Horsepower #1

It’s never been so quiet in Trottingham. Usually the tight, winding streets are filled with the commotion that comes with the crowd of ponies going about their business. Today those crowds have been packed carefully into stands, multi-level collapsible platforms lining the sides of the streets with heavy duty, magically reinforced walls to protect them. And even they are talking in hushed whispers as they stare at screens hovering above the streets. But then it begins: a high-pitched hum with a deeper rumble following behind seconds later. As soon as they hear it heads snap over to the south, thousands of eyes watching the bend by the old clock tower. The hubbub starts to pick up as ponies whisper among themselves, glancing at each other excitedly but never for long, never risking the chance of missing it.

And when the first car swings around the bend an explosive cheer absolutely rolls over the crowd. In a second, they become a roaring throng of rabid fans, shouting and stomping hooves until a lively rumbling pours through the air. The stands start shaking and it’s almost enough to challenge the roar of the motors as they start down the final stretch. Until they get closer and it becomes apparent that these aren’t just cars, they’re damn monsters shouting loud enough to drown the crowd out instead.

The four of them squeeze together in a tight pack, with mere feet of clearance as they push against each other to get ahead. The two middle contenders drive side by side, trapped in front and behind as the first and fourth place racers expertly block them. They bump and jostle each other, each grappling to escape the tight quarters and challenge the leader until a particularly harsh bump leads the racer to light touch against the side of the wall. The small impact at such a massive speed sends it flipping backward end over end, throwing him out of the race. The racer in the rear of the pack narrowly swerves to avoid the car as it rolls, hitting the ground twice with a cacophonous clanging each time. Ponies in the crowd take up a dismayed and empathetic cry  but it's not nearly enough to kill the overall buzz.

It only gets louder as the second-place racer edges up, slowly gaining on the front racer as they speed down the final stretch at breakneck speeds. Thousands of eyes stare at the two racers and especially the frontrunner as they refuse to be edged out in spite of the aggression that the second place racer is currently directing entirely at them.

What kind of pony is this racer? What gender?

A unicorn, using their magic for precise movements and finesse?

A pegasus, whose understanding of speed and movement gives them ever so slight an edge?

An earth pony, far better adapted to the physical stress that comes with the race?

A bat pony, with their eyes letting them spot fine details even in adverse conditions?

A hippogriff, who always has the necessary touch of luck in a trying time?

It’s a hippogriff mare behind the wheel, a rare sight made less surprising here thanks to the incredible luck that follows them. It’s hard to say if it’s that luck or just pure skill that helps them out here but whatever it is they began to creep forward again and solidify their lead. The second place car, with a unicorn mare practically seething as they see themselves getting edged out. Their horn glows and she flips several dials until a tube on the top of the car lifts up and spins around, a gush of flame washing over the first place car.

Your car is admittedly not the greatest and you definitely weren’t expecting such a high quality weapon. It’s definitely not a comfortable feeling, especially as your car starts to quickly heat up and… shit! Black smoke is pouring from your engine so your arcane core must have ignited. You’re seconds from the finish line.

How do you react in situations like this?

You’ve never been one to back down when shit hits the fan, and looking over at your would-be rival, you scrunch as hard as equinely possible and end up sticking your tongue out a bit before pushing your hoof into the pedal all the harder just to eke out those last few bits of power that you can. If your engine is in danger of exploding you might as well get going as fast as you can before that happens. And maybe hope that you can get a bit of speed off of that.

The whining is getting louder and it’s hard to tell if it’s coming from the wind outside your car or the vehicle itself protesting. Lug told you not to push it too hard and you didn’t need the bottom tenth or so of your speed for most of the race but now isn’t the time to give a shit about anything.

Closer… One last turn to go and your car buckles as you hit a loose cobblestone in the drift but you’re going too fast to give a shit. Or, for that matter, do anything about it. Final straightaway. You think you heard a popping sound and the vehicle doesn’t seem to be responding to your steering anymore. Your engine belches black smoke, covering your field of view entirely.

But none of it matters. All that matters is that one fantastic second when you cross the finish line and the flag goes down and the crowds find an impossible volume higher than the cacophony they were at before. You immediately start braking and pull a lever to get your drag chutes out but that’s more automatic response than it is conscious thought. You could die but who gives a shit? You won!

It’s a good thing that a rescue worker comes along to pull you out, then. Two strong legs reach in and unsnap your restraints and yank you out of the car as the fire starts to creep into the cab of the car. You come free and everyone gets a good look at you while the cameras zoom onto your blissful, grinning face.

What do you look like?

With a grunt of effort, the earth pony finally pulls you out to reveal a hippogriff. Like the rest of your kind, you have a griffon front half and a pony rear, albeit with a couple of feathery ears topping your head. Your beak and claws are a grey, with the rest of your coat and feathers being rusty red, although with white tips along your wings and a couple of splotches of white across your rear. Not that anyone can see that, or your cutie mark, considering that you’re in your grey jump-suit right now.

As you’re set up on your hooves and claws, you’re greeted by a flurry of light and sound. The screams of the crowd, the confetti, the flash of cameras. It’s absolutely fantastic, everything you could have ever wanted. Therefore, it doesn’t last and a yellow form slams into your side from nowhere, knocking you over and getting a loud sympathy ‘oooooh!’ from the crowd as they see it.

When you come to, you look up to see an Earth mare scrunched up, glaring at you. She has a yellow coat and blue mane, and her cutie mark is a lug nut, which matches her mane perfectly. “You ass!” She shouted. “I told you not to bottom it out and you nearly died! You ASS!”

What kind of pony are you around your friends?
(Upbeat, Competitive, Honorable)

“Aw, come on,” you say, getting and gently pushing the mare off your stomach. “She flamethrowered me. If that wasn’t a damn challenge I don’t know what was. Was I just supposed to back up off of that?”

She manages to scrunch even harder, and it’s getting to the point you’re slightly concerned for her health if she goes any tighter. “Don’t try and pretend like you knew what you were doing. You totally just got angry and charged him again!”

“Uh, heh…” You scratch the back of your head. “Can you blame me? And hey, I didn’t die! We won!”

She looks at you and then sighs, but you can see a smile on her face, even as she tries to hide it. This was as much her win as yours, after all. “I’m gonna kick your ass for this.”

She’ll have to wait for that, though, as throngs of people start to press around you while your flaming wreck of a car gets towed off to Celestia knows where. Good thing this was mostly done for the cash to build a new one, you don’t think insurance is going to cover that.

The first group to arrive you is some of the race organizers. They hold the reporters at bay while a unicorn with a clipboard addresses at you. “Uh,” she said. “This is, heh, awkward. We didn’t have you as a favorite and we don’t have information to disperse to the press. Can you fill those out real quick?” She pushes a clipboard at you.

What’s your name?
What’s your cutie mark?

You take the clipboard. “Oh sure! My name’s Comet Streak.” It’s hard to be annoyed that they didn’t think you would win when you won. That’ll show them next time.

The unicorn takes the clipboard. “Alright, uh. Let’s move you over to the podium,” she says, and the crew sort of huddles around you while ravenous hordes of journalists push forward to try and ask you for all manner of comments on every asinine thing. They lead you over to a podium with burly ponies standing around it in a ring to keep the vultures from getting to it.

The award ceremony is brief, just getting you and the two runner ups on the stands and handing you the trophy and a bottle of champagne. You grin and wave the two of them in your claw over at Lug Nut after you get them, and she rolls her eyes at you in spite of how obviously proud she is. You’re beginning to wonder where all the confetti comes from as the cannons pop behind you to shower you once more, but before long you’re being pulled up to a stage set up in Trottingham Square, one of the few places in the city with enough space for it.

There’s a lot of hubbub from the reporters who have taken a seat or are standing around the edges, and they all applaud politely as you make your way up to the microphone. Frankly, all the applause is getting to the point of frustration, so you’re happy that it dies down quickly.

Questions queued for the next update:
1.) How does it feel to be the first two-pony team to ever win the Trottingham Derby?
2.) Do you plan to expand your team before you compete in the Haymaker Circuit?
3.) What makes you such a good racer?
4.) What problem areas do you need to work on?

Next update planned: Tuesday, 5/30.