//------------------------------// // Vertigo, a fellow mare of A.I.R.S. // Story: Without Fear of Wind or Vertigo // by publiq //------------------------------// Rarity closed her eyes in a counterproductive attempt to transport herself elsewhere. No longer was she in the penthouse condo overlooking the plains around Canterlot. However, she merely teleported next door and back fifteen minutes. Gryphons made coarse jokes about self-delivering meal kits instead of helping a distressed mare find her way to help another mare equally in despair. She opened her eyes again. Back to the stale uncertainty, punctuated by the stale breathing of a pegasus on the bed beside her. Still breathing, good. She shut her eyes to flee the penthouse once more. Now, she was stall-weaving on the interminable trip up the mountain in Canterlot’s main freight elevator. Its synthesis of Art Deco and brutalism was a testament to the craft of the ponies who raised Canterlot from a city on the plains to a mountaintop capital for the Princess. I’m only going backward with each attempt. At least next time, I will be bored on the train—hopefully sleepy instead of antsy. This time, she could not fully shut her eyes. Though the guard's words echoed in her ears, “She’s been breathing steady for five minutes with no sign of that changing,” duty compelled her to keep watch of her charge this time. After the medic pronounced her stable, he told Rarity that healing magic would flow smoother if it were a friend who kept vigil instead of Canterlot’s royal guard. At least they were willing to help her clean up most of the mess that wasn’t on feathers, coat, and mane. Rarity idly levitated the large water glasses, vessels that previously contained enough tasty booze to make an earth pony drunk, around the nightstand in a futile effort to use careful decoration to speed the healing process. The sleeping pegasus made some noise between a muffled snort and a groan, but remained entirely unaware of the outside world. A.I.R.S. Aerial Incident Recovery Sisterhood The nice weather implored Rarity to wonder what could trigger such a relapse in her friend. As they discussed many times in A.I.R.S., Rarity was one of the few non-pegasi in the group for reasons other than falling off balconies or cliffs. That same incident that put her in the sisterhood of group therapy was merely “an expected risk of the job” for a Wonderbolt. A long field is approximately 7500 feet (2286 m) Rarity glanced out the window, the late afternoon sunlight warming the productive farmland at least an entire long field below and mirroring her friend’s coat and mane. Trepidatiously, she stepped toward the balcony to enjoy the view, using good judgment not to add a second mare to the problem by getting too close. Unfortunately, the floor had other plans as it gave out from under her, dropping her into an inky void of pulsating music. Rather than trip through the open shutters over the balcony and railing, the sound dragged her back to the empty elevator shaft. Her gossamer wings returned and proved every bit as useless as they had in Cloudsdale several years ago. No Rainbow Dash could save her in such tight confines. The beat pulsed and propelled her next thought. Spitfire was the one needing my rescue. Downward she plummeted, the main showroom of her boutique now visible from an overhead view. An astringent note jarred her attention and she was now about to hit the floor of the Golden Oaks Library at terminal velocity. The moment before she hit the ground, she saw that it was Pinkie’s party celebrating Twilight Sparkle’s arrival in Ponyville. She was gifted with the intellect to calculate that, even at terminal velocity, she should have gone splat by now. Yet she still fell. A chord change propelled her to fall from the catwalks and rafters to the dance floor in Pinkie’s underground party palace. Ponies of all colors danced to the same music that grabbed Rarity. This time, she hit the floor. The music stopped. Silence resumed in the penthouse suite. Silence and breath. One pony, slow and regular; the other, gasping for survival. Seconds passed until Rarity found her eyes dry from being open for the entire drop. Open and able to see this whole time. Vertigo set in when she shifted her attention forward to the beautiful pre-sunset, the floor threatening to tilt back to dump her down the hollow shaft once again. Each step back brought the floor closer to level. Her focus returned to Spitfire and the burning question of just what triggered her to go boozing so heavily. Spitfire was open about what kind of incident would put such an accomplished flier in A.I.R.S. Midair collisions were a risk for pegasi, especially Wonderbolts. Rattling, but not something requiring extended support. On a return trip from a diplomatic visit a year ago, Spitfire was surprised by a hurricane. She found refuge on a placid rain cloud in the eye, only to sleep when exhaustion overcame the worry about what would happen once all the supporting rain had drained. “Obviously, I woke up instead of disappearing below the waves,” she’d always say—woke up too exhausted to return to Equestria. Some strange mechanical beast piloted by primitive ponies rescued her with fresh fuel. Ever since then, she was a regular at A.I.R.S., quickly befriending Rarity over their shared unconventional aerial incidents. Even still, Spitfire maintained an unconcerned attitude toward fatal accidents: “Better to hit the ground in a sickening crunch which you won’t be around to feel than to ‘recover’ after escaping a full-body wing and hoof cast only to fly no more than a two dozen H.H. above the ground.” H.H. = hooves high, measured the same as hh (hands high): 1 hh = 4 inches (ca. 10 cm). Two dozen of them are around 8 feet (2.44 m). An open eye cut short the reminiscence. Spitfire had awakened. Rarity levitated a glass to Spitfire’s lips. “You’ll want this.” Spitfire sipped at the pure saltwater as she replenished her fluid/electrolyte ratio before eventually staggering to her hooves to the bathroom. Rarity followed her in, initially to ensure she didn’t collapse from her shaky gait. Once Spitfire’s intentions became obvious, Rarity’s dedication to cleanliness kicked in, and she used her magic to aim the water streams as Spitfire cleaned herself. Oh, when that morning sun. Rarity’s ears flicked. Spitfire must have pressed play on the Hi-Fi on her way to the bath. “…comes here to greet us,” the speakers crooned above a deliciously bassy piano. It was Rarity’s turn to snort in amusement at the song’s irony about sunrise playing at sunset. The soothing lyrics continued as she bathed and gently returned her friend to reality. It was not liquor filling Rarity’s inside with a warm glow as the pride of being the mare chosen by Captain of the Wonderbolts to be her A.I.R.S. confidant swelled.