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.”