When the Plot Met the Clop and Neither Cared

The red door closes behind us. Right at that moment, I sense that something is wrong.

“I can’t see a thing,” he says. “Could you turn on the li–”

“What the hay?” calls out a sleepy voice from a corner. I’d recognize it anywhere. “Who’s there?”

“Cy’, it’s me,” I say before anything too obscure can happen. After a moment of groping, I find the switch. For once, I’m grateful for my condition. It saves me the trouble of squeezing my eyes shut in embarrassment.

“Snowy?” says Cyclone, probably from her bed. I can hear the sheets and blankets moving. “What are you doing here? And who’s he?”

“Oh, my name’s–”

“Didn’t ask from you,” snaps Cy’. The floor thumbs as she gets off the bed. “Snow? I’m waiting…”

I look at her direction. “It’s nothing, a stupid mistake. I got the door wrong. We’ll be leaving now.” I reach for Freight and find his flank, all the while praying that she is sleepy enough to let it pass this time, for this one single, blessed time…

She snorts. “Gimme a break. You wouldn’t get the door wrong if there was hundred of them…”

A yawn breaks her sentence. I try to nudge Freight to follow me, but he doesn’t budge. Cy’ can have that effect on ponies. Still, he does seem to be taken aback especially strongly. Must be the surprise.

“You came here to fuck, didn’t ya?” she asks cheerily. It’s amazing how she can shed off sleepiness like it was a day-old dress.

I lower my hoof. It’s impossible for me to look threateningly at anypony, not unless I know exactly where their eyes are. Nonetheless, I give it a shot.

Cy’ sighs. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Or at the curtains. I’m just curious: why’d you pick my room instead of you own?”

“I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. Freight, could you follow me? Now?”

There is a pause. “Oh, yeah. Right. Of course.” He moves in my direction. To my annoyance, she does, too.

“Freight, you say? Pleasure to meet you! I’m Cyclone, Cy’ for friends, but I’m sure she has told you everything about me already.” There is a sound like hooves being shaken, hard. “Sorry about the retort, by the way. You caught me unawares, a scary girl like me. Couldn’t help it.”

“It’s quite alright…” he starts.

“Like heck it is! Come, let me take it back, with interest. Hahah, does that even make sense? I think not, but what the heck, it’s only… What time is it?”

“Time for him to get home,” I say while looking at Freight. “You had the early shift tomorrow, correct?”

He gets his cue a tad later than required. “Yeah, yeah I do. Uh, guess I should be leaving, then…?”

“Nonsense!” shrieks Cy’, slamming his hoof against something, probably his back. “A Skyfall never leaves a slight unburied, and that works for both ways. Come, I’ll get you both a drink downstairs. And no buts! House rule!”

He chuckles uncertainly. “Uhm… If you insist…”

No, she doesn’t. She never even asks. She just acts, and expects that the others abide. Cy’ wouldn’t know what strategy was if it hit her straight in the face.

We get downstairs. Immediately, I can hear the clinking of glasses in the kitchen, which shares the same space with the living room. The whole first floor is practically one big living room. “Made for partying,” like Cy’ says. “Too bad that I’m not,” as I always reply. Freight and I receive the honor of deploying ourselves into the circle of couches as she mixes our drinks. This is not going to end well.

“So is this your first date or what?” she asks while pouring liquid from one container to another.

I’ll wait for a moment to see if he wants to answer that one. To my disappointment, he does. He’s already on his way of falling for her charms, if that’s the right word for it. It’s closer to witchcraft, really.

“Yeah, we ate in the Golden Griffon.”

“That old place? Why, you’d only had to ask and I’d have booked you to the Cloud Royale.”

“The… The Cloud Royale? Seriously? That’s the place the Princesses eat whenever they visit Cloudsdale!”

I grind my teeth together. Bragging off is a second nature to Cy’, but that’s a stretch even on her scale. No taste, no taste at all.

“Sure, no problem,” she continues, breaking ice while talking. “Tell you what: we’ll eat dinner there, tomorrow.”

“Uhh… I may have to do extra shifts this week…”

“All on my tab, of course,” she adds like his thoughts were a book to him.

“Oh. Wow. I mean, uhh, okay. Thanks.”

“Pfft, no problemo. When a Skyfall buries a slight, it stays buried.” She trots to us. The drinks fizz like dynamite as they get laid on the table. She crashes on the other side of him. I know that because there’s no other way it can be. “Besides, we own the place. It’ll be like inviting friends for dinner in your house.”

Except that this house has a waiting list that would reach from here to the ground if unrolled. The only reason she doesn’t say it because everypony in Cloudsdale knows it.

“Come on, have a taste!” she spurs.

“What’s in it?” asks Freight.

“A blend of my very own creation. My masterpiece, to tell the truth. I call it The Undertaker.”

A short laugh escapes me, not completely unintentionally. Her previous masterpiece was named The Piecemaker. Apparently it became very popular in certain undercloud circles, until it was eventually banned by the city’s health department. I’d tell all this to him, but Cy’ wouldn’t like that, and I have enough class to refuse taking away a puppy’s favorite toy.

I can tell that he is watching me from the corner of his eye. Sometimes, I just know such things.

“Go ahead,” I say. “The chances are you’ll live.”

“That’s the spirit!” exclaims Cy’.

He drinks it. What reason does he have to decline? What choice?

It gets very quiet after the glass hits the table. Too quiet, as they say.

I sigh. “He passed out, didn’t he?”

“With his eyes still open, yes. Gosh, no stomach at all…”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yeah yeah, now worries. I did a test run in a party a few weeks ago. Everypony ended up flying out with their own wings. Not on the same day, though.”

I cross my front legs over my chest. “You know, I still would’ve had use for him tonight.”

“I bet you would have. No trouble there: I still got a syringe or three of that stuff, ah, what’s it called. Adra… Agra…”

“Adrenaline?”

“Yeah! That’d wake up a mummy!” She moves her wings, and soon swallows something, after which she lets out a high-pitched shriek.

“You drank yours?”

“The trick is to tone it down with whiskey,” she says, her voice pierced by pain. “Don’t be a chicken, Snowy…” A series of coughs follows. The fizzing noise approach me and stops right before my face.

Now, I can make up with at least a dozen ways to decline and half of those wouldn’t even sound like I did. However, since there is a strong chance that my date won’t be operational before the morning, or before an adrenaline shot, I might as well go for it. It’s not like I got anything better to do.

On the other hoof… sometimes, you not only want to take that round-eyed puppy’s favorite toy from her, but also burn it before her eyes.

Which will it be?

Accept the Drink

Knock It off