Snow fell over Canterlot. Drifting billows that silently settled on balconies, on telegram lines, and on ponies hustling home to escape the evening chill. A flailing wad of ashes also fell, but from a business district rooftop instead of the sky. It also made far more noise on impact, crumpling roughly on the cold concrete in an alleyway. For a moment, there was only the vaporous hissing from stray snowflakes sizzling down onto charred charcoal.
Then the wad of ashes groaned. In a specific pouting, tired tone of somepony who knew they were hurt and that pain would soon flood in. The wad rolled over, its shapeless mass shifting and shuffling into something more equine. First came a pair of flicking ears, anxious and alert for anypony who'd witnessed its fumbling fall. Their flicking eased when the only sound was a cart rumbling down the nearby road. No hooftaps could be heard. None aside from the wad's own forelimbs, freshly sprouted and wearily pressed against the dirty ground. Were anypony present to see its face emerge, they might have recognized young lady Cinderheart, heiress of Canterlot’s nineteenth richest noble family. And if they were privy to her thoughts, they might hear (amid colorful and unspoken cussing) a resigned admission.
Superhero-ing was much harder than she'd expected.
Whose fault was this? Certainly not her own. Cinderheart had done weeks of prep work, practicing her best heroine poses in front of Heart Manor's biggest vanity mirror. Then she'd moved onto posing on the roof of Heart Manor itself. Adjusting her posture to cast the best shadow. Glaring triumphantly across her home's grounds. Frantically ducking behind the nearest buttress whenever a servant trotted by.
Yes, Cinderheart had been fully equipped for her very first prowl tonight. The maiming from that fall certainly hadn't been her own fault.
Maybe it was Batcolt's fault. Every week, his comic had a new issue in the cornerstore window. Cinderheart passed it every time she trotted to class at Concordia University. Only the best education for a Canterlot heiress, which meant no time for comic books. Those were pulpy, plebian entertainment, or so her family insisted. And yet, Cinderheart always paused to marvel at Batcolt. He was drawn as an Earth Pony, fighting crime with naught but his gadgets and guile. With her gods given talent for fire magic, what was Cinderheart's excuse?
Some covers didn't feature Batcolt, but instead a preppy noblepony on them the textboxes called Bronc Wayne. Cinderheart could only guess at his role in the series. An antagonist, perhaps. A snooty loafer who didn't use his privileged position to help ponies. Cinderheart worried terribly that she was Bronc Wayne. She didn't want to be him; she wanted to be Batcolt. And since when did any Batcolt story start with him sitting in an alleyway feeling helpless? He'd be the type to hurry home to his lair, wiser and ready to try again tomorrow night.
Cinderheart didn't have a lair, but she did have Heart Manor. Might as well slink home to the inevitable chewing out by her parents or brother. More likely her brother. He was a real life Bronc Wayne, though Cinder would never say so to his face. Speaking of faces, she tweened hers out of the ash wad, preparing to revert to normal.
Cinderheart heaved herself up, skin still crackling and smoke still wreathing her hunched form. Her normal features were in sharp focus now, carefully sculpted from the ash and charcoal she could so effortlessly shapeshift into. Her snout sniffed the air, her forelegs flexed firmly, her chest fluff scraped the ground... and that was where the solidifying stopped.
"Huh?"
Cinderheart peered down at her bellybutton, but she didn't have one. Or anything below it. House Heart were a long, proud line of quarter horses, but that was just a breed name. Not a description of their family's body proportions.
"I lost that much mass from one hit?!"
Cinderheart was fuming, both physically and emotionally. So much for returning to her fleshy form and slinking pitifully home. Heart Manor was on the gated community side of town, much too far to crawl on just two legs. What if a stranger saw her? Or worse, someone she actually knew?
Spurred by that worry, the head, shoulders, and forelimbs of heiress Cinderheart shambled to the mouth of the alley. It was past sunset on a heavily snowing night, so the street was deserted in the sickly yellow glow of the street lanterns. Cinder gazed hungrily at those small sputtering flames, aching to sip smoke from them to regenerate her depleted body. But the oil lanterns were smokeless. She was thirsty in a desert. Still... every desert had an oasis somewhere. To Cinderheart, this one looked like a telegram booth on the street corner.
The thought of calling home churned her currently absent stomach. Sure, there was an easily stoked fireplace there, full of embers to replenish her mass. But when her brother saw her, his scolding would be more heated than any common hearth fire.
Cinder cursed her luck. She cursed the drastic downsides of her powers. Most of all, she cursed Canterlot's telegram network for its indirect role in how she'd gotten hurt in the first place. Then she heaved herself to the booth, privacy blinds shuttering closed around her.
"Just like Supermare," Cinder muttered, recalling a different comic hero who used telegram booths to slip in and out of costume. Since she herself lacked a costume, Cinder busied her red hot hooves with the booklet of names and addresses resting in the booth's corner.
"H section, H section..."
Cinderheart cringed as she flipped past Harmonic Hoofsteps Danse Academy. Her family were patrons of performing arts, so that was the was where she took weekly ballet lessons. Her hind legs were going to be horrendously clumsy when they regenerated.
Cinderheart shook her head to clear the distraction, then vexed at the fluttering ash flakes her motion had dislodged. She was running out of body mass. Her hooves surged hotter with urgency as she flipped one more directory page to the one she needed. House Heart may have only been the nineteenth most wealthy noble family, but they were by far the biggest with distant relatives in all corners of Equestria. Nurse Redheart practiced medicine in Ponyville, Great Aunt Kindheart did nonprofit work in Manehatten, cousin Lemon Hearts lived less than a block from here...
Cinder gasped.
Cousin Lemon Hearts lived less than a block from here. A relative on Cinder's paternal side, Lemon Hearts had a lengthy list of accolades. Graduate from the School For Gifted Unicorns. Personal friend to Twilight Sparkle. Owner of a standard issue wood burning stove and a will to keep secrets.
Cinder just might avoid her brother's wrath yet. Unfortunately, the fire magic in her hooves flared alongside her optimism, finally igniting the paper directory. Cinder yelped as the booklet burned, flames blacking out the names, telegram codes, and worst of all Lemon Hearts's address. Cinder fumbled to pat out the fire, but her efforts just smeared soot across the page. In no time, the whole booklet went kaput, fragmenting to the floor of the telegram booth.
Cinderheart slumped down too, eyes shut and sunken in the withering remnants of her face. Then her thinning lips parted in a triumphant smile.
"1655 Yearling Street."
That was the address she'd glanced at. Cinder was ninety nine percent sure of it. Full of resolve, she scooped up the ashy remnants of the telegram directory. Its white hot cinders dispersed across her skin, healing gaps and reheating cold patches. One burnt book was a paltry fix. A meager repast. But it was enough fuel for a few more minutes. Enough to get to Yearling Street.
Cinderheart felt guilty about eating a phone book that was public property. Sure, superheroes had a habit of causing collateral damage, but it was usually while fighting bad guys. And of there was any lesson to be learned from tonight's failed outing, it was that Cinderheart wasn't ready to fight proper bad guys. She was no Supermare.
"But I'm no Bronc Wayne either."
Cinderheart fled outside, where heavier falling snowflakes sizzled anew on her molten hide. She trailed ash and steam in equal measure, leaving behind the telegram booth, the lonely alley, and her momentary doubts. On her two remaining hooves, she galloped urgently towards Yearling Street.
Credit to Dusk-Spark on DeviantArt
Lyra Heartstrings sat on her couch, shoulders to the backrest and hind hooves to the floor. The posture was routine for her, but the flu blanket draped on her shoulders was not. She sneezed.
"That better have been into your elbow," came a call from the kitchen.
"It was!"
"It didn't sound like it was into your elbow."
Lyra pulled her flu blanket tighter to her shoulders, then rolled over in defeat. No lie ever got past Bon Bon. Once a secret service detective, always a secret service detective. If Lyra had less of a sinus headache, she would've been snout-deep in a nearby Rubix Cube (a real human toy and get well gift from Pinkie Pie!), honing her solving skills to maybe one day match Bon Bon's level of cleverness. But the sinus headache was here to stay, and Lyra's snout was too sore to press into anything.
"Your soup's almost ready. Blow your nose before I trot in with it."
Lyra tutted. Why bother, since she'd no doubt sneeze again in a minute or two? Maybe this was another situation where Bon Bon's cleverness was seeing the bigger picture. If Lyra were honest with herself (and she always was), her own problem solving skills topped off somewhere around greeting her hatless, scarfless, shivering mailmare at the door and making sure Derpy trotted away bundled and warm. Then again, those gifts had left Lyra herself hatless and scarfless on her own workplace commute. Hence her current spot on the sick couch. If Bon Bon had gotten the mail instead, things would have definitely been different.
"I don't hear any nose-blowing, Ly."
Someday, Lyra would find the clever way to solve problems. For now though, finding a tissue would be enough. She wearily sat up, her hoof exploring a nearby kleenex box.
Empty.
"Aw horseapples..."
Glass clinked in the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of soup being poured. Lyra squirmed, patting herself down to see if she had a clean embroidered hanky (Rarity's get well gift) in her pockets. Then she remembered she had no pockets. Or clothes at all, aside from her flu blanket. Head cold grogginess was laying into her hard, but not as hard as Bon Bon would if Lyra didn't have her face clean in the next few seconds. The sick unicorn scanned the living room for anything made of paper. Her eyes settled defeatedly on something draped over the couch's armrest.
"A kids toy and and a froofy kerchief?" Rainbow Dash had scoffed. "I guess good friends can still give lame-o gifts. Here, have some light reading material while you sweat out your fever, homegirl."
Lyra sneezed again, and was just lifting the comic to her nose when Bon Bon pranced stiffly into the living room, brandishing a napkin.
"Here, I brought you this, since I'm guessing your tissue box is emptier than... is that a Batcolt comic? What are you, still in Magic Kindergarten?"
"Hey!" Lyra gurgled defensively. "Rainbow Dash gave this one to me."
"Not surprising, knowing her. Here. Blow."
Lyra dutifully took the napkin in her hooves and cleaned out her nose. As she did, a welcome warmth on her lap announced the soup had been delivered. She looked down.
"Ooh, boiled orange stew?"
"I know what you're gonna say. Something about how ailing humans cook chicken soup instead. Well we're not humans, and we don't eat chick-"
"I was actually going to say thank you."
Bon Bon sighed and slumped onto the unoccupied side of the couch. She regarded Lyra gripping the soup spoon in a forehoof, blowing on the steam.
"You have telekinesis, you know."
"Yeah. I know." Lyra's hoof lifted the spoon to her mouth, earning a tired laugh from her marefriend.
"I envy you sometimes, Ly."
"Eh? What's there to envy? You're the one who's clever."
Bon Bon didn't answer. But she did get up to fetch more tissues. Lyra sat alone for a bit, the sweet vapors of boiled citrus making her head cold feel better. Not good, but better. She spooned more soup and listened to the snowfall outside, hoping Derpy was home safe tonight.
"Its really coming down out there, huh Bonnie?"
"According to the telegram reports," Bon Bon re-emerged, "the snow is even heavier in Canterlot. Their weather logistics team is hopeless." She examined the fresh tissue box she was toting. "Here's hoping our timeshare on Yearling Street doesn't get buried."
Lyra had finished her soup was licking the bowl. "No worries about our place on Yearling Street," Lyra assured.
"I know. I was joking, since its on the third floor. Guess my comedic delivery needs better..." Bon Bon abruptly stiffened with concern. "Hold up. Spill it, what did you do to our place on Yearling Street?"
Lyra's bowl reflection frowned worriedly back at her. "Uh... nothing?"
"That's a load of manure. What did you do?"
"Nothing."
"What did you do?"
"Okay!"
Lyra set the bowl aside and pulled her flu blanket tighter. "So uh... you know how after I ate your special top shelf oats, you rigged the new can with a teleporter trap?"
"I never told you about the teleporter trap. The only way you'd know is if you triggered it."
Lyra's cheeks went redder than her nose. "Um, well... uh..."
"Oh nevermind. It was just a runic sigil that evicted the toucher to the back yard."
"Face down in the dirt by the fence!" Lyra chuckled, but when Bon Bon didn't reciprocate, she pulled tighter at the blanket. "You do good magic for an Earth Pony," she offered.
"Because I was specially trained by the royal secret service. Teleport trigger sigils are so advanced, most unicorns can't even draw them."
"Well... I managed," Lyra reported. "The oat trap got me good, and while laying in the dirt I remembered our nice place in Canterlot all unguarded and stuff. Plus, you're always saying I need to use my magic more..." She flashed what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
"What range did you put on the proximity trigger mandala?"
Lyra's reassuring smile faltered.
"I uh, I don't know what that-"
"Did you make sure the inner filigree spiraled clockwise? If it spirals counterclockwise, its a self-summoning sigil instead."
Lyra's reassuring smile was gone.
"Actual security work isn't like your Batmare comic over there!" Bon Bon berated. "Did you take account of anything after casting a sloppy spell on the most valuable property we own?"
"I... I..." Lyra wanted to apologize. To take back what she'd done. Or at the very least assure that she did take account of something afterwards: Herself. After inscribing a hoof-drawn sigil on the timeshare's kitchen floor, Lyra had felt... clever. For the first time since meeting Bon Bon, Lyra had felt clever just like her marefriend. But feeling wasn't the same as being, was it? Bon Bon was right, as usual.
Lyra opened her mouth to voice these thoughts, but instead she just sneezed again.
Bon Bon dismissively presented the fresh tissue box.
"Wipe your nose. And eyes. I'm not angry."
Lyra obeyed.
"Hey. Ly, look at me."
Lyra obeyed again.
"I'm not angry. I'm just a worrywart."
Lyra giggled. Worrywart. Slang words sounded ridiculous coming from somepony so stone cold serious like Bon Bon. Not that it needed to pointed out, since Bon Bon was shaking her head in embarrassment. The soup bowl was hoofed off between them, and with it came a renewed sense of domestic ease.
"I'll get you another helping," Bon Bon announced. "And I'm sorry about insulting the comic."
Lyra picked up the Batcolt issue in question. "S'okay. Are you sure you're not mad about the sigil in the vacation home?"
"I mean, I'm not thrilled about it, and I'd prefer to go disable that hazard as soon as possible, but..." Bon Bon gestured to the front window, snowbound in some spots and iced in all others. "A train trip to Canterlot can wait til tomorrow. Or the weekend. Whenever all this Faust-forsaken snow is cleared. I'm not going out in a blizzard unless I have to."
"You won't have to," Lyra promised. "I set that trap ages ago, and if it hasn't been tripped by now, I don't think it'll ev-"
Lyra vanished. Her flu blanket drifted to the floor, but she wasn't in it. There was no trace of her being on the couch at all, except for an indent in the cushion where her butt had been.
Bon Bon cussed, loudly and colorfully. Then she trotted to the front room, grabbing her winter parka and midnight train pass.
1655 Yearling Street was tidy, quiet, and empty. That changed when a tendril of smoke strained its way under the locked door. It was followed by another, then a third, and a sputtering fourth. Abruptly, the smoke converged into a skeletal parody of the top half of a pony. It was frail, hairless, and what little mass it still had was flaking off in embers. The effigy looked absolutely nothing like classy sassy heiress Cinderheart. But it certainly spoke like her.
"Fires of Tartarus, cousin Lemon Hearts. I didn't remember your place being on the third floor. You know how hard it is to climb that many stairs on two legs?"
No response came from apartment. Or maybe the skeleton's senses were finally failing. It dragged itself forward, too weightless to even leave a sooty trail in the carpet.
"Lemon Hearts? Are you home? It... it's not urgent or anything, but I need to crawl into your wood stove or else I'll die."
Cinderheart owned a pet snake named Olive. His terrarium was back at Heart Manor, with the rest of the family. It was only fitting that a fire mage like herself had a lovely little reptile to keep warm and happy. Cinder felt very much like Olive right now, worming on her belly towards a promise of heat. It bothered Cinderheart that through this whole eventful night, she'd felt many things. Hurt, frustrated, cold, snakey, apprehensive about her overbearing brother... None of these traits were superheroic. Her sole comfort was that no one had yet seen her in such a sorry state.
Speaking of sight, one of Cinder's eyes extinguished as she crossed into the kitchen. That was okay; her remaining one was locked on the stove. With the last of her strength, the she clanged the oven door open like the drawbridge to a sanctuary castle.
If she'd still had her full field of vision, she might have seen the sigil on the floor. Or the mint green unicorn that appeared out of nowhere to fall on top of her.
"Hot!" Lyra Heartstrings gurgled as she thrashed atop sentient smoking coals. "Hot! Hot! Hot!"
"Heavy!" Cinderheart wheezed as the stranger reflexively rolled off of her. Without wasting time, she dove into the depths of the waiting oven. It was dark and unlit, but lined with debris that mercifully hadn't been cleaned out. Beautiful ashes. Wonderful carbon. Lifesaving repair parts for a fire mage ready to rebuild. Cinderheart buried her face in them like the softest bedsheets, rapidly regrowing enough of a face to bury. In her bliss, she completely forgot about the mint green ambusher. It took the slam and latching of the oven door to remind her.
"Holy moly," came Lyra's muffled but excited voice. "What the hay did I just capture? Hello? Hello in there?" What little view Cinder had through the door slats was filled by a stuffy nose and excited bright gold eye. "Where are your hind legs? They're not hiding behind some piece of furniture, waiting to kick me while my back is turned, are they? If they are, you have to tell me. It's not fair to get a cheap shot on someone like that."
"Look who's talking," Cinderheart shot back. "Using a reverse teleporter trap to pounce on me." She normally spoke with more politeness, especially to commoners. But it had been a long night and (unless Cinderheart had made a farcical error), the annoying unicorn was trespassing in her cousin's home.
"I... I'm sorry," the captor mewled earnestly. "My name's Lyra Heartstrings. And I was just trying to keep my timeshare safe."
Okay, so Cinderheart had made a farcical error. Already in her mind's eye, she was seeing Heartstrings in the burning telegram booklet, nested close to Lemon Hearts. Close enough for the addresses to mixed up if they were glanced at. As for her physical eyes, Cinder had scrounged enough oven debris to rejuvenate them both. She bitterly wondered if it was worth the bother, since she wasn't using them to properly read.
Outside the oven, Lyra Heartstrings sneezed. "So... ugh, sorry. So you're not a backwards Windigo or an amputee Kirin. What are you?"
"Cinderheart The First," the noblepony drawled reflexively. "Esquire. Superhero. Heiress of Canterlot’s nineteenth richest noble family." She'd practiced her introductory monologue dozens times, and fantasized about delivering it dozens more. Atop a pile of bested street thugs. Surrounded by eager news reporters. In the embrace of a love interest she'd just rescued. Never once from the inside of a cast iron stove.
"Nineteenth richest noble house," Lyra pondered. "Aren't... aren't there only nineteen though?"
Cinderheart squirmed. "I didn't think that was common knowled-"
"Wait a second!"
The oven door abruptly dropped open, letting Lyra gawk properly at the pale partial pony. "Did you say you're a superhero?"
Cinderheart was frozen like a reindeer caught in carriage lights.
"So you're like... a real life Batcolt?"
"Um... yes?"
"That's..." Lyra Heartstrings sat on her haunches, dizzy from not just her head cold, but sudden excitement. "That's so..."
"Stupid, I kno-"
"Awesome!"
For the first time since the alleyway tumble, Cinderheart's body pulsed with warmth. True warmth, not from her powers but from her magically Infused soul.
"W-well, its a pleasure to meet a citizen who - ahem!" Cinderheart straightened her posture as much as the cramped oven could allow. "Pleasure to meet a citizen who can appreciate her local do gooder."
"Pleasure's mine. All the way mine. Oh gosh, Bon Bon is gonna flip when I tell her about this."
Lyra was pacing the apartment excitedly. Upright on her hinds, Cinderheart observed curiously. It was uncanny to see a pony move like that, wringing their forehooves together like hands. Then again, an ash creature in an oven had little room to judge.
"So how'd you get so banged up? Fight with a supervillain?"
Cinderheart cringed. "Not exactly."
"Fight with a normal villain?"
"I was perched on a building," Cinderheart explained hastily, "when a cart came down the street at a jaywalker. The snowfall was so thick, I don't think either traveler saw the other."
"So you sprang into action!"
Cinderheart dreaded ruining her image in the eyes of her first ever fan. But lying wasn't in her nature.
"I tried to, but..." She pointed across the apartment, out a window. "See those telegram lines out there?"
"Yuh."
"Ugly things. Wiry things. When I was a foal, the city's skyline was just beautiful rustic buildings. Not full of those new age technological eyesores, mucking up the pastoral paradise of this old proud pony nation."
"Uh... okay. Like I said, I see 'em."
"Well I didn't."
Lyra blinked uncomprehendingly.
"Are you truly going to make me spell it out?" Cinderheart groused. "Wires are sharp and charcoal is soft."
"Pfff... Heh. Heh heh..." Lyra covered her muzzle with her free forelimbs, failing to hide her giggles.
Cinderheart glowered with shame. Perhaps she should have just sucked it up and gone home to be scolded by her brother. She waited out Lyra's laughter for what felt like moons, though it was really only a few seconds.
"Woo-wee! So did you still manage to save the day?"
"Eh... somewhat. I made a big burst of sparks when I got cut in half. Enough to make the jaywalker flinch and look up. That was all the time the cart needed to rumble past and miss her. Come to think of it, her face rather matched one of my university professors..."
"There aren't any cart roads in this section of the city. I bet it was hard to trot to Yearling Street on only two legs."
Cinderheart looked the bipedal unicorn up and down, then decided any retort she possibly made would be too easy. "I came here looking to regenerate," she explained.
"Oh? Cool. Anything I can do to help?"
Cinderheart folded the legs she still had and rested her chin on top of them. "You can ring my brother on the telegram and tell him to pick me up. That's the realistic, responsible way you can help."
Lyra looked disappointed. "Well, are there any creative, comic-booky ways I could help?"
Cinderheart tapped the walls of the wood burning stove. "Not unless you want to break up some furniture to toss in here with me."
Crack!
The sound of splintering wood made Cinderheart jump. Lyra had looked silly before, simply standing with her hooves dangling. She looked even sillier using them to tear the back off a dining room chair.
"Bon Bon's always saying we need an excuse to trash the old things and buy new ones. Whaddya think, miss Cinderheart? Am I a clever problem solver, or what?"
With the wood stove stocked and the healing process simmering, the two new friends talked long into the night. Stories were told, opinions were shared, and Cinder's fondness for common folk was nurtured alongside her body. She learned that Lyra taught Humanities at the School of Friendship (a class much different than Equinities, apparently). She nodded approvingly to hear Secret Agent Sweetie Drops was settling into retirement. She listened enraptured as Lyra (in between sneezes and wheezes) recounted the most recent arc of Batcolt. True to her dignified upringing, Cinder contained her freakout at the apparently common knowledge that Bronc Wayne and the masked hero were one and the same.
In turn, Lyra got to hear of Cinderheart's foalhood follies wrangling her innate magic. A weanling who was immune to all heat except spicy foods. A yearling who found cigarettes healthy instead of harmful. A young adult who attended formal balls and social mixers, itchy in her fireproof dress and burning up with aspirations to lead a life more meaningful than this.
"I want to be more like my brother," Cinder confessed. "Actually, scratch that. I want to want to be more like my brother. He's a model noblepony. You know the type. Collected, gets stuff done, dignified even while angry."
"Maybe he's not angry," Lyra ventured. "Maybe he's just a worrywart."
"I'll keep that in mind, when I see him again. Which hey," Cinder emerged from the oven's depths swishing her tail. "will be relatively soon."
It had taken half a night and three whole chairs, but the makeshift fire was finally settling down. First in the oven and now Cinderheart's skin. Yellow fur instead of searing embers. Tresses of red hair on her head and dock. Lyra had an eye for pretty mares, and Cinderheart's mortal form was a fine specimen indeed. Lithe and athletic, tall and clean cut. Only a few gray mane highlights hinted at the arcane magic still simmering within.
"You look-"
"Like the Faithful Student who came before Twilight, I know. Gets said to me ad nauseam at cocktail parties."
"I was gonna say you look happy and healthy."
Cinderheart wasn't a pony who took compliments well, so she busied herself by shutting the oven and stretching her legs.
"I... I do feel healthy, yes. But while we're on that topic, I should ask... you've been raspy all night. I'm only asking now so I can flee in embarrassment if I'm wrong, but... are you sick?"
Lyra Heartstrings shrugged her upright shoulders. "I mean yeah, but it's okay. Like you, I did a good deed in the cold and it roughed me up. Just gotta live with the consequences, right?"
Cinderheart bit her lip and side-eyed the apartment window. The sun was coming up, the snow was melting, and she really needed to get home. If there was any lesson to be learned from this whole debacle, its that life wasn't a Batcolt comic. The mature song and dance at this point would be thanking Lyra for her time, excusing herself, and accepting that she was just a pretty face, not a superhero.
Eh, buck it. There was more to superheroics than just looking pretty.
Cinder shuffled up onto her hinds, swaying awkwardly, but meeting Lyra's surprised gaze with her own stern one. Then she delivered a full body hug.
Magic radiated out from Cinderheart, drooping her eyes, dulling her coat, and undoing much of the rejuvenation she'd been coveting all night. The room warmed considerably, since Cinder's magic was horribly optimized for healing anyone but herself. Far more mana was lost to the air than to Lyra, and Cinder's shrinking glamour was painfully noticeable. Just moments ago, she'd stood a tall amazonian beauty. Now, dropping back to all fours, she was plain. Waifish, even. Flesh and bone all the way through, with pronounced premature whiteness striping her flat mane.
And in exchange, Lyra Heartstrings could breathe through her nose again.
"Whoa," the healthy green unicorn exhaled. "I... you didn't have to-"
"I know I didn't. That happened because I wanted it to." Deflated but satisfied, Cinderheart shambled to the apartment window. It'd take at least a moon for her spark to surge back, so she'd be spending the next several weeks stuck in mortal form. There'd be no more night patrols for a good long while, but after tonight she was fine with that. Maybe she'd spend the coming downtime focusing on her classes and ballet lessons, no longer ashamed to be a Bronc Wayne. Besides, she still had her poses and practiced speeches. No temporary lack of powers could take that away.
"All debts are repaid, my good citizen." Cinderheart took up a proud position on the windowsill, sticking out her now unremarkable chest fluff.
"They are?" Lyra surveyed the apartment to note a sootstained door, a chair-bereft table, and a lingering smell of burnt cedar. "Ya know, if you really are from a rich noble family, maybe you could... like... reimburse me with actual money?"
Cinderheart opened the window, certain her silhouette was framed marvelously against the rising dawn.
"I reimburse you every day, citizen. By helping you sleep soundly in this capital city of safety."
"I actually live in Ponyvi-"
"Cinderheart away!" The young heiress ambled down the fire escape, giving the nearby telegram wires a very wide berth. Then she hit the sidewalk running and in no time had rounded the corner out of sight.
Credit to NowISee17 on DeviantArt
Lyra went to the window to shut it. Forehooves on the upper sill, she hesitated when she noticed the morning air was pleasantly crisp. Plus, she had the cleared sinuses to appreciate it. With the warm sun rising above and the warm magic thrumming within, Lyra tented her arms and watched peaceably as the streetlamps snuffed out and the city stirred awake. A shop owner swept snow from his storefronts. An owlgriff street performer found a corner where he could juggle. A midnight express train puffed into the station across the square. Amid the disembarking passengers, one parka clad Earth Pony looked very familiar.
"Bon Bon! Hey, Bon Bon! Hi!"
Lyra's shouts were answered with a rolling of eyes. As was her story of the injured flaming visitor when Bon Bon arrived to survey the apartment's damage.
"Cinderheart, huh? Yeah, my old agency had a file on that girl. The Heart clan is full of odd ponies with even odder magic. Easy bloodline to spot if you know their traits; gold irises, guileless personalities, and all of them have some unique quirk with their body."
Still standing upright, Lyra rubbed her own gold eyes obliviously. "Sorry if you were worried about me during your train trip."
"I was at first. But the ride was long enough for me to mellow out. Decided to trust that you'd take care of yourself til I showed up. After all, I'm no Supermare. Aftee that, I spent the rest of the ride sleeping. "
"You wanna go furniture shopping today, Bonnie? Since we need new stuff, I mean. I'm feeling pretty jazzed after that dose of healing magic. Plus, we're already in Canterlot."
Bon Bon kissed her lover on the cheek. "It's always on to the next escapade with you, huh? Okay, sure. We'll make a day of it. If you find anything expensive, we'll go halfsies."
Lyra giggled at the fitting turn of phrase, then made for the door. Bon Bon lingered just long enough to scuff out the forgotten summoning sigil still on the floor. Her only stipulation for sticking by Lyra's side was that they preferably never went on the same misadventure twice.
"Still," ex-agent Sweetie Drops mused mirthfully, "Equestria would be a much colder place without the Heart Clan in it."
She trotted out after Lyra.
Author's Note
One more Cinderpic for the road:
This is an admittedly lighter take on Jaded Hearts's Long Dead Gods 'verse. No focus on the conspiracy thriller plot and instead on the deuteragonist horsing around. Still, if you're interested in more, check out his backlog of stories. Or my other fic that is closer to his norm.
TTrade Secrets
Vesperal Breeze, professional dream mage, chases a cryptic vision.
Casketbase77 ·
2.8k words
· 17
1 ·
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Happy Hearthswarming, everypony.
