The scotch burned as it spilled down Spitfire’s throat, the warmth of the alcohol echoing the ache in her wings. Celestia’s sun lagged in the sky, clinging to the distant hills and casting the tiny office in shades of orange and red. It seemed even the sun was not keen to see the day end.

Tomorrow was going to hurt. Spitfire knew the signs of overexertion and she could feel her muscles tightening. A Wonderbolts’ show always pushed her to her limit, that was after all, the point, but most shows didn’t require her to fly halfway across Equestria in a blind rush to reach the curtain call in time.

The scotch sloshed over her desk as she refilled her drink, but Spitfire paid no heed. Damn Wind Rider. There was doing anything to win and then there was bringing a pony’s mother in the equation. It shouldn’t have surprised her. Spitfire could still remember her first flight with Wind Rider, how he’d turned up late and hungover, almost got her killed in the performance and blamed her for everything.

A grim smile drifted across her face. At least the old windbag had got what he deserved, even though it was ten years too late. She took another sip of the scotch and frowned. Ten years might have been underestimating it, come to think. Just how long had it been since she first wore the Wonderbolt blue? Not as many as fifteen surely?

Snorting, she shook her head and downed the glass, blinking as sudden heat of the alcohol hit her. The scotch on her desk, a particularly expensive bottle over twenty years old, had a shorter career than her. Not mention it had improved with age, while Spitfire aching wings just–

A knock on the door startled her, and Spitfire's head snapped up as Soarin let himself in. A bubble of raucous laughter and bad music drifted through along with him, but it was swiftly silenced as the door closed.

“Hey Spits, not joining the party?”

“Paperwork,” she grunted, pointing at the stack of forms that teetered on the edge of her desk. “I’m a day behind now.”

Sorian frowned. “That never used to stop you before.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the Captain, aren’t I?” Spitfire snapped. “Somepony has to take things seriously. We’ve got three more shows this month. I’ve got to sort out the venues, the advertising, the... rosters.”

“Yeah, about that,” Soarin sat down across the desk from her. “When’s Rainbow Dash joining us full time?”

Spitfire grumbled and pulled one of the neglected forms towards her. “She’s got a while to go yet. Most ponies spend two years in the reserves. We’ve got to give everypony else a chance. Lightning Dust–”

“Isn’t Rainbow Dash. Spitfire, Rainbow wasn’t even winded. It was what, a four hour round trip to Cloudsdale, she got you here after three and only one of you was gasping for breath.”

Spitfire slammed a hoof on the desk. “There’s more to being a Wonderbolt than flying fast,” she said, glower.

“And she is, Spits. On her first show, after bringing you back and chasing around Canterlot all day, she was brilliant. Name one other pony on the bench that could do that.”

Spitfire rolled her eyes and poured herself another glass. “What, did she bake you a pie while I was away? Come on, we’re Wonderbolts. That’s the standard, not the exception.” She raised the glass to her lips, but Soarin caught her foreleg with his wing.

“Spitfire. She’s going to be a Wonderbolt. Why do you always go out of your way to make things harder for her? The Games. Lightning Dust. Even today you’re throwing roadblocks at her. What’s so wrong with her being the best?”

Spitfire clipped him across the face with her wing. “She’s not the best,” she snarled and drained her drink. “I am.”

Soarin let out a long sigh. “How far are you willing to go to keep things that way?” He held up a hoof to forestall her. “No. I don’t care. Just... don’t become her Wind Rider, Spits. You’re better than he was.”

He left without a word, spilling more joy and laughter into the room as he left.

Spitfire sat in silence. She tried to pour herself another glass, but found the bottle empty. Sighing, she picked up the paperwork and wrote ‘Lightning Dust’ for the next show.

Next year would belong to Rainbow Dash.

Spitfire deserved another year in the sun at least.