Silence.

As I open the door, I’m met with silence.

What a relief.

I walk in and take a deep breath, relishing the smell of a home in the clouds, and thanking myself for heading back a day early. I’m faster on the wing than an airship anyway, and overnight gliding is nothing new to me — spending time away from two ponies in particular is just a happy accident. I left a note explaining where I’d gone, so they shouldn’t be panicking, but I’ll probably cop a little heat from Spitfire for not being a part of the team, and forcing her and Soarin to cover for my absence. That’s okay. It’s nothing I haven’t faced before.

The scent of freshwater fills my nose — vapours from the walls and floors not being maintained for a whole year. Housecleaning can wait — I’m not in the mood and this place won’t dissipate anytime soon; when pegasi make cumuli, they’re meant to last. And considering the amount of time it took to gather, compact, shape and form this one, it really ought to stay that way.

Bifröst sings to hers, says it’s a rare spoken charm from way up north where the winds blow strong and the nights are long. Houses are ponies too, or so she believes. I’m not that sentimental, but I like the notion of a home having its own personality, and I can kind of see it.

Cumuli are limited solely by imagination and how much you can be bothered. The closer you live to Cloudsdale proper, the more restrictions apply, what with limited space and hoarding valuable weather material, but I’ve seen some houses grow as big as mansions, along with the wealth, family or ego of the occupants. Sometimes all three.

I’m a bit of a cynic.

My home’s not that big. As soon as you enter, there’s the kitchen to the left and the lounge to the right, and high above on a landing with no stairwell is the bed — technically all just one room. It’s suited me well for as long as I’ve had it, and I don’t get many visitors. Ones I let inside, at any rate, much less ones that stay the night, and definitely none in the way Soarin was implying.

Jerk.

He was drunk, he probably didn’t mean it, but he said what he said, and I’m already here. Ruminating will just lead to regret; regret over nothing. It was perfectly in my right to leave, so leave I did. Nopony can fault me for wanting to feel safe. Not that I was in any actual danger or anything. It’s just…

I sigh. There I go with the ruminating. Probably the lack of sleep’s fault, somehow — I tend to get philosophic when I’ve been awake too long. In which case, a long, well-deserved nap is in order.

With a loud, unrestrained yawn and a stretch of the wings, withers, neck and back, I shamble over to the kitchen counter and throw my saddlebags on top. Personal effects from the trip, nothing on loan that needs to be returned; toiletries, hairbrush, perfume, red and white pyjama top and bottom — my favourite and only travelling pair, since sleeping unclothed in other ponies’ beds has always felt wrong to me, for some reason.

I might also be a little pedantic.

Another yawn escapes me as I turn around, then stroll a few steps and lazily vault over the back of the sofa, landing and lying on the cushions below; a centrepiece imported from Aquitania, famed for the softness and durability of its sheep’s wool. Like every accessory and piece of furniture here, it stays afloat with some advanced form cloudwalking spell, or at least one that lasts longer on inanimate objects than sentient creatures. A unicorn swings by every year to make sure nothing’s out of place, and updates the enchantment every five years.

The way I understand it, before the tribes were united, cumuli never housed anything that wasn’t made from cloud. Instead, pegasi maintained communal storehouses to keep their tools, food and equipment in, built upon the highest peaks so only the desperate and daring would ever try to raid them. The pragmatic polities owned a corps of unicorn slaves so they could stay mobile, not tied to one mountaintop. Whether Cloudsdale was a part of that little sect, the history books never said.

Equestria’s past is often shrouded in myths and legends. Indeed, some parts more conveniently than others.

Maybe Soarin was onto something.

Sweet stars, I need a rest.

I close my eyes and nuzzle into the pillows, making sure to rub just below the head on the back of my neck as much possible, to give me that nice, fuzzy, relaxed feeling and help set the mood. This is my space. This is my home. Here, I can do whatever, whenever, however I please, and that includes switching on the TV to some mindless soap opera and drifting off to the white noise of dramatized betrayal. Some yoghurt and berries from the fridge would be nice, but not worth leaving the confines of luxury.

It’s good to be back.

---

The phone rings.

I wait for it to stop — probably Spitfire calling to check I made it home safe. She’ll find out soon enough, and if instead she planned on lecturing me over the phone, she has another thing coming. I don’t need to be told what I did was immature, much less how it hurts the Wonderbolts’ image; I knew what I was doing and I knew the likely consequences, but something this trivial won’t matter in the long run.

Like it or not, the public have short memories, and I know my public well.

“Hello? Fleety, dear?”

My eyes shoot open.

“Listen, if you’re there, sweetie, your father and I were wondering if we could perhaps catch up sometime. It’s not often we get to see each other anymore. One could say it’s almost like you’re trying to avoid us.”

There’s laughter in what she says, but I’ve lived with Mum long enough to see through the thinly veiled pleasantries: she’s guilting me into this. Worst part is, it’s working. Or at least annoying me enough to sit up, shake myself down and hop off the sofa, heading for the kitchen.

“It’d be so nice to see you again when you get back, if you’re not back already. But if you are, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to call your own mother first thing. That’d be… shocking, really.”

Very, very thinly veiled.

“So, whenever you can, sweetie, if you could give me a call—”

I yank the phone from its mount and shove it right to my ear. “Mum, what are you doing calling a full day early?”

“Fleety, dear!” she exclaims joyously. Feigned, as usual, but only obvious to anypony who really knows her. Somepony like me. “How nice to finally hear from you.”

Finally. Right. As if I hadn’t been sending letters every month as far back as Rainbow brought her parents to the Academy. “What do you want?”

“To see my daughter, of course. We had the new phone installed just last week, so I thought I’d give you a call and see if you were home.”

“A full day early.”

“A mother always knows, honey, a mother always knows.”

And how frustrating that can be. “I’m having a nap.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t sound disappointed; she was expecting that. “Well, the day’s still young, and your father and I aren’t doing anything, really — just housecleaning and birdwatching, waiting for the late-night shows. I thought you might like the join us for a coffee later this afternoon.”

Bribing me with my poison of choice. Devious. Of all the things I forget to buy for myself, and all the things they never get me for my birthday or Hearth’s Warming, it’s an espresso machine. “Why?”

“Oh, Fleetfoot, honestly. Am I not allowed to want to see my daughter after she’s been abroad for the past year?”

That can’t be it. There’s always something else. But I can’t for the life of me think what, and I’m guessing that’s partly because I was awoken mid-doze, and partly because I was already tired to begin with. The solution, of course, is a choice between a hard slap to the face, a cold shower, or a shot of coffee. And since I’m not in the mood to nurse a bruise or get wet and dry myself in the sun…

You win. For now.

“Where and when?”

---

The Mocha Club: an old favourite, established about thirty years before Luna’s return by a fellow named Morning Brew. He was a waiter once, as well as the manager, now retired from active service as of last winter. The only reason I know any of this is because Dad took me here any day he had to look after me at the weather factory.

It hasn’t changed much, the café; the only difference I can see is the new line-up of staff. The parasols are the same, the logo’s the same, the colour scheme of blue and white’s the same, even the décor and furniture. Nothing is out of place, as far as I can tell, sitting in my usual spot at Table 6 on the far end of the fenced-off courtyard.

I wear a purple pair of shades and a souvenir sunhat I’d bought in Mount Aris. A very basic disguise, since my cutie mark is still exposed, but ponies see our manes more than our marks when the Wonderbolts perform; only the most hardcore fans memorise every detail about us. In Cloudsdale, you wouldn’t be hard-pressed to find one, but wearing much more than this would just be plain suspicious for a city in the sky.

The trick to stardom is learning how to hide without looking like you’re hiding. It took me years to reach this point, and I’m not ashamed to admit I wouldn’t want to repeat them. Not that I don’t appreciate attention the fans give me, but sometimes a pony needs time to themselves.

A perfect example would be right now.

“So, sweetie,” Mum begins as soon as our waiter has left the table, a pleasantly forced smile upon her face, “how was it?”

A bonus of my disguise is that I can get away with looking slightly critical. I just need to watch my lips and make sure they don’t do the same as my brows. “Fine, I guess.”

“Just fine?”

I shrug, picking up my latte and taking a quiet sip. “Nothing bad happened, if that’s what you’re getting at. Not really. I mean, I’m home early, but that’s for something else.”

“What kind of something?” Mum picks up her tea, but doesn’t drink, opting to share a curious, mischievous look. “Not because you wanted to see me too, by any wild chance?”

I glance away and take my time, savouring the flavour in my mouth before I’m obliged to answer. “Just… friend stuff.”

“Fleety, dear, please, can’t you be a little more engaging?”

“What do you want me to say?” I shrug again, frowning somewhat. “It’s between me, Soarin and Spits. I don’t want to go talking about them behind their backs.”

Her gaze lowers to her tea, smile fading. “So, it’s another argument, is it?”

I close my eyes and droop my head and sigh heavily. “Mum, please…”

“I didn’t say anything,” she protests innocently. “I just find it interesting how often you need some alone time.”

“That’s my business, not yours.”

“Alright, alright.” She puts a hoof up in mock surrender, then moves to sip her tea.

As she does so, Dad lowers his newspaper to glance at her, and seeing the coast is clear, leans toward me and smiles. “We’re glad you’re home, Fleetfoot.”

An obligatory line, but a welcome one, especially when ‘we’ means ‘I’ in Dad-speak. “Thanks, old guy,” I say cordially.

His smile widens. He’s always liked whatever sass I’ve given him, for whatever reason. A lowkey masochist, really, not that I’m complaining. But life appears to have taken its toll on him, or at least old age: crow’s feet have formed at the corners of his eyes. His pale green coat seems slightly paler. His mane, a shorter, less gelled, less voluminous version of mine, seems a little shorter, and his moustache seems bushier.

Of course, this could all just be my imagination, but the fact remains that time has passed. Things have stayed the same, but things have changed too. I wouldn’t be home early if nothing had happened.

“Anyway, what was it like, travelling international?” Mum continues, setting her cup on the table again. She looks less weary than Dad, but her golden curls are curlier, with the faintest hint of silver. “I bet you have plenty of stories to tell.”

I shrug once more. “Same as travelling anywhere else by airship, really. Only difference is the time you stay cooped up.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m trying to make conversation, dear.”

“And I’m giving you an answer. You want my take? That’s my take.”

“You can’t be any more specific about it? You didn’t see anything of interest?”

My brows crease as I glance left and right, suddenly feeling like I’m being interrogated. “Plenty, I guess. I don’t know. It’s just hard to pick out something.”

“Alright then, what was Yakyakistan like?”

“Cold.” I sip my latte. “No coffee.”

“And that’s it?” she queries humourlessly. “Cold and coffeeless?”

“Lot of snow and mountains too.”

“Fleetfoot.”

“Fine, fine.” I set the latte down and look off to the right, skewing my mouth to the side in thought. “It’s different.”

Mum gives a small, approving nod. “How so?”

Good. At least I’m on the right track. “The weather’s wild there, and the yaks like it like that. Prince Rutherford does, anyway. We had a blizzard come through on a training day, and we weren’t allowed to clear it by royal decree.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Even Spitfire was surprised, and she was the one who had to read up on each country’s leaders and cultures. But besides that little incident, the rest of the trip was okay. We stayed in this giant hotel-yurt with a big firepit in the centre, and loads of stick-figures on the walls and ceiling.”

“Stick-figures?”

“Folk art.” I shrug. “The real deal were the coloured snow mandalas.”

“Snow what?”

“Mandalas, honey,” Dad answers for me, resting a wing on her withers. “Remember the flower patterns she photographed for us?”

“Oh, right, of course.” She nods in realisation, then pauses, and then looks to me reflectively. “Do they really smash those up afterwards?”

“Yep.”

“…Well, that sounds rather pointless.”

“It’s just how they are.” I shrug again. “They find beauty in the fact things don’t last.”

“And yet they’re the ones who ensure things don’t last,” she counters with an eyebrow smugly raised. “A bit of a contradiction, if you ask me.”

My brows lower. “I’m not debating whose worldview’s more messed up.”

“Nor am I, dear. I’m simply saying it seems odd to me.”

And I didn’t ask for her opinion, but what does it matter? Now I’m getting antsy on behalf of an entire kingdom, all because I allowed myself to get duped into sharing coffee with the one pony who I know always has something tucked under her feathers.

I fold my forelegs and look away.

“Oh, Fleetfoot, must you wear those glasses?”

“If you don’t want to be swamped by strangers, yes.”

Mum swings her head about like an owl searching for mice. “I hardly think we’d be swamped on a quiet day like this. There’s only one other couple dining here.”

“Word spreads, Mum.”

“And it takes time to spread. Time I can spend looking at my daughter without some poor excuse for a disguise hiding her face.”

“Mistral, honey,” Dad lowers his newspaper again and looks at her pleadingly, “let her be.”

“But it’s impolite,” Mum retorts, adding a sudden edge to her voice as she meets his gaze. “It makes me feel like I’m not being taken seriously.”

Girl, you have no idea.

“Weren’t you the one who taught her to take her hat off indoors?”

Dad lowers his eyes. “I was.”

“Well then, isn’t it disrespectful to not look somepony in the eye when you talk to them?”

He chews his lip. As much of a friend as he tries to be, Dad’s still a father, and any disagreement with Mum is an inevitably lost cause. He turns to me sadly. “Fleetfoot?”

When she doesn’t get her way, she starts twisting legs — pulling strings to work around whatever walls I have in place. I bet that’s why she brought Dad along, so he can break a tie. But the more I resist, the more pressure she’ll put on him, and the greater the strain between us. So, as much as it hurts my pride, it’s better to throw in the towel now.

I pull off my hat and shades and place them on the table. As much as I’d like to simply toss them aside, that’d be to nopony’s benefit, and I’d have to dive after them if my aim is off. “There. You happy?”

“You’re still wearing your contacts.”

“Merciful Sisters, is there no pleasing you, Mum?!”

She frowns. “Don’t get snappy with me.”

“I’ll get snappy if and when I need to. And no, I can’t take them off: firstly, because we’re in public, and secondly, because I’m not flying all the way back home just for the case and fluid. The coffee’s here, so here’s where I’m staying.”

Her frown deepens, which she then shares with her tea as she picks it up and sips again. She smacks her lips, savouring the taste, then returns to me. “Did you meet anypony on your tour?”

The tone’s changed: critical, rather than scolding; a red flag if ever I’ve seen one. “Lots.”

“Besides the audience. Did you actually meet with anypony — actually get to know them?”

“Lord Ember of the Dragonlands.”

“Don’t lie to me, Fleetfoot.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re too quick with an answer when you do.”

Damn it, caught out. But at least I know for the future. “What’s your point, Mum?”

“My point, young lady, is that I want to see you spread your wings. Be more sociable. It’s not healthy to spend so much time by yourself.”

I stare at her in disbelief. I’ve hopped right from one frying pan to another, the only difference being the latter’s more insistent than the former.

“Mistral, please, don’t—”

“We’ve discussed this, Slipstream,” Mum interrupts, using her sharp, scolding voice again as she peers at Dad from the corner of her eye. “If not now, when?”

He holds her gaze for a while, but eventually relents and looks to me in a mixture of annoyance and sympathy. He’s a friend, not a fighter. Always has, always will be. An honest shame, but one I’ve grown used to.

Mum continues to frown down at him a moment or two longer, making sure her point’s been made, then returns to me with a stern, yet imploring look.

Uh oh.

“Fleetfoot…”

Big red flag.

“You need somepony.”

My eyes widen. My brows furrow. My ears perk up and my wings try to pull themselves closer, feathers bristling. “…Excuse me?”

“You need somepony,” she repeats without a second’s hesitation, and somehow manages to sound all the merrier for it. “You’re reaching that age where things start slowing down, doubly so with the amount of stress you put yourself under.”

I blink, then shake my head and scowl. “I’m only thirty-two, Mum. I’ve still got plenty of spring in my step. Spitfire’s the same age and I don’t see her retiring anytime soon.”

“Spitfire isn’t my daughter,” she retorts. “And I’m not talking about retirement.”

“Then what…” I begin, but quickly drift off, knowing full well what she’s on about, and giving myself a mental slap for not seeing it as soon as she called.

“You need somepony, Fleetfoot.”

“Mum,” I grumble, threatening to growl, “I thought we agreed not to talk about this.”

“That was ten years ago. I thought you would’ve matured by now, but it appears not.”

“Matured?”

“Yes, matured. Don’t you think it’s time to consider settling down?”

“No, of course not!” I lean forward and point to myself. “It’s my life, Mum! I’m a grown mare! I know what I want and what I don’t!”

“Sometimes what we want isn’t always what we need.”

“Oh, I see! Mother knows best, is that right?!”

“Mother has more experience.”

I pause, glaring, then fold my forelegs again and sit back in the chair. “Did your mother tell you to drop out at the peak of your career, just to be a housewife for the rest of your life?”

Her mouth drops, and her gaze becomes like ice.

“Fleetfoot,” Dad jumps in, frowning at me, “that was uncalled for.”

I blink again, shocked he’d take her side. “But Mum was just—”

“Listen to your father, sweetie.”

“Mistral, honey, please.” He turns to her with the same frown. “Maybe I should talk to her for a while. Alone.”

She stares at him. It’s a hard, cold stare that says she’d honestly like nothing more than to reprimand the both of us if we weren’t in public, however little public there is to witness it. But she also thinks behind those riled, purple eyes, and it eventually seems the pros of Dad’s proposal outweigh the cons; she gives us a warning, cautionary look, then slips out of her chair and flaps her wings idly, snatching her purse from below the table. “I’ll be freshening up,” she says indignantly, then turns and heads for the café.

Dad watches her until she’s out of earshot, then returns to me. He tries putting on a brave face, but I can see the hurt behind the mask; he’ll be dealing with the aftermath of this spat later. There’s disappointment as well. Whether it’s in me, her or him, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

I feel myself deflate somewhat. “Dad, I—”

“Fleety…”

Nickname in a sober context. We’re getting serious.

“Don’t think I don’t sympathise with you, because I do,” he assures with brows upturned. “I really do. This is your life, you’re an adult, and I don’t have any right to tell you how to live it. You’re a successful, accomplished athlete, and I couldn’t be prouder of you for sticking to your dreams and just… living them.”

I sigh. “But?”

He looks down and puckers his lips. “…But I’d be lying if I said your social life… or what little there is of it… doesn’t concern me.”

A sting. One that strikes deep and painfully. Even Dad, of all ponies, is jumping on the bandwagon. I don’t want to feel betrayed, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to fly away, but I feel I should.

“Everything we say comes from a place of caring.” He meets my gaze again. “Never forget that. Mum may be a little too forceful sometimes, but she cares, Fleety. She really does. She just wants you to have a good, happy, healthy life.”

“Don’t I have one already?”

“You do. You absolutely do.” He glances away, hesitant over what comes next. “But perhaps it could be better.”

I roll my eyes and huff in half-hearted exasperation. “But I don’t need… that to be happy. Much less as far as Mum’s suggesting. I tried dating, it got in the way of the Bolts, so I dropped it, and I’ve been fine ever since.”

“I’m not asking you to date, Fleety. All I agreed with Mum on — reluctantly, might I add — is that it’s about time you start being a little more active. Expand your social sphere.”

“I don’t need a hundred thousand friends either.”

“No, of course not. But let’s say… two or three? Sprinkle some parties and get-togethers in between? Well then, I have a case to present to Mum that you could, feasibly, find a special somepony. We both get her off our backs, and you gain a few extra friends, the extent of which is entirely up to you.”

I huff again and look off to the left, over the edge of the railing to the sky beyond and the green fields below, and scant few pegasi who fly along Cloudsdale’s outskirts.

“Does that sound like a plan?”

“It sounds like I don’t have a choice.”

“Nor do I, really.” He shrugs dispassionately. “Balancing my standing with you and her is like walking a tightrope: give too much one way, and I lose the other. And I don’t want to have to pick up the pieces afterwards.”

“But why put up with this? You obviously favour me, so—”

“I favour nopony,” he states coolly. “I find a compromise, because that’s what you do with the ponies you love.”

“And when the demands are simply unreasonable?”

He puckers his lips again and gives me another sympathetic look.

I quietly sigh, then look to him again and shake my head. “I don’t want to do this, Dad.”

“And I don’t like asking you to step out of your comfort zone. But who knows?” He shrugs once more. “Maybe you’ll find yourself actually enjoying it.”

“A mare my age doesn’t just rock up to a bar and ask if anypony wants to be her friend. Not unless she’s in a midlife crisis where she’s trying to drink and bang her problems away.”

He half nods, half rolls his eyes. “We can work out the details later. Right now, I just want to know you’re on board with this.”

Of course not. I never will be, whether Mum’s the one pulling the strings or not. But as I said before, I don’t have much of a choice, so long as I want as little friction as possible in my domestic life. After all, Cloudsdale’s a very small place when anypony can fly anywhere, anytime; it’s pretty, but privacy’s never guaranteed.

Scrunching my eyes, I let my head sag. “For you,” I mutter, then look up at him from behind a grudging frown. “Not her. You.”

He smiles a small, subdued smile. “Thank you, Fleety.”

It’s a smile that seals a contract — one I’d like nothing more than to not be a part of — and so I look away. Better yet, I could up my game and go the full Monty. And that, in fact, is what I think I’ll do. “I’ll be going now,” I announce impassively, putting hat and shades back in place and sliding out of the chair. “Tell Mum you couldn’t stop me, or something.”

The smile falls, but doesn’t completely fade. “With an attitude like that, I don’t think I could even if I tried.”

A slight jab, but more like a knock on the shoulder. One I can bear. “Bye, Dad.”

“See you later, sweetie. Happy flying. And watch out for those wild storms that keep cropping up. Says here in the paper they can be quite a hoofful.”

I pause, staring at the floor, then raise an eyebrow. “Magical?”

“No, just wild. Strange, though… but Equestria’s seen worse, I suppose.”

Celestia tells Spitfire one thing, the press tells the public another. Either somepony misunderstood something, or something curious really is going on.

Leaning towards and hoping for the former, I nod, then hop into the air and spread my wings, heading off for clearer skies and greener fields.

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