She's also a super cool pony in general, just so you know
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Starlight Glimmer: Blackmail Artisian
She's also a super cool pony in general, just so you know
Friday, May 25, 1023 AL
Late Evening, Real Spy Hours
Immediate heavy crunching against the microphone. Most likely candy wrappers. Comrade Glimmer’s hotel room door opens, then slams shut. Two sets of hoofsteps walk across carpet. A slam. The bag hiding the recording device is thrown into the corner.
comrade Glimmer says, “I hate you so much. I hate you so bucking much.”
An unknown male voice says, “What are you gonna do about it?”
The hotel bed groans. “Get on top of me,” comrade Glimmer says.
Heroic comrade Starlight Glimmer gives her unknown assailant an intentional advantage to prove the superiority of her conditioning and the justness of her cause. Their struggle is epic and loud. It continues for exactly forty four minutes and six seconds, until a (probably) dying adversary admits defeat and collapses on the floor, defeated. His panting is heard for another forty eight seconds, slightly obscuring the sound of comrade Glimmer rifling through his bag, no doubt hunting for corporate secrets.
“Hey,” her unknown adversary mumbles, “Is this room bugged?”
“Of course not,” comrade Glimmer snaps back.
“Okay. Cuz my room is sorta bugged.”
“Define sorta.”
“My supervisor won’t let me turn off my work laptop in case he needs to message me.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Cuz, if for one reason or another we end up in my room, we should throw a blanket over the laptop or put it on the balcony or something.”
Comrade Glimmer stomps over to the unknown assailant and shakes him bodily. She drags him across the room and slaps him hard across the face.
"Harder," he says. "Now spit on me. Spit on me."
She throws him across the room. Lucky for him, he lands on the bed.
“What happened to me being on top?” he asks, cowardly begging for an advantage.
“Changed my mind,” comrade Glimmer retorts. “If you say another word, I’m taking pictures and sending it to Mares Monthly.”
A note of annoyance enters the assailant’s voice. “Hey, my likeness is valuable, you can’t just give it away—mmfph—”
Comrade Glimmer stuffs one of the assailant's socks into his mouth. She then proceeds to perform enhanced interrogation on him until the tape runs out two hours and sixteen minutes later.
Saturday, May 26, 1023 AL
Hangover Morning
Reverb and flutter oscillatory comparison pinpoints comrade Glimmer’s specific location as the hotel’s continental breakfast bar. Chew frequency analysis determines her breakfast is a stale croissant and one cup of watery dairy-free yogurt (est. cost $26.79). She slurps coffee, eats, and speaks into the recording device.
“I’m so stupid. I don’t know his name. He told me, but I forgot. I can picture his face perfectly in my mind, but his name—” She stuffs the entire croissant into her mouth. “I didn’t check his con tag, and it was so dark in the hotel room, and we had wine, and...” She trails off for 38 seconds. “I’m so stupid.”
Comrade Glimmer finishes her meal. The tape cuts out.
Comrade Glimmer starts the tape again as she walks to the convention center. Wind blows against the microphone. Analysis confirms the pattern of wind shifts at irregular intervals, suggesting she raises the recorder several times, then lowers it without speaking.
After one minute and 55 seconds of silence, comrade Glimmer sighs. "Does this mean I have a thing for bad boys? He’s not, like, bad. He’s very bad, but he’s not a bad boy, per se. He doesn’t have a leather jacket or a motorcycle. Does he?” Her breath hitches. “I don’t know anything about him. What if he’s weird?”
Most Party agents would see this lack of vital intelligence as clear grounds to scrap the mission. Luckily, comrade Glimmer is no ordinary agent. The revelation only causes a mild panic attack.
“Everything’s gonna be okay,” she said when she regained control of her breathing. “Just... go talk to him. Tell him it was never going to work.”
Comrade Glimmer bloviates on how much things would never work for an additional six minutes and 12 seconds. Her commitment to the cause is truly admirable. Telling an imperialist warmonger that his plan to enslave the equine race in endless war will never work to his face is bravery of the highest caliber.
Comrade Glimmer abruptly cuts herself off. Ambient sound analysis confirms that she is now in front of the Butternut Hut motel and convention center. Her target is inside, but something outside stops her from entering.
“Oh my gosh.” Comrade Glimmer appears suddenly distressed. Her voice shrinks, then comes roaring back with a commissar's vengeance. “Oh my gosh.”
A bystander asks her if she’s okay.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just... really excited to be here, that’s all.” Comrade Glimmer’s deceptive prowess is unmatched.
Comrade Glimmer starts walking again. She records one final line before she enters the convention center and the noise coming from this den of vipers overwhelms the recording device:
“I don’t believe it. There’s two of them.”
Through detailed analysis and astral projection, our scientists have determined that this line holds some sort of significance to comrade Glimmer. She speaks this line in front of the Butternut Hut convention center’s main north entrance, a sweeping thirty-story monument to excess and capital. She could be speaking about anything she happened to see in that moment. But she is most likely referring to the twenty-story banner that hangs from the convention center’s front facade.
On this banner, there is printed an image of the two keynote speakers of the convention, the brothers Merry Berry and Creamsicle Dream, also known by their professional aliases of Flim and Flam. Underneath their faces are the words:
MEGAKILLCON
Equestria’s Foremost Industrial Arms Festival
“Come and Take It!”
This Weekend Only, Friday Thru Sunday
A complete recap of Flim and Flam’s file is not required to understand the significance of their appearance at the MEGAKILLCON. In short, they are dangerous anarcho-capitalists who, in their quest for global domination, have committed numerous crimes against equinity in almost every major sector of the economy. Two years ago, after their unsuccessful attempt to lobby the Equestrian Food Safety Administration to classify hamburger meat as “cow patties” (intentions unknown), they pivoted to defense contracting.
Comrade Glimmer makes her way through the convention center. The noise is loud but amiable—if one can call bloodthirsty leeches amiable. She provides her ID and weekend pass to the security and enters the main convention hall. The noise here is louder. She speaks directly into the recorder, and although she keeps her voice her, her proximity to the microphone causes the sound to clip.
“Okay. There’s only two of them. That’s a fifty-fifty chance if you guess. You’re not gonna guess, though. You got kicked out of six schools for being too smart. You can figure this out.”
TRANSCRIBER’S POINT OF CLARIFICATION:
- Starlight Glimmer was indeed expelled from six primary schools during her time spent in the educational system. However, it is not entirely factual to say she was removed for being too smart. Four of the six were for harassment of teachers for teaching imperialist propaganda as fact. One was for replacing all the books in the school library with the same copy of The Condition of the Working Class in Griffonia. The sixth was for targeting a classmate whose father ran a coal mine and putting gum in her mane.
Comrade Glimmer leaves the recording device running as she makes a pass around the convention hall. Ambient noise reaches a peak as she approaches the corner booth where FlimFlam Industries has set up shop. Official photographs smuggled out by our spies and corroborated with official photos from the event’s website indicate the booth consists of a horseshoe-ring of shelves advertising Flim and Flam’s latest book, “Capital Contracting and Cockfighting: From the Boardroom to the Blood Pits (A Retrospective Double-Menoir).”
Evidently, only one of the brothers are present at that moment comrade Glimmer arrives. She curses under her breath, but quickly regains her composure. “You got this,” she says to herself. “Just go up there and talk to him.”
With her mind made up and her strength fully manifested, comrade Glimmer marches up to the brother and says in her most contemptuous voice, “Remember me?”
Since we do not know whether this brother is Flim or Flam, we will for expediency's sake call him “Unidentified Vulture,” or UV. UV, who was up until that moment in a separate conversation, turns and eyes comrade Glimmer with undisguised capitalist intent.
“Good morning,” UV says, his voice oozing phony cordiality. “Should I?”
“Depends. What’s your name?”
UV probably smiles here, as Starlight lets out a derisive huff. “Maybe I should be asking you the same question, missy. Do you remember me?”
Comrade Glimmer fumbles with her nametag, which prominently displays her undercover alias. She makes to rip it off, then gives up. At this point, she is utterly uncertain whether this was the mysterious bandit from the night before.
“I’m only here til Sunday,” he says pointedly. "Any day now."
“Certain out-of-con activities were engaged in last night,” comrade Glimmer finally says.
“Yes, the fireworks display from Mantra-Raytheon. Were you able to watch? They towed a barge into the bay then shot seed clouds with satellite-guided missiles.”
“That display went against city ordinance,” comrade Glimmer snaps back. “I would never stoop so low.”
“Yes, of course, but city ordinance only covers recreational displays of force.” He leans in. “The display was really something to see. There were a lot of fireworks last night, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Does that mean you were present for the Manta-Raytheon demonstration?”
“I don’t seem to recall. Perhaps you could fill me in.”
Comrade Glimmer lets out a sound between a boiling teakettle and a bomb whistling towards the ground. The other patrons of FlimFlam Industries’ booth seem momentarily amused right up until comrade Glimmer turns the full weight of her ireous gaze on them.
“We have business to discuss,” she growls at them, “and it’s under an NDA. If you would all please give us a moment.”
The other warhawks, eager to flagellate upon the altar of corporate secrets, politely file out of the booth.
“Hey,” UV complains, “that entrance was cute, but you can’t mess with business like that. Are you some kind of protestor?”
Comrade Glimmer goes on the offensive and jabs him in the ribs. “Was it you?”
“Ow—hey! Didn’t you see the NAP over the door? No touchy.”
“Was it you.”
“Was what me?”
“At the hotel bar last night. We talked about economic theory. You had this idiotic take on Hegelian theory, and when I tried to correct you, you—”
“Bought us a round and asked for you to explain it like I was five?” UV chuckled. “That sounds like something my brother would do.”
Hope fills comrade Glimmer’s voice. “So it was your brother?”
“Well, in case you couldn’t tell, we’re twins! We're basically the same pony. Some ponies swear up and down we share half of the same brain. Isn’t that rich?”
The hope dies. Comrade Glimmer groans. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, it’s gut-busting. I thought the screening process for troublemakers at this con was more robust, but I suppose you gotta cut corners somewhere.” He takes a big step back. “Go on. Do a little dance and film it or something. If it’s got the FlimFlam Industries logo on it, it’s guaranteed to go viral. We pay social media companies handsomely for that."
For a moment, comrade Glimmer seems confused. She strategically fumbles for a response. “I—the—that’s not what I’m here for.”
“You don’t seem all that interested in our missiles or our memoirs. So please, enlighten me. What are you here for?”
Mounting frustration creeps into comrade Glimmer’s voice, no doubt as an intimidation tactic. “If it was your brother who interacted with me last night,, then I can give you blackmail material the kind you couldn’t get anywhere else. Anything for the truth."
“And what if it’s actually me?”
Comrade Glimmer pauses for 6 seconds. “Then you’d really be hurting my feelings.”
UV seems to pick up the sincerity in her voice. “Don’t forget where you’re at. Feelings are things you check at the door along with your swords.” He pauses for two seconds. “Though, I’m not heartless. If you really can’t tell me what I may or may not have gotten up to last night, let’s meet at the Butternut Hut motel bar after the con closes for the day. We can chat more privately there.”
“Okay.” She starts to walk away. “Wait. What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
A pause. “Starlight Glimmer.”
“Starlight Glimmer.” UV raps on a nearby display rocket with a hoof. “It’ll be good to chat with someone who doesn’t only want to talk about giant missiles.”
Comrade Glimmer huffs and snorts and storms off. Professional analysis indicates he may have winked at her.
Saturday, May 26, 1023 AL
Post-Happy Hour
The Butternut Hut motel bar is an ideal spot to set a trap. Comrade Glimmer takes a seat in the corner so she can see the entrance, cleverly tapes her recording device under the table, and turns it on.
“He’s not a bad boy,” she says, in reference to UV. “He’s just bad. He sells weapons and self-help memoirs. They’re both bad enough by themselves. He’s...” She shakes the ice in her glass and thinks for two minutes and 12 seconds. “I’m not getting so blatantly caught up with someone who’s on the wrong side of things.”
“Define wrong.”
The sound of UV’s voice makes comrade Glimmer scream and leap into the air, jostling the recording device (no doubt this is some advanced martial arts technique we are hitherto unaware of).
“You again! Hahah. Haaaah.” Comrade Glimmer feigns flightiness by settling uncertainly into her seat. “By wrong, of course, I meant you’re not charging those suckers enough! A truly free market requires freeing ourselves from the constraints of realism and inducing hyperreality in our consumers in order to—”
“While you’re at it,” UV adds, “define caught up with.”
Comrade Glimmer goes quiet for a moment. She assesses that the jig is up and retorts, “Caught up in the corrupting influence of capital.”
“Money is far from the only thing that could cause a Party member to go astray.”
“Are you calling me easy?”
UV chuckles. “Hardly. You’re one tough nut to crack. You’re not a journalist. You walk like a Party stooge and quack like a Party stooge, but there’s more to you than that.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you here to make some... under the table purchases?”
“No. I’m...” She pauses. “I—”
“You don’t have to tell me who you are,” UV says. He manipulates his voice to sound understanding—something that no bootlicking corporate drone could be. “I get it. I’m beholden to my work, as are you. I actually admire that.”
“Um. Thanks?”
“So, what kind of information are you attempting to solicit? If it’s the fun juicy kind, maybe I could throw you a bone. I could always use a favor in my back pocket.”
“Blackmail,” comrade Glimmer finally says. “Any and all kinds. Scandal. Tax evasion. Anythijg that will further the downfall of empire and the rise of a more just and equitable—”
UV raps his hooves on the table. “Ok ok ok, I get it. Jeez. You know I could never incriminate my colleagues like that.”
“Oh, but you could!” comrade Glimmer says. “I wasn’t sent here to target you exclusively, after all. Together we could—”
“You weren’t?” UV cuts in.
“Uh. No.”
UV’s tone turns glum. “So you weren’t sent here to destroy me?”
“Not you, specifically.”
“Oh.” A long pause. “Oh.”
“Are you... upset?”
“No. It’s fine. It’s just—” The sound of sniffles from UV.
“Are you—hey, c’mon, don’t cry.”
“Am I not important enough?”
Comrade Glimmer is clearly thrown off. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“What we shared that night—it was so much more than just reverse espionage.”
“It was?” For a moment, comrade Glimmer’s voice flutters into a swoon. Then it pinwheels down into a perturbed, “Wait, it was what?”
“Counter-spy tactics. You know the game. I started off that evening thinking I was going to get to the bottom of this weird hippy who's been stalking around my booth all day. Don't pretend like I didn't see you. Then I thought I was going to get on top of her bottom. And underneath. And to the side—that one position where you both lie down and the mare lifts her—”
“I get it,” comrade Glimmer snaps.
“But it turned into something so much more!” he all but sobs. His voice cracks. The ambient bar conversation dulls as patrons turn their gazes towards UV. He shifts around in his chair. When he speaks again, his voice is clear and strong. “I’d trade all the corporate secrets in the world to relive that night. Secrets don’t matter. I’ll just make up more.”
“That’s not how secrets work,” comrade Glimmer said. A faint twinge of hope colors her words. Not a hint of artificiality to be found. Her voice is a masterclass in emotional affectation.
“I have to fly back to FlimFlam Industries HQ tomorrow,” UV says.
“What?” Comrade Glimmer throws her voice so it sounds like she’s genuinely upset.
“Yes, it’s true. Corporate needs me back at the helm for our newest line of junior-sized shoulder-fired rocket launchers.”
“That’s repulsive! Foal-sized rocket launchers are a crime against equinity.”
“A legal crime,” UV laments.
Comrade Glimmer leans back in her chair, lost in thought. A moment later she says, “If it’s legal, then there’s nothing I or the Party can do.” A pronounced moment of understanding passes through the air. A lightbulb—or, more aptly, five hundred grams of cone-shaped high explosives—goes off above their heads. “But if there were something illegal about the product you were creating—”
UV sits bolt upright. “There would be grounds for the Party to send an agent to infiltrate our corporate headquarters.” He shoots to his hooves and bolts over to the bar, where he grabs a napkin and a pen from a random pony’s checkbook. He returns to the table and starts to sketch.
“We could make the launcher box-fed instead of single-shot,” UV says. “Create some kind of semi-automatic firing mechanism. Then we could develop a stock attachment that would bump back and forth, simulating full auto!”
“Some bump-style accessories are legal under certain circumstances,” comrade Glimmer interjects. “What would be even better is if you made a modification piece, like a metal tab you could insert into the bolt mechanism at a particular point that would cause the weapon to fire fully automatic.”
“Genius! We could put the manufacturing of the metal tabs under a shell company to throw investigators off the trail—”
“And then leak the assembly instructions online!” they both finish in unison.
For a split second, there is dead silence in the room. Then comrade Glimmer leaps across the table with heroic resolve. A chase breaks out. They race out of the bar, their hooffalls gradually receding out of recording range.
The recording device remains taped beneath the table until the tape runs out.
Sunday, May 27, 1023 AL
The Con’s Final Hour
Starlight pays one final visit to UV’s booth the following day. The sound of packing tape and strained grunts suggests he is taking a good amount of his merchandise home with him.
UV stops what he’s doing when he spies comrade Glimmer approaching. For a long time, they say nothing at all.
UV breaks the silence first. “We’re not that different, you and I.”
“We are very, very different.”
“But we have one thing in common.”
“What’s that?”
“Our work makes us lonely.”
Comrade Glimmer chuckles. “Is that all this is?”
“Heavens, no.” He moves closer to comrade Glimmer. “It meant so much more.”
“I genuinely thought about killing you that first night. When—you know, and I had my hooves around your neck. I wasn’t just squeezing for fun.”
A wide smile creeps across UV’s face. “Your Party’s a bunch of spineless cowards. I sincerely hope you don’t chicken out next time.” He winked. “Here. For you.” He hoofs her one of his memoirs.
“I’m not reading this.”
“That’s fair. I’ve never read it either. It’s probably gibberish.”
Starlight cracks the cover. Inside is a business card. Debriefing later reveals there is a phone number and the address of FlimFlam Industries corporate HQ printed on it.
“You’d have to secure an awful lot of paperwork to get in. Press passes. Security clearance. Guard affidavits. Your organization would never come up with the capital necessary to make that happen. Never in a million years.”
A manila envelope is exchanged. It jangles as comrade Glimmer accepts it.
“Never in a million years,” comrade Glimmer repeats.
“And the password to the ventilation system? The system that leads all the way to the executive suite? It’s impenetrable. No Party stooge would be able to guess the super secret password.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Because it’s my most closely guarded secret.” He leans in and speaks in a voice barely more than a whisper, “My name.”
A hint of frustration seeps into comrade Glimmer’s voice. “But—I don’t know—”
“There’s only two possibilities. Fifty-fifty chance if you guess.”
There’s a pause. Then there’s a smeck sound, the sound of a kiss. Analysis is unsure where this sound came from. Best estimates place it as the sound of UV becoming overwhelmed with his own hubris and bending over to kiss his own ass.
The tape cuts out.
