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.”