Twilock Sparkle, Mare Detective
Chapter One: In which I visit my friend Sparkle
This is an account of my adventures with my good friend Twilock Sparkle, the most brilliant detective mare of our times.
The year is 1886, and I am sitting in my study in Lundy, about to recount as accurately as possible what might be the strangest case Sparkle and I have ever been involved in. I want the reader to be assured that the story I am about to tell is the bare and utter truth, and nothing but the truth. Everything I will relate here has happened entirely as I describe it.
But before I begin, dear Reader, allow me to tell you about how I and Twilock Sparkle met, and the special kind of bond that runs between us.
My name, newly embellished with a medical title, is Dr John Spikeson, a dragon of now 20 years, and possibly Twilock Sparkle’s closest partner and friend.
I had first encountered Twilock Sparkle in Canterlot, when I had been a mere child of eleven years. An orphan since birth — my egg had been found abandoned in the woods — I grew up on the grounds of Canterlot Castle, adopted by one of the courtponies. I was thus introduced from my earliest days into the pony society, which I feel I am a part of; I rarely interact with other dragons, who tend to be lonely and secluded creatures, living far away from any kind of organised society.
It was in Canterlot Castle that the filly, who was only a few years older than me, started to regularly appear in the library. I later learned that she had been adopted by Princess Celestia as her star pupil. Apparently, it was said, she possessed an incredibly promising intellect and analytical faculties that far surpassed those of the other students; let alone of the adult ponies.
During those first years in Canterlot, a fledgling friendship had developed between the two of us. We were both not very sociable individuals at the time, and that could still be said of my friend Twilock Sparkle. I was incredibly impressed and fascinated with Sparkle’s way of solving the most intricate mysteries by means of apparently simple observations. Her incisive intellect managed to relate them to each other so as to come to a startling conclusion. At the end, her deductions always turned out to be so disarmingly simple and logical that all other ponies who had tried their luck and failed hid their faces in shame.
That razor-sharp intellect quickly got her respect, but there was no doubt it also served to create a distance between her and her peers. A mind all too inquisitive can quickly appear threatening to less advantaged ponies. This solitude in early years would later cause — as is not unusual — a certain eccentricity in Sparkle’s behaviour.
The Princess, however, greatly valued Twilock Sparkle’s capabilities, and from the very start supported her wish of a career in criminology. Where else, Sparkle argued, would she be able to put her problem-solving skills to such good use? And so, when she and I left the royal seat Canterlot, we parted for Lundy, the country’s blooming capital. That was in 1882. Sparkle was nineteen, and I sixteen.
For financial reasons, but also because there was a bond of friendship running between us, we decided to rent a modest treehouse in Acre Street, her occupying the upper storey, me the ground-storey. It was here that Sparkle’s career truly came together, and she established a private detective agency.
Soon, the most prestigious clients clamoured for her help, not to talk of the inept local police all too dependent on her assistance. In many a case, I have collaborated closely with her, and this has brought about a, say, most peculiar relationship between the two of us; it oscillated between a working relation, a bosom friendship and, dare I say, latent sexual tension.
Meanwhile, I had been studying biochemistry and medicine at Lundy University. Once I had freshly completed my degree, however, I received an offer to open a small practice on the other side of town that was too good to turn down. With a heavy heart, I decided to leave my dear friend Twilock Sparkle, who had no difficulties now to rent the entire house by herself, considering the high income she made.
That was a mere month ago, in April 1886. I am now very slowly climbing the path of my own, medical career. But I realise that I will never make as much of a dent in the universe as Twilock Sparkle, the most inquisitive mind of our generation, and my dearest friend — reciprocally, I am her dearest friend, too, and her only one as far as I can tell. This is why I still place great value on regularly visiting her; for various reasons that I would be too embarrassed to share with my former partner. Primarily to just spend time with my friend, to be abreast of the times when it comes to cases she has been working on — and of course, to simply let myself be astounded with her unequaled reasoning.
I had not heard anything from Twilock Sparkle during the past five days, so the morning our story commences, I decided to pay her a visit at our formerly shared wooden house, Acre Street 221. Going there always brought a pang of nostalgia to my heart; I had to remind myself that I, too, had the right to be successful, and that there was nothing reproachable in pursuing a career of my own, independent of Miss Sparkle. A large sign on the house proclaimed:
Ms. TWILOCK SPARKLE
DISTINGUISHED PRIVATE DETECTIVE
APPOINTMENTS WHEN I FEEL LIKE IT
The window on the second storey was darkened, an unmistakable sign of my partner’s presence.
I chuckled and entered the building. I climbed the fleet of stairs and knocked on the entrance to her studio apartment; no response came back from inside, and yet, there was no doubt she was there. Frowning, I pushed the door open. It wasn’t locked.
I immediately coughed heavily as thick, white smoke billowed from the room. Shielding my eyes with my claws, I entered. The smoke was so thick that it was impossible to make out any furniture or pony.
“Ah, Spikeson,” a feminine voice groaned from the back of the room. “Come on in, come on in.”
“Sparkle? Are you alright?” I called, not without concern, and started to make my way through the swathes of smoke. It smelled strangely sweet, sugary even; not at all like tobacco. I made a flapping motion with my claws to shoo away the fumes, and indeed: my eyes adjusted somewhat, and I started to distinguish silhouettes. I turned around the corner of one of the large book racks.
“But of course I am alright, my dear Spikeson... why don’t you have a seat?”
I gasped.
There, sprawled over her armchair, more lying than sitting, was the bare, sleekly feminine figure of my friend Miss Twilight Sparkle, the most ingenious detective in all of Equestria, already decorated with the most prestigious orders Royalty had to offer for her merits in crime-solving. This did nothing to change the fact that my dear partner, one of the most brilliant minds ever to grace ponykind and gifted with an astonishing sense of abstract reasoning, now looked like an utter hobo.
“Miss Sparkle?” I said reproachfully. “That’s not tobacco you are smoking, now is it?”
“Not at all, my dear Spikeson.” The mare turned around, her head comfortably submerged in the cushion, and propped herself up on her front hooves to restore the slightest bit of dignity to her appearance. “What I am smoking here is something else entirely, imported from overseas and as of yet unbeknown to — to —”
“Your speech is slurred,” I remarked and frowned.
“Indeed! A natural consequence of this fabulous drug. Its effects include a relaxation of the ... entire body ... and a welcome break from the congestion of thoughts that has so recently ... err ...”
“Give that to me,” I rebuked and snatched the pipe from her hoofs. There was no mistaking the smell now. I coughed. “That’s Hayweed, Sparkle.”
“Most certainly.“ The mare groaned and elongated herself. “I see you have thoroughly earned your biochemistry degree.”
“This is for medical purposes. Dear Celestia, Sparkle, is that all you’ve been doing for these past five days I haven’t heard anything from you? Loiter here in total seclusion and darkness to smoke benumbing weeds? You need to get a grip. If you were a stallion, you’d have a dreadfully unkempt beard by now.”
“I do have a dreadfully unkempt beard of sorts, just not —”
“Enough! Baww!”
I rushed over to the heavy curtains that tightly shielded the room from any daylight and forced them apart. Immediately, blazing sunlight invaded the room. Sparkle, whose vivid purple colour became only now visible, groaned and jerkily covered her eyes with her hooves. “My dear Dr Spikeson,” she uttered dryly into the armchair’s cushion. “I would like it to be known that I hate you right now.”
“It’s only for your best,” I said, opened a window wide, and casually threw out the pipe. The busy sounds of a Lundy morning seeped in. “No more smoking for you right now. You do know I only have your best interests at heart, don’t you, Sparkle?”
Sparkle gave a noncommittal moan. I took a deep breath of air, satisfied to see that the fumes were now leaving the room and replaced by fresh air, and turned around to face her. I crossed my claws. “I’ve got something that might interest you. A new case.”
“A case!” she cried out hoarsely, and her brilliantly violet eyes lit up. “Oh finally... how I have yearned for this day...”
“Indeed. A case. But if you are at all interested, you need to please get up from that armchair. And put — something — on, I implore you.”
“Oh.” She looked herself down. “I thought we were best friends, Spikeson. Best friends don’t care about compromising appearances...”
“Best friends,” I said warily, “usually address each other by first name. And just because you’re an eccentric genius does not mean you’re exempted from basic etiquette!”
“I’d call you by your first name if I knew what it was,” Sparkle pouted. “If you even have one.”
She glared at me, then reluctantly got up and stumbled over to her dresser. “Don’t look while I clothe myself, Doctor!” she called out.
“Don’t flatter yourself!” I called back, but still turned away. I busied myself with looking out of the window. Acre Street was slowly filling with pony-drawn carriages and carriage-less ponies that were hurrying to work in downtown Lundy, streaming out towards the financial centres in Agistment, the merchants in Pangaré Square and the political institutions in Westminster. Two carriage-pullers awaiting passengers were engrossed in animated conversation. I waited and waited, but Miss Sparkle was certainly taking her time.
“Have you at any point during the past week worn any clothes, Sparkle?” I exclaimed over my shoulder.
“I do not believe in clothes,” the mare yelled from the back of the room. “I find them cumbersome.”
“We all find them cumbersome, but that doesn’t mean you can just lock yourself up stark naked!”
“Can too! I predict, Spikeson, that sooner rather than later, a day will come where this society recognises the vanity of its ridiculous garments, and ponies can walk around bare as Celestia made them...”
“That may be so, Sparkle, but in the here and now, you cannot walk around bare.” I sighed.
A soft hoot made me turn my head. “Oh, hi, Owlowiscious...”
Sparkle’s stunted owl had landed on my shoulder and cocked his head, his expression unfathomable as was his wont.
“How’re you doing?” I said kindly.
“Who.”
“He cannot understand you, Spikeson,” called Sparkle’s voice from the back. “He’s an owl.”
I sighed resignedly and started to pet the bird’s soft plumage. My caressing was acknowledged with a chipper hoot. As I looked at the owl, however, something struck me as strange, something that I simply could not put my finger on. It must have been to do with his appearance rather than his behaviour, for the animal’s comportment remained unwaveringly apathetic. I cocked my head and scrutinised the bird on my shoulder. Was there not —
“Sparkle?” I cried out. “Have you applied lipstick and eyeshadow to this bird?”
“Oh,” she said softly, appearing behind me. She wore her trademark deerstalker hat and a thin checked vest. “That. I had forgotten about that...”
I narrowed my eyes. “What is wrong with you!?”
She clucked her tongue and ruffled the feathers behind the owl’s ears. “A simple transfiguration charm,” she said contently. “Only that it wasn’t all that simple. Figuring out the mechanics of this incantation took me the entire week. But the labour has not been uncrowned with success, as you can see. If applied to myself, this will make for an excellent camouflage technique should the need arise, without having to carry around makeup accessories at all times.”
The owl’s painted face made me more than just slightly uneasy, and yet I couldn’t avert my gaze. “It will fade away, though, right, Sparkle? Right? It will fade away?”
“Yes. I am sure of it. believe. I hope. The effects of this spell should wear off at some point. But I will still need to experiment further with this charm. As of now, I can only change the fur’s texture, but more advanced undertakings such as sprouting new hair, for example, are as of yet out of the feasible.”
“Are you intending to give this bird a moustache,” I asked dryly.
"Maybe. If I get around to it."
"Oh, I have no doubt you will get there."
“Although, my dear Watson, this more feminine make-up really does suit Owlowiscious well, don’t you agree?”
“Sparkle, you are emasculating this owl. That is a subtle form of animal cruelty, are you aware of that?”
“Hah! And you are, as always, emasculating yourself all on your own, Spikeson!”
“I —”
“Please do follow me,” she said amiably and, with newly found energy, led the way over to the living room suite. “Let’s talk business, my dear Doctor, shall we not?”
“Yes...” I said absently, only with the greatest of efforts managing to detach my eyes from the owl. The eyeshadow did indeed do its part to enhance the bird’s facial attractiveness. Spikeson, I found myself thinking, she is already engrossing you in her madness. Better to ramp up defences.
I shook my head and followed her to the armchairs, taking seat in the one she so gallantly offered to me. She sat down herself, leaned back and looked at me, a wry smile on her lips.
“So, good Doctor,” she said. “You have a case for me?”
“I might.”
“Good, good. Good!” she cried out. I flinched. “There has been a serious dearth of cases recently, and it has taken its toll on my well-being... my mind craves occupation! Divertissement! It lusts, it hungers for cases to solve, enigmas to decipher, mysteries to uncloud! Is uncloud a word? In any case. The crime world has kept exceedingly quiet these past weeks. There was a time when that useless constable would knock on my door and beg for my help every single day, but now...”
“Maybe there are plenty of cases, but the police is just fed up enough with you to not involve you any longer.”
“I doubt it. They adore me. After all, I am the most incisive mind in all of Equestria.”
“That is true. And the most obsessive.”
“The most inquiring.”
“Compulsive.”
“Resourceful.”
“Deranged.”
“Brilliant.”
“Borderline autistic.”
“A genie savant,” she proposed, pointing at me with her hoof.
“It’s called idiot savant, Sparkle.”
“I know. That was a test.”
“Now please get that hoof out of my face.”
She lowered her hoof, but still looked at me, her brow furrowed. She sniffed a few times.
“Is that perfume I smell on you, Spikeson?”
I averted my gaze. “Maybe. Let’s not talk about that.”
She sniffed again, and then cried out in surprise. “A mare’s?”
I cocked my head. “Not at all, Sparkle. A dragoness’s.”
“Oh, that was not the source of my surprise, Doctor. I was talking more about gender than species —”
“Very funny. What are you insinuating?”
“Nothing. Might I ask who —?”
“My fiancée,” I said coolly, to cut her off.
“Oh.” She tentatively raised an eyebrow. “With... with two e at the end, or —”
“Yes, with two e!” I exclaimed, my face a crimson red.
“I’m sorry, I can never tell but in writing. A fiancée then, huh! I must say, my dear doctor, I am surprised! Seems you got over me pretty quick.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. And please, Sparkle, let us not talk about my private matters, in order?”
“Hmm. ” She pouted and gave me a scrutinising look. “I apologise, my dear Doctor. Do you fancy some tea?” she asked innocently and reached for a tray, on which were placed a metal kettle and two fine china cups. “It’s fresh, it’s hot, it’s Darjeeling.”
“I did not see you make any tea,” I remarked suspiciously. By way of a response, she closed her eyes and contracted her facial features. When she opened them again, a satisfied smile spread over her face. A thin stream of steam started to emerge from the kettle’s nozzle.
“Made it just now! Potable Hot Liquid Charm! Works like, well, like a charm. I have experimented with this spell during the past weeks, and as you can see, not without success. As you have remarked, Spikeson, this whole room is made out of nothing but wood, which is unsurprising, since it is located on the inside of a tree. This charm allows me to prepare tea without the risk of open fire.”
“You’re ingeniously right as always, Sparkle. This is a treehouse. All the more advisable for you to stop smoking inside this room, then.”
She stared at me blankly.
“Besides, and this is just my personal opinion, smoking does not suit a lady like —”
“Let’s not even go there,” she cut me off and raised an eyebrow. She poured the tea into the cups, which was indeed steaming and did emit the unmistakably spicy aroma of fine Darjeeling. As she took her first sip, however, I could not quite bring myself to do the same and drink the liquid. Brilliant as she might be, Sparkle’s charms weren’t always entirely... dependable.
“And now, my dear Doctor Spikeson,” she said with a solemn smile, setting her cup back onto the saucer, “please tell me all about this new case you were speaking of.”
To be continued...
An attempted homage to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original stories as much as newer, on-screen interpretations.
For the image, I used a Twilight vector by NarkoHunt
