---

---

Serenity.

Wind in my wings. Blowing through my mane and tail. Across my snout. Catching in the nooks of my goggles. Cool, refreshing. Pure. Smells like dew on grass. Tastes like filtered water. Feels like swimming in a sea of runny honey.

With every change in the air, through speed or through temperature, my feathers adjust, twitching constantly as I sail towards the setting sun. An endless ocean of clouds stretches out beneath me, smooth and fluffy like an untouched tub of ice-cream, painted in spectacular shades of gold, orange, blue and purple. High above, the sky gives way to night; tiny, flickering specks of light shine through the shrinking veil of day, and only grow in number the further it shrinks.

It’s a sight I’ve seen so, so, so many times before, and yet I’ve never grown tired of it.

I could spend hours up here. And I have, in fact — training with partners or by myself, or simply gliding and letting the air currents and gravity guide me wherever they please. By tuning out on a flight from home, I once found myself as far south as Las Pegasus, which really shouldn’t have been possible in a single afternoon. But that just goes to show the power of a good workout song.

Here, there’s no music — we’re not allowed it — just the sound of air racing past my ears and the faint, distant, somewhat distorted cries of a stadium packed to the brink.

I look down.

The Griffon Kingdoms have had their ups and downs, most notably their decline almost a full century ago, but they’ve since bounced back and finally stabilised, and it shows: Griffonstone looks incredible.

The giant tree upon which the city is based — Gydrasil, I think it’s called — is in bloom at long last, and casts a massive and lengthy shadow across the vast, misty expanse. Though too small to pick out from so high up, the building and hollows are nothing short of remarkable; carved from the wood and smoothed with plaster, doors and windows framed with runes and swirling patterns. Greenery sprouts every which way, and the streets are lined with streamers and banners, and the bowl-shaped amphitheatre overlooking the clouds is no different.

I never thought we’d be coming here, honestly, considering Rainbow’s report after she came back from that ‘friendship quest’, or whatever we’re supposed to call it. But I’m happy to be proven wrong, even if I get the feeling the royal treasury had more to do with the restoration than a simple act of random kindness. There’s still some gruffness around, but griffons have always been known for that, and it’s nothing I can’t handle, or the other Bolts, for that matter.

Now, though, over half the city is sitting in a few dozen aisles, staring high into the sky and waving and applauding, eager for the next act to begin. Soarin and Spitfire have already taken their squadrons through the motions, so now it’s my time to shine.

Glancing further down to make sure my teammates are keeping pace, following my lead on a slight delay, I confirm that we’re all in position. We’ve practiced this enough that’s it’s basically instinctual — most routines are, as a matter of fact; I can still feel my first few shows guide me here and there. Including the reservist tryouts and special events, this’ll be number two hundred and fifty-six, borrowing elements from sixty-eight, one-fifty-one, and two-twenty-seven.

That last one was one heck of a Gala.

But ruminating on the past can wait — that’s what the afterparty’s for. Right now, there’s an audience hanging on my every action, anticipating a drop, desperate for the wave that signifies the finale is about to commence.

I smirk. It would be a shame to disappoint.

With a single flap of my wings, I gain speed and pull ahead from the single-file group below me. With a second, I send myself into a flip and let gravity take over. When my nose points downwards, I flap for a third and final time and dive, neck low, forelegs folded tight, wings pulled in but not closed — already so fast I can barely hear anything; I may as well be rubbing my hooves against my ears.

I shoot past Rainbow Dash, who’ll pull the same manoeuvre, and Silver Zoom will do the same when she passes him, and so on and so forth with Misty Fly and Wave Chill; a high-speed game of follow the leader. The trick, though, is to keep an even distance; they’re flying in my wake, which means less resistance, and progressively less the further down the chain. Any flier worth their bits can dive, but to do so in strict formation is hard, and especially single-file.

Thankfully, we are worth our bits, and I don’t need to take another glance to know we’re doing just fine. A week of practice never goes to waste on my watch.

The dive becomes steeper, faster, and my wings and legs wobble as I keep them all in place. Reaching the sound barrier, I bet — could go for a rainboom, if I felt like it. But I’d better not; as much as it’d wow the audience, the team’s not expecting it, and Rainbow’s the only one who’d be able to keep up, or even appreciate a little spontaneity.

Further down we go, straight towards the clouds, and I feel the briefest flicker of anxiety. It’s silly, I know, considering how many routines I’ve done, all without a hitch on my part, but you never lose that deep, dark dread that maybe, this time, things won’t go to plan. Once upon a time, if Rainbow and her friends had anything to do with it, that tended to happen quite a lot.

Now, though, years later, that’s all settled down. And I need to focus.

I spread my wings and strain to pull up, feeling the g-force push me down like a giant hoof. But I’ve timed it just right: my turn is sharp and I catch a little of the vapours in my feathers, forming contrails and creating a long, wispy line of white. And if the others have done the same — which they definitely have — a curved spire will have formed, practically glowing in the light of the sun, like a stone had skipped across the surface of a pond.

We continue the arc and fly in a slow, exaggerated roll, still at speed, but dragging out the motion as I turn and head for the stadium. Any second now, Rainbow and Silver will sweep right, and Misty and Wave will sweep left, forming a standard V; a tricky arrangement to fall into while performing a stunt, which is partly reason why this segment is rather featureless. That, and I honestly couldn’t think of anything, much to my shame.

We stop rotating at the two-seventy degree mark, just in time to reach the southern end of the amphitheatre. The crowd waves their flags and cups their beaks and cheer and shout and whoop and warble, and the air is filled with praise and excitement as we circle the ring, so close I could lower my hoof and touch the railing, or clap claws with a few excited fans. Perhaps that’s just me projecting, but the feeling’s there, and I relish it.

Just like anxiety, pride never goes away either.

Already we’ve cleared the stadium — just shy of two seconds, by my count — leaving thunderous applause and exhilaration in our wake, and probably more than a few ruffled feathers. Any hats would have blown off too, but if anypony wears loose-fitting clothing to a Wonderbolts derby, it’s kind of their fault. Skirts especially. Sisters know how many times that’s happened in Canterlot; some greenhorn noble dressing for looks and none of their friends tipping them off.

But there’s still a routine to do, and we continue the rotation at a quicker pace; three-sixty, four-fifty, five-forty, and a sudden drop as we go from upside down to right side up. In this small dive, we build speed, and then immediately climb, higher and higher, spinning through the air in a never-ending helix, our circles becoming smaller and more concentrated.

At some point, the rest of the squadron will have started adjusting their course, forming helixes of their own until they’re once again in single-file. That took us a whole month to perfect, exacerbated by Silver’s parental leave and Rainbow’s duties to the School of Friendship.

Her commitments, I can understand, since she’s an Element Bearer, and Princess Twilight can’t afford to not show off how good she is at making friends, but as for Silver…

Nothing against him, really, but why couldn’t he have waited until after his tenure to be a father? It’s not that hard to keep it between your legs.

I blink myself out of autopilot, realising that I’m spinning on a dime; we’ve reached the next segment. So, with another powerful flap, I launch myself further into the air, and then let my limbs go limp and the momentum wane. As I fall, the team twists and yanks themselves out if the way, hovering with their bellies to the sky before joining me in my descent, one on each cardinal direction. The contrails have faded by this point, but that’s okay — they probably would look the best in the next part anyway.

After I’ve fallen far enough, I open my wings again, forelegs aimed at the air in front, and level off, heading for the stadium once more. At the same time, the squadron begins to roll around me in a double helix; Silver and Rainbow going clockwise, and Misty and Wave running counter, all missing each other by a mere hoofspan when they cross paths.

I in turn weave up and down, left and right, in and out and all about, each manoeuvre timed to be the closest, safest shave possible, topped with a few extra spins and flips here and there.

Twenty-three. That’s where this segment’s from. Show twenty-three: my first stint at Trottingham. There were a lot of griffons there too, as well as ponies, which only made sense, what with the Griffish Isles being halfway between Equestria and the Kingdoms.

Faster and faster they swirl, and I match their dizzying pace — in the sense that any raw recruit would have trouble keeping up, but for veterans like us, it’s easy as a breeze.

That being said, there was that newbie a while back who broke the record on the Dizzitron. She’d probably do pretty well, recklessness and Spitfire’s initial misjudgement notwithstanding. Even now, years later, her record remains unbeaten, which just goes to show how much potential she had, and wasted.

But it won’t stay that way forever. I’ve been training day and night whenever I can, always squeezing in that extra little bit of practice before and after breakfast. I can now comfortably outlast any Bolt on the wing-press, and beat quite a few even when they use their legs instead. I’ve tried diets I’d never heard of before that day; even had fish for the first time in my life, which didn’t taste completely horrible, much to my disturbed surprise.

Anything to improve my chances, I’ll take it. Nopony outdoes me and gets away with it.

And it’s showing. Or so my colleagues say; I’m swifter and more agile than ever before — rivalling Rainbow in those regards, and, by extension, my actual rival. My fans also say I look a little slimmer, but I’m pretty sure they’re just seeing what they want to see; pegasi have never been known for any kind of thickness, except for a few rare and often unhealthy instances, so if there were a change, it’d be barely noticeable.

Honestly, all I can do is sit back and roll my eyes with a smile. So long as it means a more enjoyable show, and so long as they don’t catch wind of how petty I actually am, the public can speculate to their hearts’ content.

Eventually, the window for our stunt draws to a close as we approach the airspace at the centre of the amphitheatre — which is for the better, because if my solitary glance at Misty’s anything to go by, she’s starting to look a little queasy. So, I fly straight ahead, then loop up and over, and thread myself through the eye of the needle. And as soon as I do, the circle breaks apart and forms another V, and we all shoot straight up once more, just before the balustrade.

The crowd goes wild.

I soar on their praise, chest warm, back tingling, a grin tugging at my cheeks, and I resist the urge to simply close my eyes, let my mind wander, and freestyle. The team is still here and they’re counting on me, and I don’t want to let them down. And it’s that duty — that camaraderie — that keeps me from shedding my uniform in front of thousands of onlookers and prancing through the air like I’d earned my cutie mark again. There’s a sight the paparazzi would love to see.

We continue arcing, flying upside down, then twist upright and, as one, launch ourselves into another flip and dive once again, fast as we can, spinning in formation like a drill aimed for the clouds. Misty never liked this routine, but I can’t fault her for giving it her all. To be honest, this isn’t the flashiest composition I’ve ever come up with either. Who knows? Maybe I’m finally losing my touch. It’s been a nice, long run; sixteen years isn’t half bad for a Wonderbolt, what with all the physical stress, but there have been longer careers, and I’m not at the end of my rope just yet.

Let’s see how I feel when I make it to thirty.

Just before the fog, we pull up and fly straight, skimming along the surface, contrails forming for a second time. The image of me speeding over a lake comes to mind, kicking up the water through sheer velocity alone; a fantasy I’ve played out too many times to count.

I’m a simple mare of simple pleasures. If that makes me boring and repetitive, so be it — I’m doing what I love and I’m not hurting anypony. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters. Because nothing compares to this; the rushing air, the unstoppable momentum, the thrill of ten thousand pairs of eyes watching my every move, mesmerised to see me in my element.

How some ponies don’t enjoy the spotlight, I’ll never understand.

As we approach the central airspace again, the furthest two airponies break off and spiral upwards. Three wingbeats later, the next pair follow suit. Another three and it’s my turn, and I do so with an extra, improvised flourish: an ascending backflip. Not every performance gets to me in the same way, but this occasion, for some reason, has got me in a particularly bubbly mood, so I may as well return the favour.

For a full second, we climb high, and I hear the shrill whistling of fireworks from below. We’re the finale — the closing act of a four-hour show, marking the end of our tour this season, which itself is a special event: an entire year outside Equestria. The Bolts have done plenty of international shows before, but never something this big. Why the sudden interest in the world at large, I don’t care; so long as it means more derbies and aerobatics, I couldn’t be happier.

At the peak of our ascension, fireworks go off in the sky above, popping and sizzling, casting flashes of purple, yellow, green, red, blue, and orange upon our backs, and we spread our wings and forelegs and let the momentum fade.

The audience roars and applauds, louder than the explosions above.

Canons boom and shower the stadium in glittering confetti and flowing streamers, so abundant that it’s like we’re floating in a shapeless dream, full of nothing but colour and sound.

Waves of ecstasy sweep over me, and I close my eyes and beam as I lean back and fall headfirst into its comforting abyss. Twelve long months of briefings, planning, training, travelling, sightseeing, press events, autographs, pictures, performances, dedications, party invitations, and so many other, smaller, nice little moments, and I’ve enjoyed it all — revelled in it.

This is why I became a Wonderbolt. There hasn’t been a single second I’ve regretted it. Ever since Junior Flight Camp ended, I knew where my place was. Joined the reserves with Spitfire and Soarin, exercised day and night, sometimes a full twenty-four hours, or longer, and all that hard work has led to where I am now: blissfully lost in time and space, fuzzy and weightless.

No food, no drink, no worldly pleasure compares to the sweet, warm, sumptuous embrace of the limelight. To hear your name chanted by millions. To see your face on the billboards of Manehattan. To know you’ve stoked the fire in so many aspirant young hearts — that you’ve made an impact. That you will be remembered. Cherished. Loved.

All my life, I’ve wanted this. And I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

Next Chapter: 3 | With Friends Like These Estimated time remaining: 16 Hours, 38 Minutes