Noise.

Music, voices, laughter, dancing, drinking, chirping, chatting, singing, chugging, cheering, tripping, spilling, jeering, and more laughter. All of it blends into one, singular, indescribably perfect word in summary.

Noise.

It’s bearable. There’ve been worse parties to find myself in, dragged by idle curiosity, a lost bet, or some moral obligation as a friend and member of the team. In this case, it was practically mandatory; another year on the metaphorical road’s nothing new, but when that road held not a single grain of Equestrian soil, an invitation becomes an order.

Well, technically speaking, the Bolts are the ones hosting the event, so my presence was pretty much required anyway. I could’ve called in sick and stayed in my apartment, rereading flight manuals and a few favourite novels, browsing my magazine, rubbing a few out because there’s nothing better to do, but I guilted myself out of it. This has been a long journey through distant lands, and I feel I’d be doing the team a disservice if I wasted the night away by myself.

Besides, I kind of enjoy being the big sister from time to time.

So, here I am, sitting on a barstool at the back of the penthouse of the only modern hotel in all of Griffonstone. Electronica blares through the speakers, mixed with a few traditional griffon instruments and melodies — the resident DJ being a Pon3 fanatic, of course, of all things. The guests tonight are the local nobility, as they usually are, both the sponsors and the cheapskates, all of whom seem to be rowdier than the standard breed; less boisterous than a yak, but no stick up the bum like a Canterlotian.

A few commoners are attending the event as well — winners of a lottery we hold at every venue. Some are standing or sitting by themselves, and others are hovering by or talking with their favourite Bolt. Some are giddy, others uncomfortable. All look out of place, being the only unclothed creatures here besides a scarf, cap or piece of jewellery.

As for us, we wear standard-issue casual attire. Merchandise, essentially. The cynic in me could see this whole pomp and ceremony as a giant advertisement, and by extension, the tour itself. Sleezy? Possibly. But we have to keep this organisation afloat somehow, ignoring our funds from the crown itself for a second.

“You know we’re just tools, right?”

It takes a moment for the words to register — to realise I can actually hear them over the cacophony of activity before me — but when I do, I blink and shake my head and look to the left. “I’m sorry, what?”

Soarin sits on another stool with his his forelegs on resting the bar, one hoof holding a whiskey glass, the other lying flat on the polished surface. He wears a black polo underneath the newer style of jacket; ocean blue with a golden right sleeve and two stripes of yellow and white below the collar. He also wears a knowing smile — the kind he usually makes when he’s about to say something dumb and play it up as genius. “Us. The Wonderbolts.” He shares that smile with me. “We’re all tools.”

I stare at him for a moment, the roll my eyes and smirk. “You’re the tool,” I quip, looking out to the party again.

“No no no, wait just a second — hear me out, hear me out.” He chuckles as he turns in his seat to face me, smile widening to a grin. “You’re hearing me out, right?”

I spy two griffon nobles cackling as they slap each other on the back, drinks in hoof. Claw. Whatever. “Sure.”

“Right, so…” He clears his throat. “You remember there was that invasion a couple years ago? The one with the Storm King.”

“You say that like we’ve had more since then.”

“…Well, you can’t exactly say Equestria’s known for her security.”

I slowly nod, moving on to Lightning Streak on a couch with an adoring fan, talking her ear off. Well, ear-hole, I suppose. And with neon red and purple neon lights illuminating the whole flat, it’s hard to tell if she’s into it or not. “Anyway, what about the invasion?”

“Right, yeah.” He sits up and leans on the bar. “Well, think about it: the Storm King attacks Canterlot — somehow without warning, and without anypony knowing there’s some conquest-obsessed lunatic marauding about in the south with a fleet of magic-resistant airships, but that’s beside the point.”

“Which is…?”

“I’m getting to that.” He takes a sip from his glass. “Anyway, he attacks Canterlot, captures three of the princesses, and the kingdom’s in peril; not the world, just the kingdom. Surprise-surprise, Twilight saves the day again. But something’s different: this was a foreign, largely nonmagical threat they had to deal with, and they still couldn’t handle it.”

Rainbow’s getting swarmed by plebe and patrician alike, eager for an autograph, and she’s all too happy to oblige. I don’t think she’s had anything to drink yet. Not that she’d be complaining; the only thing she’d more addicted to than cider is her ego, even if it’s less of an issue nowadays. “Still waiting for that point, Soarin.”

“I know, I know, and I’m nearly there.” He clears his throat again. “So, after all that’s over, what do they do? They open up the School of Friendship, and they invite a bunch of kids from all the other countries to join. What’re they going to do when they go back home? Spread the word of friendship, courtesy of our very own Twilight Sparkle. I mean, who’d ever disagree with the teachings of the one pony who’s saved the world a dozen times already?”

I crease my brows and look at him. “What’re you saying?”

“Nothing, really.” He shrugs. “Just a point of interest; soon, the whole world’s going to owe us a favour, and they won’t even know it. And not that long after the school opens, Spitfire gets the idea to spend a whole season touring the other nations. Thing is, she doesn’t own the Wonderbolts; Celestia does, and nothing ever happens without her permission. Or instruction.”

I don’t reply, raising a bemused eyebrow instead.

“Now, either I’ve cottoned-on to a decades-long conspiracy to get the whole world in Equestria’s pocket, and we’re just a circus act to keep our future vassals happy…” he peers down at the glass in his hoof on the counter, “or this is the best damn brandy I’ve ever had.”

I stare a little while longer. “Yeah, let’s put it down to that.”

This time, he raises an eyebrow, and looks back to me. “What, you’re not even going to consider it?”

“Remember when you thought changelings were just kidnapped ponies corrupted in slime pods, or whatever you called them?”

“Hey, nopony knew where they came from at the time. I was allowed to speculate.”

“Still.” I shrug. “Besides, the Big Four don’t strike me as the scheming type.”

“And they probably aren’t.” He takes another sip. “But you can’t deny it seems pretty convenient for them. Perhaps a little too convenient.”

“So?” I shrug again and look out to the party once more. “It’s convenient for me too; the more shows, the merrier.”

“Oh, oh, so you’re complicit in this, are you?”

“If it means doing more of what I love, sure.”

Soarin smirks, rolls his eyes and shakes his head, then downs what remains of his drink. “You are a simple mare,” he recites, sharing his smirk with me. “Quite possibly the simplest mare I’ve ever met.”

Fire Streak’s now joined his brother on the couch, bringing two martinis with him. Lighting cheers emphatically, and together they clink glasses and drink. The griffon glances around and pats her knees idly; not uncomfortable, just bored. I feel a little more at ease. “Am I supposed to be offended?”

“What? No.” He gives a playful, dismissive wave. “It just means you’re easy to please. Again, not that it’s a bad thing or anything. You’re you. There are some things you just can’t change about yourself.”

My ear twitches and I cock another eyebrow. “What’s with the analysis?”

He lingers on me, then shrugs for a second time. “Alcohol makes me philosophical,” he says, turning in his seat to copy my pose; back against the bar, elbows on the edge and hindlegs crossed. “That’s something I can’t change.”

When the griffon stands up and walks away, I look back to him.

He notices, but looks away, finding interest in Sun Chaser and Thunderlane having a friendly chat with a noble. He keeps his face straight, but pulls on his lips like he usually does when he’s thinking and doesn’t want to talk about it; it’s his tell, and I’ve won more than my fair share of games with him because of it.

I glance off to the right, searching for something to catch my eye — to stoke some kind of protective fire in me — but nothing seems out of the ordinary. More drinks, more laughs, more music, more dancing, talking, singing, whatever, but no signs of danger. So, I sigh and turn back. “Okay, what’s up?”

His ears perk up — a subtle motion, but noticeable to somepony who’s looking for it — and after a moment, he breathes out through his nose. But I’m offered no response.

“Don’t want to talk? Fine.” I flick my forehooves up in mock surrender and look behind me for the bartender. “Brood in stoic silence.”

“It’s not that,” he says with a gentle shake of the head, but still doesn’t meet my eyes. “It’s just… I don’t think you’re the right pony to be talking it over with.”

I wince and snap back to him. “Why? Aren’t we friends?”

“That’s kind of it.” He turns to me, brows raised and lips pressed together; playful avoidance, but his tone is still serious. “That, and you’re not exactly the most comfortable with private stuff.”

“I am when I need to be.”

He shakes his head again. “Not with this.”

I stare at him, reading, examining, but see no other tell. Either that single glass of wine from before is making things difficult or there’s simply nothing to see. “Suit yourself.” I shrug. “Want me to flag down Spits instead?”

His face falls. “That’s… not necessary.”

“Yo, Spitty!” I call out, turning to our captain in the corner, talking with our main Griffonstone benefactors. “Hey! Hey, Spitfire!”

She looks over her shoulder and lowers her shades with a wingtip — dark purple aviators, as her role and style demand.

I wave her closer.

She returns to the nobles and offers a few pleasantries, and they nod and offer their own in response, which she accepts. And then she turns and trots toward us.

“Fleet, really, I’m fine.”

“If you were, you wouldn’t be making such a big deal out of it.”

“But I wasn’t; you’re just forcing the—”

“Sup, Fleet?” she greets with a smile. True to her secretly rebellious side, the only branded item she wears is a black, flat-visored cap with the Wonderbolts logo emblazoned on the front. The brown bomber jacket with fleece lining has become a recent favourite of hers. “What’s crackalackin’?”

It’ll never cease to amaze me how she can slip between professional and casual so easily. I guess that comes with experience, being leader of the team and everything. But still, there’s some teasing to be had, so I angle my head and pout mischievously. “Soarin’s feeling neglected.”

Her eyes widen behind her shades, then turn to him, and then she gives a look of mock adoration. “Is little old Clipper feeling blue?”

Unimpressed, he huffs and looks away.

“Aw, don’t be like that.” She strolls forward and hops up onto the stool between us. “What’s got you down? Sad we’re going home?”

“No. Just a little peeved that Fleet’s dumped her problems on somepony else again.”

I baulk. “My problems?”

“Yeah, yours.” He peers around Spitfire to me. “Soon as the going gets tough…”

“Hey, you’re the one who didn’t want to talk to me about it, so what was I supposed to do?”

“Try harder?”

“…You’re blaming me for respecting your privacy?”

“I’m not blaming you for anything; I’m simply stating that—”

“Guys, guys, please.” Spitfire raises two consolatory hooves. “Not here, not now. This is a team event — everyone’s happy, and you should be too. We can talk about our stonewalling and societal angst later.”

After a short pause, Soarin raises an eyebrow. “But isn’t it team policy to sort out our differences in the here and now?”

“Not when the public’s around.” She gives a little nod to the nobles she was just talking with. “Don’t want people getting the wrong impressions.”

“People?” I query, switching from the griffons to her. “We’re switching dialects now?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Sorain turns to her as well, and together we look expectantly.

“Got a message from Celestia after the show,” she calmly explains. “Apparently, with an international audience, we ought to use more inclusive language. Normal talk’s reserved for when we’re off the clock.”

“This doesn’t count as off the clock?”

“Yes, Soarin, but it’s good to get some practice in. I actually think the whole team should do the same, you two included.”

I roll my eyes, and I guess Soarin does the same.

“Look, I know it’s a hassle, but think about it. How would it look if we went all over the place calling people ponies when they’re clearly not?”

“We just did. For a whole year.”

“That’s not the point, Fleet. They don’t do it to us, so we shouldn’t do it to them either — it’s fair. Besides, Equestria preaches friendship, and part of friendship is compromise. I’m not about to tell Celestia that we’re too lazy to change for something so minor.”

“Minor,” I scoff. “Do you realise how often we use those words? We can’t exactly wave a magic wand when it comes to this.”

“I don’t expect you to, and neither do the Big Four. But it’s their decision and we have to live with it.”

“In other words, suck it up.”

Spitfire flinches, narrowing her eyes at Soarin, then returns to me. “Bluntly speaking, yes.”

My brows knit into a displeased frown.

“Guys, please, don’t shoot the messenger.”

“I’m not angry at you. It’s just… an inconvenience.”

“It is. But if I can do it, so can you. We ought to lead by example, after all.”

I look away.

It’s not all that easy to remember my rank when I’ve no extra responsibilities compared to the average Bolt; the most I have to do is listen in on future plans in case Spitfire and Soarin are both sick or injured, which never happens. Usually, I’m just a veteran, and I choose to believe the others respect me more for that than my position or closeness with the captain.

I guess that’s why, when I have to actually do something, it bothers me.

“Alright, so… did she say anything else?” I turn back to her, careful to not look too annoyed. “Are there other concessions we need to make?”

“Just that for now, but she did mention some unusual weather patterns back home.”

“Unusual?” Soarin raises an eyebrow at her. “Like, a bad unusual or a strange unusual?”

“Let’s go with strange. If they were bad, she’d have given more details.”

“Well then, what details has she given?”

Spitfire shrugs. “Apparently there was this artefact that broke, and now magical storms are cropping up all over the place. No damage yet, but Cloudsdale’s on standby to provide support. Who knows? We might be called upon when we get back.”

“As a weather team?”

“And search and rescue, if things get bad.”

My brows crease again. Not in annoyance, this time, but concern. Aerobatics isn’t the same as relief work, and with actual lives at stake… “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I murmur, looking again for the bartender, or a half-finished drink to wash down my words with.

“Hear-hear,” Soarin agrees, raising his empty glass in an unceremonious toast.

“Yeah.” Spitfire nods. “But if they need us, we’ll be ready, won’t we?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yep.”

She gives me a glance — too sudden and slight to judge her expression, and the shades don’t do me any favours either. But after a while, she leans toward me. “You should smile more.”

I smell alcohol on her breath, but nothing overpowering; she’s not drunk, and she’s not one to overdo it either. “Why’s that?”

“Take a look around.” She gestures to the party with a sweep of the wing. “Do you see anyone else looking so serious?”

“I’m on watch.”

“And so am I, and so is Soarin.”

“Soarin’s just here for the booze.”

“I am not!” he retorts in mock indignation.

“And you’re off making small talk with the upper crust.”

“True.” Spitfire nods again. “But I’ve also spent the night going up and down, checking on everyone. I bet you didn’t know Wave thinks he’s found a new pen pal.”

“A what?”

Her smile falls. The air around her grows disappointed, despite the vibrant lights of the penthouse. “Wave’s been taking names on this trip — people he can write to when we head back home.”

I raise a quizzical eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because he likes the idea of having friends in distant lands,” Soarin interjects, peering around Spitfire once more. “If my theory about a conspiracy held any water, I’d peg him down as a royal spy.”

Spitfire rolls her eyes and shakes her head, smile returning. “Point is, you can be responsible and mingle at the same time. You don’t have to sit on the sidelines ‘til the game’s over.”

I sigh and droop my head. “Spitty…”

“I’m not saying you need to step out of your comfort zone or anything.” She puts up her hooves defensively. “I’m just saying you should relax. Mellow. Chill out. You know us and we know our limits, and… it’s honestly a little sad to know my friend doesn’t trust my judgement.”

“Spits, I trust you.”

“Well, obviously not enough, or why else would you be sitting all the way over here, away from everyone, avoiding any kind of social interaction besides me, Soarin, and some lazy bartender who’s buggered off to Celestia knows where?”

“The bathroom.”

Spitfire blinks and turns to Soarin. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He’s gone to the bathroom.” He turns to her with an unreadable, if not slightly cheeky look. “Along with a certain noble who was making eyes at him.”

She stares, she blinks, and then she cringes and shakes her head. “Oh, for the love of…” she begins, buts cuts herself off as she hops down from the stool. “Why does there always have to be something?”

“Wait, you’re not actually going to—”

“He’s supposed to be doing a job, Fleet, not receiving one. And if not me, who else? You?”

I draw back my head and blink, stunned.

“Didn’t think so.” Spitfire pauses for a moment, then sighs and starts marching off. “Look, just… stay there, keep an eye on everything. I’ll be back.”

“Unless what you see takes your fancy!” Soarin calls out.

Her ears fold, her neck sags, and without looking or even a second’s hesitation, she gives him the feather.

I glance about as Soarin chuckles and settles back down, wary of any curious looks who may’ve heard the exchange, or seen the gesture she made. None, thankfully, or so it seems, and as I allow myself to return to my calm, watchful state, I start mulling over what exactly happened. And I’m unsure what to make of it.

Her question wasn’t really a question; it was bait — twisting the issue into something it’s not so I’d either admit the truth or come off as a terrible friend. The thing is, she’s never had a problem with it before, so why start now? Why draw attention to me? What’s changed between us in the last decade and a half we’ve known each other?

…Or am I reading too much into it?

“Hey. Hey, Fleet. Want to hear a secret?”

Slowly, the realisation that I’m being talked to dawns on me, and I turn to Soarin and give him a blank, unfocussed stare.

“I lied.”

I blink as the words are processed. And then I angle my head and narrow my eyes. “You—”

“Mm-hmm.” He nods emphatically with a tight-lipped, childish grin. “He’s really just constipated — apparently some bad fish he ate earlier coming back to haunt him.”

“…And you sent Spitfire in thinking she was dealing with—”

“I know, right?” He opens his mouth in a silent, exaggerated laugh and bows forward and slaps his knee.

I continue to stare, completely bewildered; partly because I’m still figuring out where Spitfire was coming from, partly because I’m still getting over my disgust for the situation she went to remedy, and partly because I’m still processing what Soarin’s said. Mostly, though, it’s because the reason for his sudden bubbly attitude is finally clear to me. “You’re a sadistic drunk, Soarin, you know that?”

“Eh.” He shrugs, leaning back. “She’ll take care of him, one way or another.”

“Oh my stars, you are such a hypocrite.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You complain about me dumping my obligations on Spitfire, but then you turn around and do the exact same thing.”

“Hey, what can I say? I do what I please.” He deepens his voice and gives me a sultry look. “And I please what I do.”

“Oh, shut up.” I return his look with an offended one. “The last thing I need on my mind right now is more of that hot garbage, and especially from you.”

“Hot, you say?”

“Soarin, I swear, you’re literally this bloody close to getting slapped.”

He surrenders with a smirk, but the peace doesn’t last. “Spanking’s pretty neat, though,” he mumbles to himself, but loud enough for me to hear it, and emphasises the point by watching me from the corner of his eye.

I wait a moment, and then sigh heavily and sag, turning away. It was an empty threat and he knew it. If he’d been somepony else, sure, but this is a public event and I’m still a Wonderbolt. What I do reflects on all of us, including Equestria itself.

“You know what your problem is, Fleet?”

I sigh again. “Could you please not?”

“When you’re not flying, you’re not happy.”

Reluctantly, I return to him, giving him a weary look with my ears low. “I’m not married to the job.”

“No, no, of course not. But I think it’s fair to say the job’s very important to you.”

“Isn’t it to you?”

He blinks. “Well, yeah, of course. It’s just…”

I raise an expectant eyebrow.

“…There’s more to my life than being good at what I do.”

My brows crease. “So… I lack reasons to be happy?”

He shakes his head. “Flying’s the only happiness you’re comfortable with.”

I pause for a long while, trying to think of some kind of rebuttal, but all that does is give the words an opportunity to sink in, and sink in they do. And because we both know it’s the truth, we both know there’s nothing I can say to convince us otherwise.

“That’s what Spitfire was saying — that you should… loosen up a little.”

“...Loosen up?”

“Yeah. You know, relax. Don’t care. Learn to wind down somehow. Because it seems to me that, if it has nothing to do with what happens out there, you’re not one to take a chance.”

I glance away and lick my lips, irritated. “I don’t need an analysis right now.”

“Then when?”

I shut my mouth, but keep my gaze locked with his and don’t change my expression. I don’t want him to see me lost for an answer.

Soarin sighs after a few seconds more and looks off into the party again. “I don’t want to sound like I’m trying cut you loose, Fleet, because I’m not,” he says dourly — a tone he’s rarely used for as long as we’ve known each other. “But you’ve always been a very career-oriented pon… person. I mean, you showed me that back at the Rainbow Falls tryouts.”

I lower my eyes. “Soarin, I—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I got over it.” He turns to me again. “But it showed me that you and Spitfire could sometimes be… forgetful… when a trophy’s on the line.”

I don’t like how mild he’s being, but it’s not my place to object.

“Spitty’s expanded her horizons since then, which I think has done the team a service. But you, on the other hoof…”

I say nothing, shameful, neither wanting to confirm nor deny anything, which is more or less a confirmation in and of itself.

“Look, I’m not saying you should find more friends or anything, because if there’s one thing we all disagree with Princess Twilight on, it’s that you need to be friends with everypony you meet. Some ponies don’t want that — you included — and some just aren’t likeable. But what I am saying… is that thirty-two is way too old to be a loner.”

Hearing that stings. It weighs on me like a freezing cold blanket — one that shuts my eyes and tightens my lips and pins my ears and pulls my wings and tail as close as they can be.

This isn’t what I had in mind for the last day of our overseas tour.

For a good, long while, Soarin remains silent and still. So much that I start to think that maybe he’s left his post under the cover of the music, which has switched from electronic to something more temperate and agreeable. But then a hoof touches my shoulder. “Hey.”

Subdued, I open my eyes halfway and peer back at him.

He gives me a raunchy grin, biting his lip, and nods to something in the distance on my right. “She might be a start.”

I take a quiet breath and follow his gaze.

A griffon noble dressed in burgundy, on the fringe of a circle of her ilk. Her feathers are white, her fur grey, her beak and claws black, and her eyes a brilliant shade of purple. And as soon as she realises that I’m watching her, she immediately snaps back to her group and glances about for a conversation to join.

“Quite the looker, if I do say so myself.”

My brows lower, unimpressed. Tipsy or not, Soarin knows better, and if he’s going to be like this for the rest of the night, I’m not having it. So, I hop down from the stool.

“That’s my girl, Fleetfoot—”

“Good night, Soarin.”

He pauses, caught off-guard. “…What, you’re not up for—”

“Good night, Soarin,” I repeat, swinging my neck round to face him. “I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that, I turn away and head for the exit, knowing full well what I’d do when I got back to my room.

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