The cheap rotgut whiskey burned like fire all the way down, and the mare savored the sensation of heat. 

It was the only warmth she could feel anymore. 

“Bartender! Another shot!” She slammed the empty glass onto the bar beside its numerous siblings, and her hoof barely shook. Once upon a time she would have taken pride in that fact. 

Pride. Ha. 

The bartender, a rough looking brown stallion, gave her a hard look before pouring her another shot without a word. Which was just fine with her. Silence and alcohol were what she craved. 

With enough alcohol she might even silence the memories looping in her head. 

[i]“I don’t know boss. Shouldn’t we wait for the rest of the team?”

“There’s no time for that! Get your rear in gear and follow me in!”[/i]

The bar was a bit of a dive. Grungy, dimly lit, and sparsely populated. She’d had a long, painful walk getting this far out on the fringes of Canterlot. The doctors would probably be pissed at her for straining herself. They wouldn’t be too pleased with the drinking either. Well, to Tatarus with them. 

It’s not like she ever listened to advice anyway.

[i]“Let’s hit it from the East! If we drop the pressure there, we can divert the path...”

“Not enough! They’ll still get wrecked! We need to push at the core! Follow me in!” [/i]

Damned doctors hadn’t wanted to let her out today in the first place. As if they could stop her from attending. Her partner deserved that much from her. Deserved a lot more than that, no matter what everypony else told her. 

[i]“This is too much for just the two of us, Captain!” 

It was the truth, and she knew it. But it was too late. They were committed now. [/i]She[i] had committed them.

“Shut up and keep up! We’re going deeper!” [/i]

The dim lighting went a long way towards hiding her injuries. Her uniform had been better of course, but she’d ditched it right after the ceremony. She didn’t want to stand out. Didn’t want to attract attention. Didn’t want to deal with ponies offering their condolences. Their sympathy. Or worse, their [i]accolades![/i]

She couldn’t stand one more pony telling her it wasn’t her fault. 

[i]“We’re in too deep!”

“Just keep it together, damnit!”[/i]

The Everfree forest was unpredictable and uncontrollable. A reminder that ponies would never [i]truly[/i] master Mother Nature. It was filled with monsters of both flesh and blood, and wind and water. 

And sometimes those monsters slipped out. 

[i]They’d done it. It had taken every erg of wingpower they had, but they’d diverted the rogue cyclone. The disabled passenger airship would be safe. 

The same could not be said for the pair of Wonderbolts.[/i]

Sometimes, bad things just happen, they told her. 

As if she needed the reminder. She was [i]Captain of the Wonderbolts[/i]! It was her [i]job[/i] to stand between other ponies and bad things!

Including her subordinates 

[i]It was like being in Tartatus. 

The wind screamed and howled, crying for blood. Fur and feathers were stripped away by windsheer. They were too far in to climb out. Too tired to ride it out. Too far from help to expect rescue. 

She looked back at her wingpony, and saw her own expression mirrored back at her. 

Fear. Despair. 

Acceptance. 

She never saw the tree branch that struck her.[/i]

They said she’d made the right decision. They said her actions had saved hundreds of lives. They said it wasn’t her fault. Said it was a miracle she survived. Said she was a [i]hero.[/i]

Another line of fire traced its way down her throat. Another shotglass thunked onto the bar.

What did [i]they[/i] know? 

“Bartender! Another!” 

The crusty old stallion looked at her, then down at the line of empty glasses. It wasn’t a short line. 

“I think you’ve had enough ma’am.” 

Spitfire narrowed her eyes and glared. She spoke slowly, her voice as cold as a glacier, clearly enunciating each syllable.

“Another. Shot.” 

After a few seconds the bartender squirmed, then looked away.

“Fine. Whatever you say ma’am. It’s your funeral.” He grumbled, setting another shot before the mare. 

“No it’s not.” Spitfire growled, snatching the glass. She tried not to remember the peaceful look on Soarin’s face as he lay there in the casket. Tried not to remember the look of fear when she’d last seen him alive. 

“But it should have been.”

Even the burn of alcohol felt as cold as ice.