The Last Cutie Mark Crusader 1, Part 1 of 3

Cloudsdale Cadets

The start whistle blasted, shattering the calm of a spring day filled with puffy, white clouds lazily floating by. Before the echo even thought about subsiding, a hundred Pegasus ponies shot off from the starting line faster than lightning fills the sky. They were hurtling through an obstacle course at break-neck speed, dodging hoops, flying around markers, occasionally colliding, sending one or both parties spiraling to the cloud floor of the arena. Barely stopping to see if they were hurt, they would shoot back into the air, trying to regain lost time.

At twenty-first position, Scootaloo's wings were beating the air furiously. Her eyes were aflame with unbridled desire for victory. She zipped around a marker, through a hoop, and then a drop. She shot into twentieth, and then nineteenth position. She knew she didn't have much more, and she wasn't sure whether wanting to be first more than anybody else could help close the gap, but there wasn't time to think about that just now.

One of the ponies ahead, probably in the top ten, lost control and caused an accident. He spun wildly, unintentionally kicking one of the other racers as they attempted to pass. A third racer was caught in the fray as she tried to fly underneath them. All three spiraled down. That quickly, Scootaloo was in sixteenth position. She felt a little tired from the effort already, but pressed, passing another pony that slowed down from fatigue; fifteenth position now.

Scootaloo tried to focus on her breathing. With this kind of athletic exertion, not breathing properly is all it takes to send you falling to the deck. Inhale, hold it, exhale, hold it, inhale... It was an interesting rhythm, the breathing and the beating of the wings. They would synchronize when she paced herself. Her thoughts were broken as they came around the last sharp turn to the straightaway.

Every pony in front of her wasn't going to give up or make a mistake at this point. As Scootaloo rounded the turn, she shot ahead as fast as her wings would carry her. All of the others were sprinting as well, but this was Scootaloo's strength as a flier. Fourteenth position. Others were much more maneuverable, which is why she hadn't caught them yet, thirteenth, twelfth, but Scootaloo may have been the fastest of them all on a straightaway. Eleventh position, and still she pressed on. Tenth, and as Scootaloo shot into ninth position, she realized that her breathing was not synchronized, and she was becoming winded.

She ignored her body crying for rest, and decided to press to the finish line; she could see it. She put everything she had into a final burst of speed. Eighth place, seventh, sixth; she could see the dumbfounded expressions on the other ponies faces as she left them behind. Fifth, fourth; this was almost too easy. Third, second, and finally she achieved first place! All that was left was to maintain speed until...