The pastries were calling to her.
Sunset Shimmer pressed her nose against Sugarcube Corner’s storefront window, drool pooling in her mouth. Behind that thin glass barrier, the Cakes had sculpted sugar, salt, and fat into delicious art. Croissants and rolls bursting with buttery, artery-blocking goodness. Cupcakes slathered with colorful frosting. Cakes that could rot teeth from a mile away. Sugary sirens luring Sunset to dietary doom.
Buy us, Sunset. They crooned. Buy us.
Slowly, Sunset started towards the bakery’s front door. At that moment, she existed only to buy pastries. She lived only to eat pastries.
Before she could push the door open, a little voice in her head butted in.
Didn’t you just eat breakfast?” It said.
Sunset snorted. A slice of honeydew and a dollop of cottage cheese was not breakfast. Hell, it barely qualified as a snack.
“Maybe, but it was healthy. Remember what your doctor said about your cholesterol levels.”
The little voice had a point: her cholesterol levels were getting dangerously high. Personally, she blamed Pinkie Pie and her pathological urge to throw parties. Don’t get her wrong, that girl was a great friend, but she needed some serious professional help.
As she mulled over the voice’s argument, her stomach made its counter-argument: a loud, lion-like roar, followed by a piercing, knife-like pain in her belly. The organ purged all rational thought from her head. All that was left was the primordial urge to bite, chew, and consume. Sunset dashed through the bakery's front door without a second thought, nearly tearing it off its hinges. The syrupy, buttery smell of baked goods snaked into her nose, caressing her nostrils like a long-lost lover.
“Good morning, dearie,” said Mrs. Cake, waving to Sunset from behind the counter.
“Morning, Mrs. Cake.” Said Sunset, giving a friendly wave.
“What can I get you today?”
Sunset held up a hand. “One second.” She rubbed her chin, tapping her foot as she studied the menu above the register. Something caught her eye:
New Deathcakes! Buy one, get one free.
“Hey, Mrs. Cake?”
“Yes?”
“What’s a ‘deathcake?” Sunset said. The moment the word left her mouth, she heard a distant rumble, like the report of a cannon or thunder, followed by the faint scent of gunpowder.
That was…odd. Sunset thought, then shrugged; it wasn’t the weirdest thing that’d ever happened to her.
“Oh, you mean these,” Mrs. Cake motioned to a platter of cupcakes by the register. “It’s a new recipe we’re trying out. Would you like one?”
Sunset walked over and leaned in for a closer look. Deathcakes were appropriately named; jet black, with orange and white frosting stylized to look like flames. In the center, a skull made of white frosting with two black crossed-out eyes. A stark contrast to the bright, cheery vibe of the bakery.
Still, something about the cakes piqued her curiosity.
“You know what… I think I’ll take one.” Sunset fished a bill out of her pocket and slapped it on the counter. Mrs. Cake picked up some salad tongs and plucked two cupcakes from the platter. She set them both down on a plate.
“Enjoy!”
“I will!” I think Sunset said, taking the plate and sitting at a convenient table. She picked up one of the deathcakes and slowly peeled off the wrapper. Just to be sure, she held the little cake to her nose and sniffed it. She could smell vanilla, chocolate, buttercream, and….gunpowder?
“Well, down the hatch!”
Sunset closed her eyes and sank her teeth into the deathcake…
Holding the reigns tightly, Sunset rides her machine-gun dragon low over the battlefield.
Below her, an army of cyborg cultists took potshots at her with bolts of destructive magic, a sort of magical anti-air fire. Even from this height, she smells their horrible stench, like body odor and machine oil. They stumble over each other to get a clear shot, trampling their companions without thinking twice.
Tugging at the reigns, Sunset adjusts her aviator sunglasses. She points into the brown-robed horde. ”Sic ‘em, Vickers!”
The dragon roars. Hundreds of machine gun barrels that once lay flush against its body now point outwards. Muzzle flashes light up the jet-black sky as a hailstorm of hot lead rains from the heavens. Cultists jerk and twitch in a macabre dance of death. The air fills with the stench of sulfur and searing brass. To add insult to the cultists' many injuries, Vickers opens its mouth, revealing a 30mm rotary cannon in its throat that turns cultists into a pink mist.
Of course, Sunset doesn’t want her friend to have all the fun. She zips up her leather jacket and combat BDUs. With a flick of her wrist, she summons an electric bass guitar shaped like a lightning bolt. The words “This Machine Kills Cultists” appear in glowing red letters on its body. She furrows her brows, and two massive, flaming wings sprout from her back.
Giving her flaming feathers a good stretch, Sunset adjusts the guitar’s tuning knobs, then leaps from Vicker’s back. Her fiery wings catch the air, and she swoops low over the battlefield, barely clearing the tops of the cultists' hooded robes.
Then she starts to shred.
Fingers fly across the strings, filling the air with booming, crunching riffs. When Sunset slides her fingers up the fretboard, energy blasts slam into the horde, vaporizing cultists by the dozens and launching countless others into low orbit. By strumming slightly slower, she channels the guitar’s power into a blast of blue-hot thermonuclear flame. Any cultist stupid enough to get too close is flash-vaporized. When the mood strikes her, Sunset uses the guitar as a simple club. Each blow lands with the force of a meteorite. Massive craters are blasted into the landscape.
Sunset fights the horde for hours. Her instrument-turned weapon blasts, smashes, and incinerates cultists by the scores, while Vickers gives the cultists terminal lead poisoning. It’s not enough. No matter how many cultists they destroy, four more are there waiting to take their place. Frankly, it’s getting boring.
Time for the grand finale.
Pumping her fiery wings, Sunset launches herself into the sky and starts shredding like she’s never shredded before. Riffs pour from her instrument like water from a firehose. Lightning strikes the neck of the guitar again and again, each bolt sending liquid electricity flowing through her veins. Her fingers become a flesh-colored blur. Human and instrument merge.
Power builds within the guitar. Glowing cracks spread across its body. Sunset plays one final, drawn-out note, and a bubble of white-hot energy explodes over the battlefield. Cultist bodies turn to ash, then vapor, then star-hot plasma. When the glow fades, all that’s left is a glowing crater and a gentle rain of fine dust.
Exhausted, Sunset gently glides to the ground, Vickers touching down behind her. She thrusts the guitar into the air in triumph…
-
“Whoa…”
For a moment, Sunset stared straight ahead, not moving, barely even breathing.The deathcake in her hands was gone. All that was left were the wrapper and a few crumbs.
“What…what was that?” She said softly.
“They’re really something, aren’t they?” Said Mrs. Cake.
That was an understatement. What was in these things? Was it some kind of waking dream? If so, why could she still smell gunpowder? Why did her shoulders feel sore?
Once her mind finally cleared, Sunset looked down at her plate and picked up the second deathcake. She peeled off the wrapper and took a bite…
