Interviews.

Of course the first month back’s chock-full of them. All the news outlets want our opinions on how the past season went, and what our plans for the future are — who’s staying, who’s leaving.

Nopony, this time, or so I’m hearing; nothing in the locker rooms and nothing on TV or the radio. Still the same team as it was the night the Bearers were chosen. Or discovered themselves, or however you want to put it, depending on your interpretation of how destiny works. But I’m a staunch believer in making my own fate. I wouldn’t have made ‘I am in control’ my mantra if I thought otherwise.

And if I had any control over my current situation, I’d be as far away from this press conference as possible.

Now the honeymoon’s over, the wolves are hungry for details. If I gave them my response one-on-one, each journalist asking the same questions and expecting different answers, anypony could pick and choose from a hundred versions, and none of them would be the whole truth. I promised myself I’d say everything only once, and that’s what I intend to do. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.

At least Spitfire was kind enough to cancel all my private interviews, on the grounds of me being too sick for them. A standard white lie, but one we couldn’t keep up forever; they photographed me doing drills in Academy airspace, the most famous of those pictures being Rainbow and I flying in tandem. Rivals Unite: Fleetfoot and Rainbow Dash Mend Broken Ties. As if they were fractured to begin with.

Flashing cameras flicker even through the relatively bright lighting of the conference room. Normally, it’d be used to brief new recruits on how everything functions around here, as well as break down upcoming routines for the fliers whom it concerns. Presently, the ten rows of sixteen chairs are packed with the press, and the backdrop emblazoned with the Wonderbolts name and logo hides the projector screen from view. The team and I sit on folding chairs in our silver tracksuits, assembled in a line atop a raised platform. I’m on the furthest right.

It’s Rainbow’s turn right now, soon to be mine. Spitfire instructed everypony behind the scenes to take as much time as they could with their answers, so they’d have to cut the conference short on my part, and Rainbow’s making the most of it. It’s always been easy for her — despite being one of the fastest ponies alive, she can delay and deflect like there’s no tomorrow, and so expertly. It’s almost as if that was her special talent, but I can’t imagine her being a politician.

“And now Fleetfoot will take some question, but… we only have a few minutes left, so keep them short, everyone,” Spitfire announces from the centre of the group, leaning forward and looking at me from over the brim of her dark aviators. She’s a good captain, and a good friend.

It’s just a shame that, sometimes, I have to face the music like everypony else.

I become aware I’ve let myself slouch, so I sit up and adjust my own purple shades, hopefully hiding my eyes as I glance about the room. “Okay, uh…” I begin, raising the microphone in my hoof to my mouth.

Upward of a hundred forelegs and voices fly up at once, and I’m bombarded by a sudden volley of flashes. This is more of a response than any other Bolt down the line received, and it doesn’t make me feel any better about this in the slightest.

“Alright, people, settle down, one at a time,” Spitfire declares, putting her hoof out as if she’s taming a ravenous beast. “Let’s not overwhelm her, okay? She’s had a tough break.”

I look at her from the corner of my eye without moving my head. She made it sound like I’m emotionally unstable. Which might not be that far off the mark, to be fair, if I have to put up with bullshit for the next five minutes.

The flashes dwindle to where I can count them if I try, and the voices die down to hushed mutterings. Tolerable. But I’d heard enough through the racket to know what the vast majority wanted to ask. Now all I have to do is try and carefully weave my way through the minefield, picking out the safe ones from the rest. Not an easy task, even on my best days, but I hazard a guess and point to a younger-looking mare at the front.

“Yes, thank you,” she says as if I’d verbally announced her, then peers at her notepad and clears her throat. “Reviewers from your last tour claimed the routines you choreographed were uninspired. Do you have any doubts on your ability to compose routines in the future?”

Good. A safe, petty question. A few crowd members roll their eyes, surely disappointed the more exciting answers wouldn’t yet come, not that I’d be willing to give them. She also didn’t name her employer, which means she’s either new to the job or she’s part of an agency not worth mentioning. Either way, I can work with this.

“Not at all.” I smile and disguise a relieved sigh with a stretch. “I just chose to harken back to some of my old work. Besides, there are only so many ways you can fly, and with a career as long as mine, you start feeling like you’ve flown them all.”

“Does that mean it’s less exciting?”

I snort. “Hardly. It just means I’m more experienced.”

“Have you considered other prospects?”

And then my smile falls and my ears and brows lower. “No.” I quickly look about for another pony and point at the most inconspicuous of the lot: a colt of a similar age with a beige coat and brown mane and tail. “You next.”

I don’t need to see Spitfire to feel her eyes watching me carefully from down the line.

The stallion blinks a few times, glancing between myself and the journalist who’d now sat herself down, but then he nods and also clears his throat. “Featherweight, Ponyville Chronicle. Is it true you once stayed overnight at the Castle of Friendship while the human, Philip, was present?”

My gaze hardens and I grit my teeth. “Yes,” I reply, slowly and gratingly. “But if you’re implying what I think you’re implying, you can take those spindly legs of yours and—”

“I think we’ll take just one more,” Spitfire very wisely interrupts, and then gestures for somepony at the far back. “You, from the GK. What do you have to say?”

A griffon peers up at us from a mop of black and white feathery bangs, raising an eyebrow as if we were somehow the ones wasting her time. And the way she proceeds to sigh and get up from her chair, only to climb back on and sit on the backrest doesn’t help her image, not that she appears to care. “Gudrun, Griffonstone Gazette,” she announces, idly shuffling through the notecards in her claws, almost as disinterested as I’d suspected.

Perhaps a little impolite, but I’ve seen worse — reporters who’d always wanted to cover the fashion scene, for example, getting assigned to the sports department and taking their frustration out on us. This one doesn’t seem contemptuous, only bored. She’ll be full of easy questions. Spitfire chose right, just like she always does.

The journalist continues examining her notes for a few short moments, then looks me in the eye and cocks her head. “Do you like him?”

---

Do I like him?! DO I LIKE HIM?! DO I FUCKING LIKE HIM?!

What kind of dipshit question is that?! Why would she even think that was appropriate to ask?! Never mind the public setting, the answer was and always will be no! No, no, a million times over, no! He’s a friend!

Why couldn’t she or the rest of those assholes get it through their thick, fickle heads?! Just because you appreciate somepony’s company doesn’t mean you want to get involved with them! On top of that, we aren’t the same species, and even if we were, I’ve only known him for the better part of two weeks. That’s not long enough to develop a bond as deep as that, and certainly not when I’m doing the best I can to avoid distractions at any and all costs.

I beat my way through a cloud and continue soaring as fast as I can for home. Maybe I should’ve stayed at the Academy to use the gym and wear out its punching bags, but being on the same floor, let alone the same building as those reporters was simply too much. My refusal to give an answer as I stormed out sent them into a gibbering frenzy anyway, asking so many on the spot questions spurred by speculation. I could even see pleasantly surprised look in that blasted griffon’s eyes.

Vultures, the lot of them. Better off avoiding public appearances for the next six months or so, let the excitement kill itself from exhaustion, and maybe then I’ll actually enjoy myself on the red carpet again. But until then, I’ll have to avoid cameras, prying eyes, and whatever else they have in store for me.

Rumours of romantic endeavours aren’t anything new. More than once, Soarin, Spitfire and I, as well as practically every other Wonderbolts not already in a committed relationship, have found ourselves in a perceived love triangle. I remember the time when I was so happy after pulling off a rainboom alongside Rainbow for a show that I kissed Misty backstage, and that sent the press on fire. I still hear whispers about it five years later.

But this? This is just plain bull. They’re seeing something that, without a doubt, will simply never happen. I wouldn’t allow it. And I say that as if I’m not in complete control of myself. But I know who I am and I know what I want, and anything to do with that is completely out of the question. It can impale itself on a spike up the butt and leave itself to bake in the sun.

I don’t care if that makes me sound psychotic; right at this very moment, that’s genuinely how I feel. I’m happy as I am and I don’t need anypony else’s vision of it forced on me. They know me better than that. And if they don’t, screw ‘em. I’ll be fine on my own.

My house comes into view as I tear through another bank of clouds, and slowing herself down to land on the porch is the very pink form of Bifröst. She’s dressed in her brown postal uniform as always, same as the mystery mare whose name I never learned — dropping off the mail. A welcome coincidence compared to the dumpster fire I’d just escaped. Wouldn’t mind venting a bit if she has time to listen.

From on high, I swoop low and use the momentum to glide straight for the porch without a single flap, getting a small thrill from the speed as I do so. “Incoming!”

Bifröst snaps her head in my direction and shrieks and pulls away.

It’s a needless but hilarious reaction, seeing as I’d only meant to catch her in my wake, and I suppress a chuckle as I push my wings against the air and slow myself to a sudden crawl. The strain’s immense, and I’ll probably have to preen quite a little longer tonight, but that’s the price I pay for the look on her face. I set down on the cloud at a trot and turn back to her with a daring grin. “Beat you to it.”

She hovers in the air with wide eyes and a hoof to her chest. “Merciful Sisters, Fleetfoot, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” I wave her off with a wing, then notice a few feathers out of place and make a mental note as I fold it at my side again. “You know me better than to ram my favourite courier.”

“Your only courier,” she corrects, finally descending and giving me a hint of cheek. “Maybe I’ll ask for a transfer to the Western Quarter after a stunt like that.”

I open my mouth and furrow my brows in a look of mock offence. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I dare, sister.” She nods warningly. “So, you’d better start treating me with more respect or you’ll be finding another pony to torment.”

My smile returns. “And wouldn’t that be fun?”

Her eyes narrow as a smirk she was trying to hide breaks out across her lips. “You’re a cruel one, Miss Fleetfoot,” she teases, strolling closer. And then she stops and cocks her head. “Also, weren’t you supposed to be at work today?”

My smile falters and my ears lower. Not completely, but now I’ve been reminded what I was running from, I can’t glancing away and letting my features harden. “Yeah… Things got… heated.”

“Oh, stars, another outburst?”

I squint at her. “What do you mean ‘another’?”

Bifröst sighs and looks up in thought, sits on her haunches as she counts with her primaries. “Well, there was the time in Cloudsdale, and then the time in Las Pegasus, and then the time in Klugetown, and then other time in Cloudsdale, and then—”

“Okay, okay, jeez. Didn’t know you were the grudge-keeping type.”

“Eidetic memory.” She taps her temple with a wingtip. “A blessing and a curse; can’t forget anything whether I want to or not.”

“Oh.” I glance away again and shut my mouth. “In that case, do yourself a favour and don’t watch the news tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the next three night, just to be safe.”

“That bad, huh?”

I bob my head from side to side. “Could’ve been worse, I suppose. But yeah, pretty bad.”

She lowers her gaze as she hums to herself and nods thoughtfully, then returns to me sympathetically. “I’ll try my best, but no promises,” she admits, standing up and reaching a wing into one of her saddlebags. “Still pretty invested in that scandal up in Caribousk. Always love it when the baddies get busted. Besides, I live in Cloudsdale anyway — if it’s anything concerning the Wonderbolts, I’m bound to hear it eventually.”

Great. Of course she would. And with TVs and telephones in every household nowadays, gossip’s been able to spread faster than ever.

…Shit. Mum’s going to throw a fit.

And so will Spitfire, probably, considering I disrespected her and the team by going AWOL at a public event, in front of a hundred camera-armed reporters no less. Once again, I’d let impulse get the better of me, and this time, there’ll be consequences. I’m sure of it.

“Anyway, here’s your mail.” Bifröst pulls out a lone envelope and offers it to me. “Just one, this time, thankfully.”

Thankfully indeed. After some particularly flashy performances or impressionable recruitment rallies, I’m often swamped with fans writing to me, saying how awesome I am and how I’ve inspired them. It’s nice, really, and I try my best to read them all and reply to the ones most deserving — sometimes that takes up an entire day — but it’s a pain for the pony who flies around delivering them. Even Bifröst has her limits.

I accept the offer and inspect the florid, near illegible cursive scrawled on the front. If I squint and tilt my head to the left, I can kind of make out my name, as well as my address. The postage stamp on the top right explains everything. “Canterlot,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I tear it open. “Probably some prissy noble inviting me to dinner again.”

“Oh no, luxury and class. How dare they treat you to food fit for royalty.”

“Yeah-yeah, laugh it up all you want,” I playfully grouse, looking at her as I slip out the folded letter. “But trust me, the pampered life’s not all it’s hyped up to be.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’d better.” I flip the paper over and frown. Instead of more barely readable scribbles and scratches, I’m met actually decent script. Shaky in some places, imperfect and scratched out in others — nowhere near as refined as the average Canterlotian. Even the children there have neater writing than I do. And this intrigues me.

I begin to read.

Dear Fleetfoot

It feels a little awkward writing that, to be honest. It feels awkward writing a letter, period. But texting hasn’t been invented yet, and there aren’t any phones, and I’ve been told working on my penmanship might do me some good. It certainly beats doing the same old routine day in, day out anyhow.

So, here I am. I’ve been here for the past month, and things have settled down. Still waiting for any word on whether I can go home at some point, but otherwise, it’s been fine. The food here’s the best I’ve ever had, and the staff, when they’re not on duty, make for decent company. Met the princesses too, and I have to say, they’re not at all what I expected. Not that I’d have known what to expect, in any case.

Celestia’s humble. If I were to sum her up in a word, that’d be it. Nothing like the aristocrats back in my world, modern or historical. She tells me you’ve met before, on several occasions. I wish I could say I’m not surprised, but I can’t help it; I didn’t think you were that connected. But you're famous, and the princesses are far more open than I’m used to thinking the upper class could be, so I really should’ve expected something like this. Not that I’m trying to accuse you of anything.

Luna’s the one I’m seeming to click better with. It doesn’t help that her sister’s always hosting tea with a foreign dignitary or hearing the problems of her subjects, and the only time we get to talk is over breakfast. Luna, on the other hand, is free for most of the day — when she’s not sleeping, that is. But since barely anyone’s up at night, her business hours are mostly unoccupied, and we’ve had more time to chat.

She’s cool. They both are, really, but I’m not sure if I’m quite as comfortable as I was back in Twilight’s place. Sure, if I’m under what’s basically house arrest for the remainder of my stay, it’s better to have the bigger house, but the atmosphere’s very formal here. I can only take a leisurely stroll through the gardens so many times before I’ve seen all the flowers.

So, I guess that’s also why I’m writing. It’s been too long since I’ve heard from you. I’m writing to Spike and Twilight too, so don’t feel like I’m singling you out, but if I have at least one extra thing to do every week, I think that’ll be enough to keep my sanity in check.

I’m joking, of course. But if I start going crazy, pacing the same halls with no break in the monotony, I wouldn’t mind knowing there’s an escape plan you’ve put together. Positively treasonous, but it’d be a story for the ages.

I hope to hear from you soon, Fleetybee.

Philip

“So, not a noble, I take it.”

I blink, realising I’m staring, then look up at Bifröst again and shake my head. “No,” I reply airily, returning to the letter. “Far from it.”

“Philip?”

I slowly nod.

“Huh.” She peers at the envelope still in my other wing. “Must’ve used a go-between to sneak it out of the palace. You know, so it’s not an official royal message, or whatever. Wouldn’t have gone through the normal postal system if it was.”

And if it was, there’d be pomp and ceremony, and even more public attention. Whoever had the idea for somepony to post it in his stead, I’d give them a hug without hesitation. Heck, I’d probably kiss them too, just to spite the press.

“Anyway, I should get back to doing the rounds.” She gives me a bow of the head, then turns away and starts strolling for the edge of the porch. “You take care, Fleet. And try to keep that temper in check.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, still feeling a little lost as I slowly swing about and head for the door. I barely hear her take flight as I unlock it and head inside, closing the way behind. It’s quiet. Neither cool nor warm. Motionless. And as I continue through and sit on the couch, I’m overtaken by a sense of… gratitude.

This came at just the right time — a distraction to keep me from focussing on the bad. It puts me to shame, somewhat, to realise I’ve never figured out how to contact him after so long, but I’m secretly happy it wasn’t me being the first to put my hoof forward. That’s shallow, I know, but… if I’m not the one taking risks, that’s fine by me.

Now all that’s left to do is find a pen and piece of paper.

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