of the racing.

Almost immediately after that, another radio box appeared, this time for Redline.

“Redline,” the race engineer said, “Camber and Flywheel are complaining about their grip.”

Spitfire couldn’t believe what she just heard. They’d just use a feature of the race’s entertainment as a source of information to get an advantage.

Looking to her side, Spitfire shared a glance to Fleetfoot, who was looking nervously at the timing charts.

“Racing, huh?” Spitfire commented.

Fleetfoot ignored her. “Well, Redline better look after his tyres because the rest of the field are all over their flanks right now.”

She was right. With a few laps left to the race, all the fighting had allowed the other cars to catch up as well. At the long straight of the track, one racer managed to overtake Camber and Flywheel with ease. Spitfire felt a knot in her throat as she realized that Redline was next.

Come on, Red, Spitfire thought. Hang in there!

As Redline took yet another defensive line, the racer expected it perfectly, setting up an easy overtake. Redline, though, wasn’t willing to give up so easily. He held his line, keeping their cars side-by-side on the straight.

As they approached the corner, the two racers were now seeing who was the latest on the brake.

It was Redline. He dove deep into the corner, the racer next to him getting early on the power, but the car lost grip, the back end sliding. There was contact between the two of them, a puff of smoke as their tyres rubbed against each other. Redline had to drive beyond the track limits to regain control while the racer managed to stay on the track.

Spitfire gave a groan and shook her head in disbelief. There were now two laps left, and the gap between Redline and the racer was too much.

“My tyres are gone!” Redline barked through the radio, his voice frantic.

“Copy that,” the race engineer replied. “Bring the car home.”

“Is there front wing damage?!” Redline asked.

“No, it’s fine.”

Camber, Redline, and Flywheel obviously weren’t pushing their cars anymore, opting instead to cruise to the end to keep their points. Meanwhile, the rest of the field behind them was busy fighting, but they weren’t any danger to the frontrunners.

As the chequered flag wove, the winner was punching the air with his hooves. Redline wasn’t having any of it, and he was swift to bring his car to the pits and get out. He shook hooves with his team, gave a brief wave to the fans, then disappeared into the building.

Spitfire checked the screens. Even with the second place, Redline’s points were still dangerously near Camber and Flywheel; the only way to win the championship at this rate was to finish first tomorrow.

As the rest of the grid finished parking their cars, Redline, Camber, and the fourth racer appeared on the podium.

The crowd was cheering the loudest for Redline. Spitfire could see that he was forcing his smile. Underneath the cap and sunglasses, she sensed he was fuming. She knew that feeling well, to have lost by the slightest mistake.

After the celebrations were in order, the race commentator appeared and began interviewing the drivers. Naturally, the winner was ecstatic, but as the questions moved towards Redline and Camber, Spitfire cringed at the sight, knowing all too well that they weren’t in the mood to chat.

“Well, Redline,” the commentator said, “how’d you find the race?”

“Not the best,” Redline replied flatly.

“Are you worried about the sprint race tomorrow?” the commentator asked. “As is in GP2, the first eight cars that finish will go in a reverse grid!”

Spitfire’s heart dropped as she remembered the rule. At that rate, Redline would be behind Camber and Flywheel once more, and he’d be starting at seventh. He had a lot of work ahead of him.

“Well, we’ll see what happens,” Redline replied.

Spitfire switched off her alarm before it would’ve rung. She promptly got off her bed and grabbed her breakfast. As she ate her yogurt parfait, she checked the weather, and she felt her hairs stand at the report.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said under her breath.

Scrambling to her window, she tore open the blinds, and her jaw fell.

It was raining.

Out of all the days, why today?! She thought.

After quickly finishing the rest of her morning routine, she rushed to the door, grabbing her hoodie on her way out. Then, she took to the air and pulled the hood over her head. Eventually, she found the weather team.

“Okay, that’s enough rain!” the weather team leader said.

Then, they saw Spitfire.

“Can we help you?” one of them asked.

“Why the rain?” Spitfire asked. “There’s racing today!”

The weather team groaned and rolled their eyes.

“Listen,” the weather team leader said, “the rules explicitly state that weather teams can’t have any form of communication with anypony affiliated with racing.”

“We can’t even be in the same room!” another weatherpony added.

“I’m sorry,” the leader said, “but the most we can do is hope for the best for Redline. We have to do our jobs.”

Spitfire gave a harsh breath, then turned around and flew away. Even though she didn’t doubt Redline’s ability to drive, she still worried. If she took the extra caution walking on wet sidewalks, what more with a race car travelling almost two hundred miles an hour? She checked her watch; the race was starting soon. Once she arrived at the track, the asphalt was still damp. Nonetheless, there was an even bigger crowd today.

As Spitfire showed her pass to the staff, one of them perked up. “Oh, you’ll have to follow me.”

Arching an eyebrow, Spitfire followed the staff’s lead, passing through the the crowds and down the sides of the grandstands. Eventually, she found herself in the pit lane.

The staff member handed her a pair of earmuffs and gestured a door.

Spitfire put on the ear protection and walked through the door. Then, she found herself in the garage of Redline’s team. The race engineers were glued to their screens. Off to the side was a small seating area. There, she found Fancy Pants and other special guests. They all were so focused on the race that they didn’t even acknowledge her arrival.

Taking a seat, Spitfire looked at the monitor. With the damp tarmac, she scanned through each of the drivers. Redline, Camber, Flywheel, and a few other drivers had opted to stick with their dry-weather racing slicks, but every racer ahead of the trio of championship contenders had the intermediate, treaded tyres.

As the starting lights began, the grandstands broke into cheers, but Spitfire kept silent, anxiously hoping that all the racers would be fine. Then, the cars took off. All the drivers in their slicks were slow, while those on the intermediates got their traction with ease.

Spitfire felt her gut twist as she saw Redline get passed left and right.

Come on, Red, she though, please tell me you’ve got something up your sleeve!

Then, disaster struck. As the cars braked into the first corner, one of the backmarkers lost traction, hitting two other cars. The resulting collision hit yet another driver, and the four victims were brought to a dead-stop on the gravel.

The yellow flags were quick to be brought out, and the safety car was deployed. Spitfire breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the four drivers affected climb out of their cars unharmed. Then, track marshals began to clean up the mess.

As the rest of the field lined up behind the safety car, the marshals brought out heavy machinery to extract the cars from the track.

Well, this’ll take some time, Spitfire thought as she saw the equipment.

Lap after lap, under the safety car conditions, the drivers had to drive slow and not try any overtaking. Many fans were becoming restless, and with each passing moment, Spitfire grew only more tense as she realized that Redline would have less time to make up his positions.

Once the retired cars were gone, a radio message finally came through.

“Safety car coming in this lap,” the race marshall said.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Spitfire looked forward to seeing the race continue. As the safety car rolled into the pit lane, she noticed something that gave her a glimmer of hope.

The racing line was drying up.

The race continued. This time, the drivers on slicks were able to pick up the pace, including Redline and his friends.

Already, Camber and Flywheel began making their passes, leaving Redline behind.

Moment by moment, the track was getting drier. Spitfire looked at the timing charts. The cars on the intermediates had their lap times suffering, and her jaw fell at how much their speed has degraded.

Looking back towards the screen, Spitfire saw the camera aimed at Redline. He was making a move on a car with treaded tyres ahead of him. The driver didn’t even try to fight and let him pass with ease.

Another radio message appeared on the screens. “I need slicks!” a driver pleaded.

“Copy that, box this lap!” his race engineer replied.

In fact, he wasn’t the only one. All the drivers on intermediates made a mad dash for the pit lane, their teams ready for them. Now, the mechanics were racing to have the tyres switched back to slicks.

Just like that, the field of frontrunners cleared, and it was now Redline, Camber, and Flywheel fighting for podium positions. The crowds cheered at the sight. Spitfire even found herself smiling and clapping.

Without any hesitation, Camber and Flywheel began to battle it out. Camber took the inside line, but Flywheel defended his position, and they were side-by side.

As the two of them fought, Spitfire kept a careful eye on Redline in the background. Thanks to their fighting, he was able to catch up to them and stay comfortably in their slipstream, reducing his effort in driving. Then, Spitfire heard a distinctive sound once again.

Approaching the corner, Redline lifted off the accelerator early, coasted, then went long on the braking. After that, he dove into the turn-in with a smoother line.

At that moment, Spitfire understood his game; Redline was letting Camber and Flywheel fight it out, and when they’ve exhausted their tyres, then he’ll strike.

Spitfire relaxed in her seat and watched the other racers battle amongst themselves. Even though they weren’t fighting for first, she was, nonetheless, still impressed with their racecraft. After a while, she checked the timing charts. They had only ten laps left. Camber and Flywheel had eased off their fighting.

Then, Redline decided to attack. He pushed hard, and he was half a second a lap quicker than both of them.

Spitfire gripped her chair nervously as she watched Redline get on the power and catch up to Camber.

Redline pushed hard on the straight, Camber not even trying to make a defensive move anymore. The crowds and his team cheered and clapped.

Then, immediately, Redline targeted Flywheel, riding right behind him in his slipstream. Within a few turns, he caught up, and the two of them were side-by-side as they were entering the corner.

Flywheel was the first to slow down, and Redline got the position with ease by going later on the brake.

Redline’s team cheered, and Spitfire clapped her hooves. The crowd, too, enjoyed the display.

But Redline wasn’t done. He continued pushing his car, shaving a tenth or two here and there.

With her jaw hanging, Spitfire couldn’t believe how much Redline was able to look after his tyres so late into the race. In fact, he was able to get a dominating lead, a second ahead of Flywheel. Then, he began to cruise, watching after his car more carefully. As the final lap started, the crowd was already cheering and congratulating Redline, but he ignored them, focusing solely to his racing.

This is it! Spitfire thought. She remembered the first time she ever won an international competition in front of Equestria, the sense of pride, identity, and victory, but most of all, it was the feeling of accomplishment, that all her efforts in the dark had finally brought her to the spotlight.

As Redline brought his car through the final few corners, Spitfire noticed the team running out towards the pit lane.

“Come on!” a race engineer said with a grin, gesturing Spitfire and the rest of the guests.

They ran towards the catch fencing and stuck their heads through. Then, Spitfire heard it, the roar of an engine rapidly approaching them. Up above, a race marshall was waving the chequered flag.

Spitfire, too, stuck half of her body through the fence, and off in the distance, she saw a car rapidly approaching the finish line. She cheered, her hoof punching the air.

Redline crossed the finish line, a hoof raised in triumph.

The whole crowd was on their hooves, ecstatically cheering at the top of their lungs. The voices of the Equestrians were so loud that even though Spitfire was wearing protection for her ears, she thought she’d go deaf from all the cheering.

Spitfire heard the radio crackle to life.

“You’ve done it, Red!” the race engineer yelled. “You’re a GP2 world champion!”

Redline was screaming at the top of his lungs. “Thank you so much, guys! I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!”

Wrapping up the race, the cars had to do one more cooldown lap before heading into the pits. As Redline did his, he poked his hoof out of the cockpit to wave at the grandstands, where the crowd was already cheering his name, “Redline! Redline! Redline!”

Once he parked the car in the pits, Redline quickly got out of the car and stood on top of it. He punched his hooves towards the air to the cheers of the Equestrians. Then, he ran to his team and threw himself into their hooves. All the race engineers wrapped around him in a hug. As Spitfire tried to join the group, there were too many in between her and Redline. They shared a look. Redline had flipped open his visor, and his grin was unmistakable. They both reached out and bumped hooves.

Eventually, the staff pulled them apart and brought Redline inside a garage to be weighed, the cameras still following him. Spitfire watched the screens as Redline was directed to a waiting room, where his friends were already there.

Without saying a word, the three drives pulled each other into a group hug. Redline had lowered his head, and Camber and Flywheel were patting him on the back. They were silent, and subtly, the camera could pick up crying underneath the helmets. The championship had split them apart, but at that moment, Spitfire saw that they weren’t meeting each other as rivals or as racers, but instead, for the first time in a very long while, they were seeing each other as friends.

The camera feed was cut. Spitfire looked back. Already, the GP2 teams were busy packing up, and the F1 teams were moving their equipment in. Spitfire remembered, then, which series was still supposed to be the main event, but she didn’t care, and she could bet that neither did the thousands of Equestrians who filled up the grandstands.

Then, the racers appeared on the podium, waving at the crowd. As the trio took their spots, the screens above them changed to their respective national flag.

As the Equestrian national anthem played, Redline lowered his head, biting his lip and shutting his eyes; he was still in disbelief, but as far as Spitfire was concerned, he had the whole country cheering for him as she and a million other voices sang.

Immediately afterwards came the champagne, the racers giving a brief spray amongst themselves. Redline, however, leaned over the railing, where his team was standing right below him. He dropped them the bottle, and the race engineers shared the spoils of victory amongst themselves.

Finally, the race commentator appeared. “Well done, Redline! Congratulations on that stunning performance! But today’s more than just a race day to you, isn’t it? If I’ve heard right, today’s also your birthday!”

Redline nodded. “Yeah, it is.”

He was still out of breath and in disbelief. “I’m not a teenager anymore, that’s for sure. It’s been a long way, we’ve had ups and downs, but it’s nice to see all of it come to an end. My respect goes to Camber and Flywheel. These two blokes have pushed me so far into my life that I can’t imagine it without them.”

“Any plans for tonight after this event’s all over?” the commentator asked.

“I just want to be with my friends again,” Redline replied.

Spitfire closed her locker and threw her gym bag over her shoulder. After today’s training session, she wanted to let the team take the rest of the afternoon off. The Canterlot Performance Center had grown a bit quieter ever since the racers and their teams were done. Admittedly, she missed racing in the simulator. Nonetheless, Spitfire was thankful to be back on her normal routine. More importantly, she was happy to get back on her prescribed diet, being able to eat all the proteins she’d want without worrying about how what she had for lunch would affect the power-to-weight ratio of a car.

She glanced at a newspaper sitting atop a bench, highlighting yesterday’s headlines:

‘Redline signs for MareClaren Testing and Horsche Prototype Program’

Spitfire still smiled at the thought. Redline’s basically one step away from being the first Equestrian F1 driver.

As she began making her way, she noted a tall, familiar figure appear and approach her. She had a dark blue coat with an ethereal mane that was decorated with the stars, and she held herself with an aura of wisdom.

Instinctively, Spitfire bowed out of respect.

“Ah, Spitfire,” Princess Luna said, “I trust that you and Redline are on better terms now?”

Spitfire stood up and nodded. “We are, your highness. He’s got heart and dedication, I’ll give him that.”

“Indeed,” Luna said, nodding as well. “He was quite annoying in the ring, but he makes for a very fun sparring partner.”

Spitfire’s eyes widened. Princess Luna? She thought. Boxing?

“Uhh… come again?” she asked.

“What?” Luna asked. “Even I need physical activity to keep in shape.”

With her magic, she opened a locker and revealed a pair of boxing gloves, a sparring helmet, punching mitts, and even a mouthpiece.

Spitfire’s jaw fell, and she shook herself to regain her composure. “So… uh… I assume you took each other gently?”

“Actually,” Luna said, “we were giving it everything we had. I had reach, but he had flexibility. He was constantly adapting and learning. His seemingly endless stamina and his reaction times made him quite the difficult target to hit. I got rather frustrated having my punches hit the air rather than him, and when I did get him, he would be ready to block. Granted, we did agree to light blows for training purposes only, but I still wanted to get some solid strikes. After nine rounds, my sister called the spar a draw. Redline and I were rather unhappy with that result… and I was on the offensive for most of the match."

Luna’s expression changed, a peeved look on her face. “Needless to say, we agreed to have a tie-breaker eventually. Nonetheless, I had reach, and he had flexibility, some things for me to remember.”

She gave a chuckle, then gave a smirk. “It is nice to have more than one way to work off stress, I guess.”

Then, Luna waved her hoof dismissively. “But, I digress. I am here to inform you that it would be… very wise to talk to Redline right now.”

Spitfire tilted her head. “Is… is there something wrong?”

“He has been very troubled lately,” Luna said, “and I believe that, out of all the ponies in Equestria, you should talk to him.”

“Why me?” Spitfire asked.

“For so long, Redline thought that Equestria was against him. He saw you as his rival, the biggest threat that could change his career as an Equestrian. Competing against you cleansed him of his bitterness because you represented everything that made him fear for his future.”

Spitfire lowered her head. She’d already come to terms with that, but it still hurt for her to hear it. For so long, she wanted to inspire, to motivate others to strive to do better. She never thought she’d be perceived to be a threat to a younger athlete.

“If you were to talk to him,” Luna continued, “you would send the message that no matter what happens, we, Equestria, would still be with him.”

“But why would he be upset?” Spitfire asked. “He’s got the support of Equestria, one of the top junior F1 championships to his name, and contracts with two teams that have very long histories in motorsports.”

As Spitfire said her words, Luna lowered her head, as if in disappointment. Then, she gave a sigh. “It is not my place to talk about why Redline is how he is now. All I can say is that it is urgent that you meet him.”

Spitfire gave a deep breath, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

As late afternoon filled the sky, Spitfire stared at the apartment building. It stood in the quiet part of Canterlot, far away from the extravagant village where the big-names lived in luxury. Though it was a new building, it was incredibly low-key, its humble appearance emphasizing a sense of normality.

She approached the door, pulled back her hood, and punched in the number on the keypad. The machine gave a hum. Then, a voice came.

“Hello?” Redline asked.

“Hey, Red,” Spitfire said. “It’s me Spitfire. Can we talk for a bit?”

There was a pause. “Sure,” Redline replied.

He hung up the phone, and the door gave a beep. Spitfire made her way into the building, and there was already an elevator waiting for her.

After the brief ride, she made her way to Redline’s door, then knocked. She still couldn’t imagine what would trouble Redline now.

Redline opened the door. “Hello.”

This time, Spitfire saw that he wasn’t wearing any of his sponsor gear. At that moment, she remembered, then, that her goal was to meet with just Redline, not as an athlete or a competitor, but as a fellow Equestrian.

Redline gestured her to come in. “Make yourself comfortable. Care for some tea?”

“No, thanks,” Spitfire said. She made her way in. The one bedroom apartment was humble by any standard. On the kitchen counter were a number of ingredients, and Spitfire thought he was in the middle of preparing his dinner. The only evidence of his career was a simulator setup in the corner and a display stand next to it, filled with so many trophies some of them were on the floor.

“I apologize if the display’s a mess,” Redline said, “It’s a nice problem to have, I guess.”

Spitfire sat down on the couch, Redline on the opposite side. She noted his eyes, his gaze at the floor with a thousand yard stare. Something was on his mind, and he needed a moment before finally acknowledging Spitfire in front of him.

“So,” Spitfire started, “MareClaren and Horsche, huh?”

“Yeah,” Redline replied. “My contract’s for Horsche’s LMPs in the World Endurance Championship, so it looks like I’m up for Le Manes again next season. On top of that, a test driver for MareClaren’s F1 team. Sure, Camber and Flywheel got seats in mid-field F1 teams, with the possibility to race with frontrunners, but the WEC will be a ton of fun nonetheless.”

Spitfire noted his language; he was dodging the topic about him. Something was wrong. The fact that he wasn’t keeping eye contact with her only confirmed her suspicion. “I still want to know what you think of your career.”

“It’s amazing to be racing full-time for Horsche, and it’s an honour to contribute to MareClaren’s F1 team and help them--”

“Redline,” Spitfire said sternly. She leaned forward. “What happened?”

Redline hesitated for a moment. “I couldn’t find a seat in F1, so MareClaren decided to put me into their testing and development position. But I still wanted to race full-time somewhere, so I managed to get a seat in Horsche’s LMP team for the World Endurance Championship. Thing is, racing is rather complicated, so F1’s management told me that I could still race for Horsche on the condition…

He let out a shuddered breath. “...on the condition that I don’t ever pursue a full-time seat in F1.”

Spitfire was silent. She wanted to say something.

But Redline continued. He choked, tears welling up his eyes. “There was a seat in a different team I could’ve gotten… but I didn’t because someone else had more sponsorship money.”

Spitfire’s heart sank. “Red…”

Redline broke down, and he had tears streaming down his cheeks. He brought his hooves to his face. He wasn’t the hotshot who faced against Spitfire anymore. Instead, he was just a broken pony. “I gave my life to this sport! I gave it everything I had! I’ve won the junior championship! I raced at bloody Le Mans! And yet that’s still not good enough for them!”

Without any hesitation, Spitfire got off her cushion and went to Redline. She wrapped her hooves around him and cocooned him with her wings. She didn’t know why she was doing it, all she knew was that she had to do something. Redline hugged her tight and buried his face into her coat, soaking it with his tears.

As Redline cried, Spitfire sighed, a sickening feeling in her gut. Redline was still so young and so far into his career. She wanted to tell him that everything’ll be fine, that he’ll be okay, but how could she say that? He just had his dreams crushed because his own sport betrayed him, and he already knew his fate.

Redline sobbed, holding Spitfire like his life depended on her. He cried and cried, pouring every emotion he kept bottled in him. Spitfire kept quiet. She could feel how much of a toll Redline’s career did on him, the years of being alone and fearful of the future finally showing their scars. No matter how much his team or his sponsors tried to make him into the perfect racing machine, Redline was still a living, breathing pony nonetheless, and right now, he needed Spitfire’s help more than ever.

“F1 doesn’t care about its drivers,” Redline said. “All they care about is money and putting on a show.”

He finally lifted his head, his gaze still down. “You want to know why I chose Horsche?”

Spitfire didn’t reply.

Redline gulped. “Near the end of the race, we had a very comfortable lead to finish Le Manes, so even though we were giving everything, we weren’t trying to push for qualifying-speed laps and be reckless. In the last thirty minutes, they brought the car in for its last bit of refuelling and cleaning. Suddenly, the team wanted me in. I thought it was a bit odd at first. After all, the bloke driving at that moment was from Germaneigh, so I thought it was fitting he drove the Horsche across the finish line.

“It was only after we won did it all come to me. I realized that the whole team wanted me to finish the race… they wanted me to make history, to be the first Equestrian racer to win Le Manes. It was the first time… in a very, very long time-” Redline’s voice quivered “-that I could feel that the racers right next to me actually cared about me. They wanted to see me win. As I stood on the podium with the driver team, I felt at peace, knowing that everything I gave summed up to something.”

He fell silent, then tightened his hooves around Spitfire. “I’m sorry, Spitfire, sorry for being an arse to you.”

Spitfire nuzzled his hair. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Red.”

Then, they fell silent. Occasionally, one of them would nuzzle the other. Spitfire didn’t care about the time. To her, all that mattered was making sure Redline didn’t feel alone.

“Red,” Spitfire finally said, “there may be hundreds… thousands of elite Equestrian athletes out there, but there’s only one who’s a junior F1 champion and a Le Manes winner, and I’m looking right at him. No matter what happens, we’ll have your back.”

Redline nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Can you make me a promise?” Spitfire asked.

Redline’s ears perked up. He lifted his head, meeting her eye-to-eye.

“Be the best sports car racer Equestria will ever know,” Spitfire said confidently.

Then, Redline smiled. “Sure thing.”

He got off the couch and wiped off his tears. “I should get back to making dinner. Care to stay? I am cheating on my diet tonight.”

Spitfire smiled. “Sure. I’ll help.”

“Cheese fondue,” Redline said as he pulled out the pots, graters, and ingredients. Spitfire helped in the grating of the cheeses.

Redline simmered the red wine in the pot, then poured in the rest of the ingredients. He also added some nutmeg and salt to taste. Finally, he pulled out the bread, a few plates, and some long-stemmed forks.

As they settled into their meal, Spitfire helped herself to some bread and cheese. She took a bite, the warm, savoury taste in her mouth.

“Good choice of ingredients,” Spitfire said.

“Thanks,” Redline said.

As Spitfire dipped in another piece of bread, she glanced over at Redline’s room. The 24-Hour Le Manes trophy proudly stood tall in the case, overshadowing his other accomplishments. The simulator setup was mounted on hydraulics. Spitfire could only imagine how accurate racing on that would be.

Suddenly, she felt her fork hit something. Looking down, she realized that she’d hit Redline’s, and they both dropped their bread into the pot.

“Oops,” Spitfire said. “Sorry.”

She noted Redline’s look, one that was staring at the bread in the pot intently.

“Did I do a faux pas or something?” Spitfire asked.

“Well,” Redline said, “tradition states that if the male counterpart loses his bread in the pot, he must get everypony a drink.”

He promptly got up, grabbed a pair of wine glasses, and served whatever red wine was left in the bottle. Raising his glass, he gave a smile.

“Cheers,” he said.

Spitfire and Redline clinked their glasses and took a sip.

“And what does the female counterpart do?” Spitfire asked.

At those words, Redline blushed. “She… she needs to kiss those around her.”

He broke eye contact, his cheeks getting even redder. “I mean… it doesn’t have to be lip-to-lip, cheek-to-cheek is fine. B-but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

As Redline lost his words, Spitfire chuckled. A professional driver who can race in the middle of the night, she thought, but he can’t even ask for a kiss.

Then, she leaned forward, edging her face closer to his with a playful smirk. “Just shut up and give me a kiss.”