A vein of lightning lit the gray overcast horizon. Flaire d’Mare clenched her teeth on her cigarette, awaiting the thunderclap.
“Count to thirty!” Clarity always chirped, reciting the trick Mom taught her. If the seconds passed, and those three rounds of ten were accounted for before the thunder struck, it was time to seek shelter and cover your ears. Tragedy was on its way.
One… Two… Three…
Flaire reached a count of fifteen when the heavy boom rolled overhead. She levitated her cigarette from her lips and sighed deep, exhaling smoke into the wet air.
A pair of elderly mares passed by on rickety gaits, hooves knocking the cobblestones of Canterlot Main Street. They were in urgent discussion, as though speaking could change the outcome.
“Curse this dreary weather. It’s nagging at my hip something terrible.”
“No good ever comes from a summer storm. What was the weather team thinking? Surely the Wonderbolts won’t be performing under these conditions.”
The backward tilt of Flaire’s ears was obscured by the wide brim of her derby hat. A froth of feathers and lace hung in her vision, a veil to conceal the narrowing of her eyes. While her ostentatious attire often drew attention, she styled herself in the interest of her own private judgments. A draping ruffle here, a trail of taffeta there, and nopony was wise to the secret gestures of her anxieties.
Today, she wore the gliding dark silks of a socialite in exile. She cut a smooth path down Main Street, aloof and separate, her bejeweled saddlebags stuffed with new reels of fabric. The giggling of fillies caught the air as they raced by in pairs, headed toward the city square. Sparklers were held aloft in their magical auras, spraying blooms of gold light that extinguished on the slick brickwork of the road. Balconies were hung with ruffled banners in shades of blue and gold. Flags tossed in the wind, bearing the insignias of a winged lightning bolt and the Celestial sun.
Tomorrow, Princess Celestia would ferry the sun into the heavens, ushering in the five-hundred-and-thirtieth Summer Sun Celebration. Another brilliant morning of the Fifth Celestial Era, signifying more than half a millennium of peace.
Before dawn, while the sky was still dark, the Wonderbolts would perform the five-hundred-and-thirtieth rendition of their inaugural aerial display. The event would be so full of energy, so highly charged, that magical lightning would strike down to shower the crowd, flashing brighter than the authentic electric arcs streaking through the distant thunderheads.
Flaire counted… Sixteen… Seventeen… Eighteen… Thunder crashed. Longer this time. The storm was moving in.
The city was aflush with hustle and chatter. By noon, carriages had begun to arrive from Manehattan and Whinnyapolis, hauling in visitors with flashbulb cameras wound around their necks, ready to be dazzled. Flaire had burned through half a pack of Marelboros by the time she’d reached the textile shop, her final errand of the beleaguering day. Even there, the sweet cashier who knew her as a regular couldn’t refrain from remarking on the night's event.
“Did you know this is General Flash’s thirty-fifth anniversary as the Wonderbolts’ leader? Oh, I hope that doesn’t mean he’ll be retiring soon.” She counted Flaire’s bits and cranked the register. It chimed, unspooling a receipt. “I don’t know how I could get through a performance without seeing his face. With that gray in his mane, he looks so rugged in uniform.”
Flaire busied herself, tucking her new silks and buttons into her saddlebag. “My dear,” she said around her cigarette, “rugged is a term reserved for denim and workstallion boots. Not ‘Bolts uniforms.”
But the cashier had giggled without comment, already lost to her fantasy.
The murky wash of evening colored the stark surrounding spires in shades of gray. Flaire turned over the ‘Closed’ sign in her window, retiring to her bedroom on the second floor. Her boutique was centered along the rotunda of Canterlot city square. It was within viewing distance of the broad stage upon which the Wonderbolts were arriving for rehearsal. Pegasi shapes milled about, wings extending in routine stretches. The pep band drumline absently beat their snares, random and arrhythmic. Before dawn, the streets would crowd, a throng of gasping voices and popping flashbulbs, attention fixed on nothing but the stage. Flaire drew the velveteen curtains across her windows.
The evening should have been rote. Flaire settled onto her chaise lounge. She doffed her decorative hat, ashed her cigarette, and was stirring honey into a steaming porcelain cup of citric Earl Neigh tea — when she heard the laughter.
It was a high girlish giggle, full of wonder.
Flaire's ears pinned. She sipped from her floral cup, washing the burn of tobacco from her throat, but the hot drink sunk heavy into her gut. Levitating a record from her shelf, she set it upon the turntable of her glittering brass gramophone. The speakers crackled and a Manehattan jazz arrangement filled the room.
It did not drown out the laughter.
Flaire pulled back the window curtain. She expected to see a filly, perhaps a group of them, a herd of rowdy children who broke past the security perimeter so they could huddle at the base of the stage and gawk at the practicing Wonderbolts. Flaire did not expect to see the laughter coming from a Wonderbolt herself.
A pegasus mare with a dusty rose face pranced on the stage as guileless as a foal. Illuminated under the hot floodlight lanterns, she moved with the same boisterous indiscretion that filled her laughter. Her limbs leapt and bucked through her warmup routine, accentuating the flapping fabric of her uniform's trousers, the wide cuffs around her hind fetlocks—
Celestia help her. The mare was wearing bell bottoms.
A flash of lightning lit the window edge. Flaire panted, puffs of smoke wafting over the glass. Twenty… Twenty-one… Twenty-two…
Thunder crashed. Flaire cantered out into the street, silk skirt billowing about her hocks, her cigarette falling to land on the damp cobblestones.
She barreled past the sole drowsy security guard before he could come to and halt her. The rosy pegasus was skipping in place at the edge of the stage. Flaire craned her neck upward to the sight of her mirthful hooves wrapped in the gold-trimmed cuffs of her navy ‘Bolts jacket.
“What in Celestia’s name are you wearing?”
Eyes wide, the pegasus sprang into the air. She completed a quick turn and alighted back upon the stage. Lankier than most of her tribe, she couldn’t have been older than twenty. Fresh out of cadet status, surely too green to have appeared on any of the recruitment posters showcasing the troop's star flyers. When she turned to Flaire, her face was a flashbang of youth. There was a coltish charm to her angular muzzle, a sparkle in her amber eyes.
She crouched, her snout questing to meet Flaire’s stricken face. “Whoa,” she said, “your mane is really pretty.”
Flaire’s heart pounded. Clarity used to say her mane looked like the inside of a petit four, striped in shades of pink vanilla cake and strawberry compote. She first bit into that sweet confection on her fifth birthday, knowing then she had a taste for fine things.
“Your flattery is appreciated, though you failed to answer my question.” Flaire gestured to the mare’s hindquarters. “What are those dreadful trousers you’re wearing?”
The mare peered over her shoulder, lifting a hoof. “A Wonderbolts uniform, ma’am. Standard issue, as of last year.”
“‘Standard issue,’” Flaire echoed. “I take that to mean all of you are sporting these perilous sacks around your legs. Are you stupid?”
The mare pinned her with a funny grin, blinking. “No? Last I checked, at least.”
Flaire was left open mouthed. Before she could retort, somepony else asked, “Who’s this mare giving you trouble, Fairy Flight?”
The voice was winsome, faintly stressed by age. It called across the stage, followed by the steady march of hooves. Flaire lifted her eyes to the hero of Equestria’s future, the luminary of a nation, the professedly rugged tenth leader of the Wonderbolts, General Flash.
He was flanked by a pair of young stallions, each of them darting glances at Flaire as they approached. But Flash’s face was civil, diplomatic. He made for a handsome picture, if not for the unflattering clash of his navy jacket against his monochrome turquoise coat and mane, the slicked hairs tinged with frost beneath his cap. And Celestia forbid — he too was clothed in those slate gray bell bottoms.
Otherwise, he appeared upon this stage just as Flaire remembered. A foregone time when both of them were much younger.
“How may we help you, miss?” General Flash asked from above. His thick brows lifted over his genteel blue eyes.
Flaire raised her chin. She regretted the absence of her hat, aware of the starkness of her white face, skimmed by the wind. A churn of thunder sounded overhead, a count she had missed.
“You may help by giving me the name of the dimwitted mare or stallion who designed your uniforms. Following that, their home address, so I may track them down and wring their neck with a pair of those wretched trousers.”
General Flash blinked, but possessed either the decorum or years of training not to flinch. One of the young Wonderbolts at his side scowled, his coat as sour orange as his face.
“You’re a designer yourself, I take it,” Flash remarked.
Her eyes narrowed. “My name is Flaire d’Mare, owner of Beware the FLAIR: Canterlor’s premiere boutique.” She extended a hoof behind her, gesturing to the gilded edifice of her storefront bordering the far rim of the rotunda. “And personal tailor to nobility.”
Flash chuckled. “Beware the Flaire indeed.” He crossed his hooves, leaning his compact weight to one side. “Well Miss d’Mare, given your profession, I can see how our uniforms must surely be an eyesore compared to the gowns and suits you design.”
“Them being an eyesore is the least of your concerns.” Flaire’s lip quivered. “What material was used for the trousers?”
“What makes you believe you can demand that information from us?” the orange Wonderbolt snapped.
“Easy, Swift Kick.” General Flash raised a hoof before the stallion’s chest. He frowned. “To answer your question, Miss d'Mare, these trousers are one-hundred-percent authentic Manehattan polyester. Sturdy and reliable.”
If not for her unconcealed face, Flaire might have gagged. She turned from them, her stare landing on Fairy Flight, who had been watching the altercation with amused interest. With little regard, Flaire’s horn lit pale pink. Her magical aura gripped the broad hem of Fairy’s pant leg and yanked her close.
“Whoa! Hey, lady!”
Fairy Flight’s wings spread wide, flapping to hold herself aloft as her hind hoof was jerked beneath Flaire’s scrutinous eyes.
A raspy voice exclaimed, “She’s assaulting an aviator!”
“Swift Kick, stand down for Celestia’s sake.”
With a gentle hooftouch, General Flash supported Fairy Flight’s back. “Miss d’Mare, I’ll kindly ask you to release your grasp on my aviator. She doesn’t take well to marehandling.”
“I don’t!”
Snorting, Flaire let go. Fairy Flight’s wings fluttered, righting herself.
“Indeed, polyester! Of course it’s polyester.” Flaire whinnied a shrill laugh.
“So?” Fairy Flight asked, shuffling her hooves. “What's the matter with polyester? They’re calling it ‘The Miracle Fabric’ over in Manehattan. It’s supposed to be downright indestructible.”
“It also generates a fraught amount of static electricity.”
Flaire suffered no interjection, and continued, “Fly up into that storm, and you’ll see yourselves zapped faster than a filly can scarf down a snow-cone in the hot summer sun. Yes, polyester may be grand for wicking moisture and is practically immune to wear and tear, but it churns up static like you wouldn’t believe. Perhaps a sleeker silhouette may have spared you from the buildup of electrostatic charge, but those horrid bell bottom cuffs flapping about…” She curled her hoof beneath her chin, breathing deep. “With the friction you’ll generate from the kicking of your hooves as you take off, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were shooting lightning from your fetlocks by the time you reached the cloud layer.”
Her neck jerked, sweeping them with her stare. “If any of you value your safety, and the safety of the crowd, you’ll remove them before the performance.”
A quiet shock overtook the assembled Wonderbolts. Slow and tentative, Fairy Flight ran her hind hoof along the inseam of her trousers, as though searching for evidence of their treachery.
Looking to General Flash, she said, lamely, “We were told the new silhouette of the trousers would improve the visibility of our choreography.”
Flash’s brows were upturned under the brim of his cap, a sort of pity Flaire was not unused to. “Miss d’Mare, I would not accept uniforms that endangered the wellbeing of my troop. Polyester has been reliably worn by earth pony track runners for the last two years, and now it’s come to us. It’s a fine fiber, the fiber of the future. And as the Wonderbolts, we have a responsibility to represent Equestria’s progress as a nation. It lives at the very core of what we inspire.” He pressed a hoof to his chest. “‘Altius Volantis — Soa–’”
“‘Soaring Higher.’ I know.” The cold caress of Flaire’s silk dress made her shiver. Her pearl choker constricted her throat when she swallowed. “And for what it’s worth, earth pony track runners aren’t entering the atmosphere during a storm.”
“A storm that will be kicked away as the first act of our performance. A subversion of expectations, you could call it, deliberately crafted by the city weather team. Canterlot spends the day under a dreary sky, only for it to be lifted away before the start of the Summer Sun Celebration.” Flash smiled. “You seem a good mare, aspiring to look out for us. I admire that in you, Miss d’Mare. It’s a virtue I, too, strive to maintain.”
A droplet hit Flaire’s cheek, sinking between her coat hairs, chilly on her skin. There was a scream in her somewhere, lodged deep in the recesses of her ribcage where it was no longer accessible. Pattering dark circles appeared on the stage as a cloud drifted overhead, bringing in a light shower.
“What about the magical lightning that concludes the performance?” Flaire asked. She stared at Flash, searching for a twitch of recognition in any degree of his face. His eyes weren't on her.
Swift Kick, squinting and shielding his head with a wing, said, “It’s magical. It can’t hurt us.”
Fairy Flight grinned. “It kinda feels like laughter.”
Flaire gazed at her, a pleading stare into those youthful amber eyes. Perhaps, moments before the performance, she might be overcome with a sudden jolt of presentiment. She might feel the crackle of static in the air rising with the hairs on her neck like an omen and shed those dreadful trousers. Sparing herself before the rapid flashes of lightning came to send her spiraling to the ground, seizing and coughing tracks of spittle into her pretty rose coat.
“Will we be seeing you before dawn at the show, Miss d’Mare?”
As he spoke, Flash glanced upward and beckoned with a primary feather flicked twice. The sleepy security guard approached, a signal that the conversation was over.
Flaire lifted her eyes to General Flash, a rain-damp string of mane falling over the bridge of her snout. “No. You won’t.”
Flash nodded. “Well, that’s a shame. Nevertheless, I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance.”
Flaire’s heart was burning. “We’ve met before.”
Flash did nothing to feign recognition where it was absent. “Well, pardon my forgetfulness.” He dipped his chin. “Pleased to make your acquaintance again, Miss d’Mare.”
Of course, he wouldn’t have remembered her face from five years ago, or thirty. One pair of eyes in a line, a single voice in a crowd. But Flaire would remember General Flash as a pony who didn’t ask questions.