Music.

If there’s one thing I can thank Mum for, it’s having good taste in music and passing it on to me, along with copies of all her favourite albums. Getting them from vinyl to digital has been a long and somewhat costly venture, especially when the technology was just starting out, but it’s been well worth it; now I can fly to a beat, and not rely solely on thrill to pass the time.

The problem nowadays is that I’m spoiled for choice.

I stare at the player strapped to my foreleg as a wingtip scrolls through the library, stopping every so often when I see a title of particular interest, before scrolling further up or down. In some ways, I suppose, there can be too much of a good thing. Analysis paralysis, I think it’s called, when there are so many options and none with any drawbacks, that you simply can’t decide.

It’s a frustrating experience; I should’ve been in the air minutes ago, but here I am, stuck on a cloud, trying to figure out whether I want to listen to Golden Sparrow or Rosy Hues. The former’s a prog rock band from the Griffish Isles, famed for their innovative, if not always commercially successful concept albums — rock operas, the lead singer likes to call them — and the latter’s a folk singer from Appleoosa, who just seems to get ponies and the way the world works.

I feel a little paradoxical; I prefer substance over style in my music, yet every Wonderbolt event is literally the team just showing off how stylish we can be. I also wonder if, upon coming to this startling revelation, the universe would suddenly collapse on itself, as if Princess Twilight decided to finally end it all by dividing the entirety of existence by zero.

As funny and terrifying as the image is, nothing of the sort happens, and I give an idle hum to express my disappointment, urging myself to pick an artist already.

I could spend the rest of the day like this, stuck in an endless loop of consideration and rejection, slowly growing more and more frustrated. In which case, I may as well have stayed at Mocha Club; there, at the very least, I’d have an outlet, even if neither she nor Dad would think very highly of me for it.

Perhaps the gym’s a better option. Thunderlane’s usually there at this time of day, and he’s a pretty good training partner — introduced me to the owner of the establishment as a friend, even though I’d never really hung out with him one-on-one before, and now I have a special, limited, platinum edition mates’ rate membership deal.

But of course, Thunderlane isn’t here right now: he’s with the team, either in transit over the Celestial Sea or crossing the Equestrian east coast. They’ll have a pitstop in Canterlot before heading off at dawn, arriving in Cloudsdale late tomorrow morning, dressed to impress in our snazzy uniforms and flashing the cameras wide, triumphant grins.

Part of me wonders if this was a mistake, returning early. There’ll be consequences, no doubt, but now that I really get to thinking about it, none will hurt as much as missing out on the commemoratory photo in front of the Academy. The pictures in the papers may prove I was there at every performance and every venue, but papers don’t get hung up, and they don’t list the names of everypony present as well as those absent.

I can’t just rock up and act like I hadn’t… not abandoned them, just…

…Great, this was a mistake, wasn’t it? I doubt they’re going to kick me out, but they may as well; they’re going to release that photo to the press, and the press are going to blow the story up larger than it ever needs to be, because that’s what sells.

Fleetfoot Flees the Bolts: War Among the Stars?

Wonderbolt Lost Her Thunder: Fleetfoot Considers Early Retirement?

Fleetfoot this, Fleetfoot that, Fleetfoot out the wazoo. It’ll take weeks to correct, and even then, there’ll be sceptics looking for any fault afterwards — any sign I’m in danger of losing my post. Rumours have been going around for a long time now about how Rainbow’s out to take my spot; however hard she and Spitfire try to deny it, the press love the notion of internal conflict too much, and the timeless tale of new blood taking on the old.

My public image has been pretty clean up to this point — one of the few Bolts without any scandals or controversies of note surrounding them. Not to say the rest of the team’s an amoral group of sociopaths, or that fame had twisted them into shining beacons of hedonism and debauchery, because they aren’t and it hasn’t. I’m just the one who’s kept their head down and focussed on the job, and not let their personal life or an inflamed ego interfere with their profession.

But now Mum wants that. Dad can pretty it up all he likes, wrap it up in a neat, frilly bow and write who it’s from and how much they love me, but the ultimate goal — Mum’s burning desire — is for me to do what a mare does best.

It’s bull. More contacts, I can kind of get behind, but not that. No way, no how.

I sigh. What have I done for the universe to suddenly decide to make my life so frustrating? Two mares, two stallions, two different continents, and yet they somehow come up with the same damn topic: get out there, meet some ponies; loosen up a little.

I’ll loosen up whenever I feel like it, if ever. If that means waiting ‘til I retire and I’m past my prime, who cares? The Sisters are both a thousand years old, and yet they’re fawned over day after day, and probably play into more than their fair share of young ponies’ fantasies late at night. Granted, they’re drop-dead gorgeous, but I’m sure the allure of getting lucky with a princess would be at the top of any frisky teen’s bucket list. Bonking a former star wouldn’t be far behind.

…Oh my stars, I can’t believe I just thought that.

I cradle my head in a wing as I feel a headache coming on, nauseating images passing through my mind. How many fans, I begin to wonder, have had that exact idea? How many have been photographed alongside me? How many have I posed for a picture with? How many have a signed poster of me in their room, to which they dedicate their deepest, darkest desires every single evening, sometimes twice, thrice, or even more per session?

Heavens forbid, what do they imagine me doing?

It’s not that I haven’t thought about this kind of thing before, because I have, it’s just that I never really gave it much credit until now — never seriously considered it as being something ponies do. I didn’t, so naturally, why would anypony else? But now the fog is lifting, and I’m finally realising these are the ponies I’ll meet if I follow through on my promise to Dad.

The thought of keeling over and refusing to open my wings suddenly feels quite agreeable.

But I don’t want that. I want to clear my head. I want to forget myself; what I am, where I am, who I am. And nothing does that better than a good, long, relaxing flight. Better than coffee, better than booze, and definitely better than…

I shut my eyes and groan. I really need a nap when this is all over. May as well turn it into a full twenty-four-hour blanket burrito fest, wrapped up as snug as I can be with an assortment of snacks laid out in front of me, watching the entire Second Wind trilogy, reliving sweet, undying nostalgia. Movies from better days, when the world made more sense. Or was at least less intent on me lifting my tail.

I think I have the soundtrack on here, actually.

I open my eyes again and swipe down. Reach… Rockin’, Rollin’, Patrollin’… Sand in the Fur… Say It Ain’t So… The Sea Breeze… Second Wind. I tap the album cover and select play all, then put my goggles on — meticulously polished, as always — and rear up on my hindlegs, standing straight as I ready myself.

The soft, rumble of drums come first, like rolling thunder, and, as always, makes the skin of my back tingle, from neck to croup. This is where the opening text fades in, describing in six short sentences all the audience needs to know…

Despite the language, it’s not a terribly gory series — I’m sure it wouldn’t have been allowed otherwise — and I’m not a huge fan of violence, but the moment I saw those words for the very first time at the age of… nine, ten? I was hooked. And now individual drummers start picking up the pace in fleeting bursts; the thunder draws nearer.

And then just as the drums sound as if they’re about to explode in a massive crescendo, they quickly patter out; the calm before the storm, and my signal to lean back. A brief, chilling trill of the bamboo flute denotes my fall, and the movie fades in on the ebb and flow of calm ocean water.

There is silence. Eyes closed, I count the seconds before the first ship’s hull is rowed into view, and the moment it does, I open my wings and make a steep upward turn, just in time for the horns and drums to roar and pound. A fleet of a hundred craft approach an island fortress, sails of red and gold unfurled, archers, marines, artillery crews at the ready; a great battle is about to commence.

A shiver of childish delight runs through me. The director? A visionary. The composer? A genius. The actors? Impeccable. The imagery? Astounding. Newer films are starting to experiment with computer-generated effects, but I’m sceptical, and I feel the experience is all the better knowing everything on screen is real.

I need that movie marathon. I’m doing it as soon as I get home, slapping a pizza in the oven, popcorn in the microwave, and breaking out the vintage wine I’d promised to save for a very special occasion.

Well, the occasion may not be the sort I was expecting — not that I knew to begin with — but a drink would more than welcome to wash my woes away. For a night, at least. Celestia knows what I’ll do for tomorrow, or whenever Dad decides to cash in my promise.

But that’s all in the future, and currently, I’m flying high above the world — above scheming parents, above troublesome friends, above any and all repercussions I may or may not face. I can’t control the outcomes, but I can control my actions, and right now, the track is ending. What comes next is battle music, and battle music needs speed.

I float into an upward backflip as the horns and drums fade, then clap my wings and race down at an angle as soon as the first new note is struck. No audience to appease, no formation to keep, no reputation to tarnish. Just me, the music, the air, and a Mach cone with my name on it.

Down, down, further down I go, faster and faster, through clouds wispy and solid alike, forelegs outstretched and already wobbling, wings buzzing with the speed of a hummingbird. Wind whips through my mane, tail and feathers and catches on my goggles, but I hear none of it, only a percussion orchestra drumming up the intensity.

And I can feel it, that familiar shake — a deep rumbling that rattles through my body as I reach the threshold. My excitement builds even before I can see the ground properly; three years’ worth of training and I’m finally at Rainbow’s level — I can do what only she could before. With her help, of course, and the most important piece of advice she ever gave me was to envision what you want most, because that’s how the barrier’s broken: emotion.

For her, it’s keeping her friends safe.

For me, it’s living a happy life.

And so, as I burst through another dense cloud, the sky collapses and explodes in a silvery ripple in all directions, and I steer up and away from the earth as my speed instantly doubles. Momentum doesn’t even begin to describe this sensation of absolute velocity; it’s as if the air isn’t air anymore, but a sheet of silk, upon which I glide without a hint of resistance.

Weightless. Up, down, all around, twisting and turning and looping and diving, I feel I can outrun any danger that comes my way, go anywhere in the world in a heartbeat, even rise above the atmosphere and soar among the stars.

How I’ve missed this. Unrestrained joy. A chance to do as I wish for nopony but myself. The sky may darken and the wind may blow and the clouds drizzle and the lightning flash, but so long as I can do this…

…Wait…

I wipe my goggles with a foreleg, then turn my head as I arc around and see a storm forming, slowly gaining mass as it swirls about. Sparks flare from the vortex in the centre, not yet larger than a housing block, but glowing with a strange, grey, otherworldly light, too bright to see the source but not enough to look away.

I stare with an open mouth. I’ve never seen anything like this. The closest I can remember are the horror stories from the Crystal Empire, where freak blizzards happen on a relatively regular basis. The weather there sounds like it has a grudge on the ponies of the north, as if the Crystal Heart was meant to cage it, and it’s doing its best to break free. Now I’m starting to wonder if their short-sightedness is bleeding over, sending the north’s problem southward.

But no. The weather up there is simply wild. This is magical; triggered by a sonic rainboom, gathering strength, growing in size. Already I can feel the faint hum of thauma in my feathers, like a current of electricity through the body — magic that isn’t my own.

This needs to be dealt with, fast. Spitfire said these storms haven’t caused any damage yet, but if Dad’s told me to watch out, that could mean something’s changed. Cloudsdale isn’t that far, and at this speed, I should be there in next to no time. I’ll alert the Weather Bureau, they’ll send out the teams, assess the situation, and hopefully sort this mess out before it gets serious.

But they might deal with it faster if they knew exactly what they’re heading into. Cloudsdale is on the opposite side of the storm, anyhow; it’d be shorter than going around, and I’m sure they’d welcome any details I could give. Windspeed, direction, air pressure, observations, however general. Small things go a long way.

It’s not bravado or curiosity, just practicality.

I take out the earbuds, wrap them tight around my foreleg, then swing right and head for the vortex. Rain sprinkles from above, but it’s slower than normal, and the slower it gets the closer I come; the air is thick with thauma — so much that I’m starting to feel resistance again, as well as the water catching in my wings, fur and hair.

It’s eerie. And to think I did this. Not intentionally, but still — though I’m not sure if that’s something the bureau needs to know. Of course, knowing it was caused by a rainboom is important information, but if this storm starts wreaking havoc, hurts or even kills ponies, and somepony leaks who sparked it… I’m done for. And there’ll be no correcting that mistake.

It wouldn’t be enough that I’d have to live with blood on my hooves.

I wipe my goggles again and dip a little lower and swerve a little closer, getting as clear a picture of the inside as I can while staying out of reach of the lightning, which arcs in slow motion like sea serpents in water. Sitting in the heart of the maelstrom, barely visible through the grey light and rain, is a swirling pool of rainbow — the colours of Harmony.

I linger on it, circling around the ever-expanding tempest, inexplicably rapt to see something so bizarre, so… mesmerising. It’s as if I’m peering into another world, and I somehow know that something is…

…Something’s coming.

There’s a dark little dot in the centre of the pool, slowly, very slowly growing in size. Accelerating, actually. And the rainbow’s speeding up, and so is the vortex, and the lightning and rain. And as soon as the object — no mere illusion — clears the pool, it shrinks in the blink of an eye and detonates in a brilliant flash of white, cracking like thunder. The grey light vanishes with it, and all that’s left is the object, still falling.

It looks like an extremely oddly-shaped railcar, or more accurately a locomotive; in the brief second or two I have before it plummets past me, I spy the front — which I assume makes space for the engine, however small it is — four wheels, windows all round, and…

Sweet Celestia, somepony’s in there!

I blink, momentarily stunned, then shut my gaping mouth, wind myself up, and shoot down after it, so fast I’m worried I might break the sound barrier again. No more rainbooms.

The black carriage rolls as it falls, tumbling forward with a slight spin to the left, and no sign of any control whatsoever. Either it isn’t meant to fly or the pony behind the wheel isn’t awake, neither of which are good, and makes me hasten all the more.

I reach its side and latch on. The twirling isn’t so bad that I’m scared I’ll fall off, but there’s a definite lack of proper hoofholds. But challenging though it is, I secure my forehooves on the roof and rear hooves in some kind of nook below some kind of strange door, underside pressed tightly against its body, allowing myself a precious few moments to get used to the momentum.

The ground’s thirty seconds away.

I strain my neck lower so I can peer into the cabin.

Whatever he is, he isn’t a pony, but I know a terrified face when I see one. He has his cheek pressed against his shoulder as two hands grip a belt across his torso, eyes closed, lips contorted in a silent, fearful grimace. Too scared to take control or simply unable.

At risk of slipping, I reach my closest hoof down and try for the doorhandle, only to have it jam. I have a second, third attempt, and still nothing.

Twenty seconds.

No time to ask politely.

I smash my hoof against the glass.

A dent.

Once, twice, thrice, upwards of five more hits and the window bends and cracks, but doesn’t completely break. I have, however, caught his attention.

He pushes a button on his side of the door, and there’s the sound and thud of something unlocking.

I pull the handle again, and at last the door opens.

Just a fraction.

I quickly wedge the same hoof in the gap and heave as hard as I can, almost losing my grip in the process.

Ten seconds, maybe less.

I stick my foreleg in front of him. “Grab my hoof!”

He stares at me dumbly with an open mouth and wide eyes.

“Grab it, you idiot!” I shake it for emphasis. “Get out of there, now!”

He blinks and shuts his mouth, and then undoes the belt and latches a… hand around my fetlock.

As soon as he has a solid grip on my leg, I right myself and kick off in whatever direction that isn’t immediately down. His weight strains and pulls at my shoulder, but through grit teeth and clenched eyes and sheer force of will, I somehow clear the falling carriage, and hear it crash a moment later with twisting metal and a heavy, earthen thump.

And then I hit the earth myself.

I land on my back and tumble and turn, side over side, head over heels, skidding and rolling, bumping and bouncing. Up and down become solid ground, as do left and right — a cacoon of grass and dirt from which I can’t escape — until I strike a rock and spring into the air, only to flop on my stomach and slide to a halt.

Everything… aches. Burns. Blunt impacts that first felt numb are already starting to hurt, none more so than my left wing, which I can barely move without a sharp, cutting pain up my withers. My goggle’s right eyepiece is cracked as well, and I think there’s a cut just below my hairline. But all things considered, this could easily have been a lot…

I raise my head, squint and look about, trying desperately to focus my blurry sight, all the while being pestered by the high-pitched wailing of the wreck some way over a gentle ridge. No sign that I can see. Tracing the flattened grass and upturned clods of dirt fares me no better, and only goes to show how far I’d crashed. I think it’s that rock over there that’s to blame for my…

Not a rock.

I scramble to my hooves and canter lopsidedly toward him, doing my best to ignore the aching in my sides and legs and throbbing dizziness in my head. And when I reach him, I freeze.

He’s in bad shape, curled in a foetal position with an arm… bent unnaturally. He has bruises all over his face, a split lip, a bloody nose, blood on his shirt, blood on his brows, blood… everywhere. Just… so much blood.

I don’t know how to check his pulse, so I take off my goggles and place the undamaged lens close to his mouth, and blow a relieved sigh when I see it fog up. Unconscious, but alive. At the very least, alive. But he might not be for long if he doesn’t get help soon — maybe he’s bleeding internally, or there’s some kind of injury I’m not noticing.

But I can’t move him. I don’t think I’m supposed to, at least; he could be concussed, or have a spine or neck injury, or… whatever. And even if I am, I can’t do it alone: he’s too big and heavy, and this adrenaline rush might not be enough to get even me back up to Cloudsdale.

Time’s wasting, and I can’t afford to waste it. Can’t afford to dwell on the shock.

“I’ll be back,” I pant, then leap high and whimper and grimace as I flap my wings, aiming for the floating city ten minutes away.

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