Musings on Lyra Heartstrings, or The Likely Result of the Mixed Chromosomes of Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie Pie and Its Adventures.by TMHChaptersChapter I: Remembering and SchemingChapter II: Forcible EnlistmentChapter III: Relations of Lyra's Further Shenanigans and the Chance Encounter it Prompted Chapter IV: Sorority of Sinister SiblingsChapter I: Remembering and SchemingMusings on Lyra Heartstrings Chapter I: Remembering and Scheming There are two things Lyra hates. Well, actually, she has a fair bit larger list of grievances and gripes than that, but for all of our sakes let us leave it at two. These two objects of her spite are such: Public restrooms (notoriously unsanitary) and guards who felt the villainous compulsion to uphold their occupation’s moniker. There are several reasons for Lyra’s immense disdain for the abominable cretins: their haughtiness, dull stoicism, poor sense of humor, and obscenely reflective armor (seriously what do those guys do to those things?). But chief amongst these is their apparently sacred duty to make her life a Mission Impossible bloopers reel. I mean really. She tries to break into the Canterlot Museum of Natural History’s archives and a guard apprehends her dangling a few feet above the curator's desk, she tries to break into Twilight Sparkle’s secret madpony laboratory and she startles Spike with her covert ops. gear (a black stocking cap with eye and ear holes cut out) and gets sent into Celestia’s bed (luckily the guards only caught her sneaking out the inner castle walls), even just trying to break into BonBon’s house to find out if she had bought a gallon of milk last Tuesday or a quart and being arrested for “disturbing the peace, constantly”. Truly Equestria’s honor guard/army/navy/airforce/marines/petricultists were bidden by fate to ruin her innocent reconnoitering. As a good and loyal citizen of Equestria and subject of their eternal majesties the diarchs of the land, Lyra had never once attempted to do anything that would compromise the security of the nation and make way for the glorious reckoning that the thumbed overlords would bring. Welllllllllllll, at least not since the last time she was hospitalized. Right now to be precise. So this is the situation that Lyra finds herself within at the concurrent time of our brief recounting of the highlights of her tale thus far. Hospitals would be one of the omitted residents of her long running list. It’s not that she despised hospitals themselves, she actually found hospital food delicious, to the amazement of her peers, she simply despised the inevitable questions that came with internment in the institutions. “Name please.” Lyra Heartstrings. “Age.” A lady never tells, good thing for you I’m a mare. Twenty-four. “Residence.” Ponyville, Equestria. Single living arrangement. “Do you remember-” -what you were doing that got me here? Yep. “Which is?” A matter of profound personal importance and secrecy. “Come now Miss Heartstrings, what did you do that dislocated your left two legs and right foreleg?” Well he always did like it rough... “Come again?” Drift Winds. A real stud that one. I can’t remember the last time a partner dislocated three of my legs. “Ummmm...” (The good doctor had a noticeable blush) I guess I really am losing my mixed martial arts ability. “Wha-? *ahem* I mean, uh, yes indeed it appears you have. Dear Celestia why do I always get the psychotic coquettish one? *cough* Well it appears everything is in order, your insurance has paid the bill. You may leave whenever you please.” Thank you doctor. I leave at once. She then magicked the nearby window open, leapt through the oddly quaint looking portal, and calmy trotted past the bewildered onlookers with seemingly practiced ease. Before promptly cackling madly and initiating a gallop of the erstwhile adverb with the same appearance of practiced ease. Buildings buzzed by in a broad spectrum of pastel colors created by flora and ornamentation placed ad infinitum. And their inhabitants looked much the same for dissimilar reasons The ocular onslaught was greatly diminished upon arrival at the mint green unicorn’s home. There were some differences between her house and most others in the town. For one, the only flora visible on the lot were the nondescript bushes that often times occupy the ground immediately adjacent to a quaint suburban esque house, and a pecan (pronounced: p-can, pfft, Yankees) tree a little on the smaller side with some spanish moss strewn about its branches. The obligatory generic grass, of generic coloring, shading, height, smell, and all other facets of grass which I do not feel the need to list explicitly, was present also. Whilst we took in the rather underwhelming presence of Ponyville’s Second Most Dangerous and Psychologically Unstable Unicorn’s, three years running I might add, place of residence. Our protagonist proceeded toward her home abruptly changing pace from a full-on gallop to a placid trot as she passed through the gate to the idyllic little white picket fence surrounding her lot. Most ponies would find her behavior both unnerving and surely the products of an insane mind. That’s not to say the residents of Ponyville thought otherwise on the second account, but for the former: Ponyvillians had grown accustomed to Lyra’s quirkiness insomuch as they rarely stared dumbfounded at her longer than a paltry number of seconds. Lyra had reached the front door by this time and, as has happened to all of us at least once, realized she did not have her keys. In fact, she didn’t even have her saddlebags. Once again ignoring the oddness that an equinoid would have, or even be able to produce or operate, anything close to a key or locking mechanism, she began to mentally retrace her steps to attempt to locate her keys current resting place. After a series of mental exercises, so intense and sophisticated that I shall not endeavour to explain it in any detail to the likes you, Lyra had determined that there was only one place that her saddlebags and their precious cargo could be: the scene of her latest heist, Sugarcube Corner. One might ponder what business our protagonist might have at the local bakery. And if One were to have a narrator as informed, and as devilishly handsome, as moi then One might know. Lyra was, as all Ponyvillians are, completely ignorant of the source of the powers of one certain mare. This certain mare, who shall henceforth be referred to as Puce Pastry (in a perhaps futile attempt to discourage her wrath), was infamous throughout Ponyville, indeed all of Equestria, for her seemingly logicless, well, everything really. So our heroine decided to go about finding answers the only way she knew how: breaking into Puce’s single room apartment above the bakery and watching her sleep. To some: breaking into a house unseen and watching a pony sleep all night without any form of rest seems quite the daunting challenge (and the product of insane twisted logic). To Lyra (equipped with suction-cup horseshoes, night vision goggles, and enough crazy to take one off the tracks of the train of): it was mere child’s play. A demented child with WAY too much free time and military grade hardware perhaps, but a child nonetheless. With this, warped and twisted, plan in her head Lyra set forth just as the final rays of Celestia’s namesake escaped their heavenly origin and splayed themselves about Ponyville. She went over the contents of her saddlebags one last time. Sheer face scaling horseshoes? Check. Night vision goggles? Check. Extra batteries? Check. Ten caffeine filled syringes? Check. Sudoku book? Check. Notebook? Check. Three quills? Check. Ten capped inkwells? Check. Buy milk? Not check. ~~Therapist appointment?~~ “Alright, good to go. I knew Twilight’s seminar on ‘Checklist Formatting, Categorizing, Editing, Elucidating, and Implementing. Advanced.’ would work wonders for me.” And with that she began a merry trot towards her destination singing a macabre tune with a much too cheerful countenance and disposition. A hooful of minutes later saw a single soul dawn a set of suction-cup horseshoes, a pair of night vision goggles, and an injection of concentrated caffeine. With a practiced ease she began her ascent toward the single window, on the second story, from which candlelight still shone. Positioning herself at an angle that the light would not touch to any major degree, she peeked her curious little peepers out and saw a sight that I wager many of you would pay much to see firsthand, or hoof as the case may be. By a little light pink mattress and bedspread raised off the floor by an oak frame stood, in the light of candlelight coming from a, surprisingly enough, candle on a generic wooden end table, Puce Pastry herself, in all her light red colored glory. “What was she doing?” You might ask. And I shall tell. She was stooped over a little woven basket at the end of the bed which held the demon mare’s evil henchstallion alligator: Gingival. Our dear Puce was sharpening his wicked salivary ducts with a bristled instrument of torture. Surely anypony with a right mind would flee post-haste and cry themselves to sleep every remaining night in their putrid mortal existence after witnessing such eldritch horrors. Lyra, however, is far from right and, indeed, her mind. Thus, thou shalt not be spared from any imaginable horror, and some unimaginable, that wouldst transpire this night. Just as the maintenance of the reptilian dietary orifice was becoming monotonous for Lyra to observe, Puce did something extraordinary. She reared up on her hind legs and expelled a vast quantity of gaseous respiratory waste whilst holding her left foreleg to her evil pink death maw. Unfortunately for her this left her in a rather precarious postural position, being quadrupedal and what-not, and ended up succumbing to gravity’s tenacious command, and her body’s tenacious insistence, that she fall onto her bed. Truly a most malicious act of life’s necessary processes. Seeing a petite pink pony brushing an even more diminutive toothless alligator, and then rearing up for a deep yawn before falling backwards onto her bed with a satisfied sigh must indeed be quite the scare. Diabetes inducing horror aside, Puce was not quite through with being conscious. Forcing herself back up with a “Oh -censored- you silly filly.”, and a truly horrific laugh she started her march of doom toward the window, and Lyra. In vivid, and disturbingly technical, detail Lyra imagined her fate at the hooves of The Pink One. First, she would throw her a “Breaking Into my House and Spying on me Party” party. Next, she would give her a “special” cupcake, but the special ingredient would be -pause for dramatic effect- concentrated rainbow! Finally, with her spicy alias namesake consumed by an unsuspecting Lyra, Puce Pastry would wrongfully accuse Lyra of being an agent for an alien empire seeking to conquer all of ponykind and report her to the heavenly diarchs who would take it upon themselves to personally torture her untilallofhersecretswereforcedfromhermindandshewasleftabrokenmessonthecoldfloo- STOP. Lyra was not, is NOT, panicking. No she is trained for this kind of thing. Calm DOWN! She knew what she had to do, it was elementary when you really thought about it. She had to magick her keys into the shadows of Puce’s room, use them to extinguish the candlelight, drop from the window, and abort the ill-fated mission. Lyra grasped the keys in her saddlebag with her magic and quickly slipped them through the bottom left corner of the window. Having no time for proper caution, she quickly sent the keys racing against time through a dust infused track deep in shadows. Not caring to be caught, she rammed the keys into the candle with the proper amount of force, sending it, and her keys, tumbling through the unlocked door of the room and somersaulting down the stairs. Caffeine still coursing through her veins, and arteries, Lyra quickly jumped from the window and promptly landed so that three of her legs were in intense pain. Biting her lip to keep from yelling out, she limped toward the direction of Ponyville General Hospital. Being very glad she had decided to bring along a book of sudokus. After reliving these events, Lyra decided that the only way to go about reclaiming her keys was diplomacy. Bloody, infuriating, hawkish diplomacy. And if that didn’t work, well, she was itching to try out some, heh, invasive questioning techniques. Hehheh, hehehehehe, HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE, MHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-ow. Remember kids, cackling evilly while having recently recovered from three dislocated limbs is never a good idea. Chapter II: Forcible EnlistmentMusings on Lyra Heartstrings Chapter II Forcible Enlistment If there is one thing Lyra knows, it’s that nitroglycerin and blenders don’t mix (If you don’t believe her, try it yourself). However, if there are two things she knows, it’s the erstwhile combination of a kitchen appliance and the liquid explosive that is now prohibited from being within thirty miles of any blender wielding Lyra, and the only sensible way to retrieve a wayward set of keys is through amiable, neighbourly, cloak and dagger domestic intrigue. Therefore, in the interest of reconnaissance, and lunch, our dear protagonist makes her way to the bakery, which shall go unnamed, which employs and shelters the vile mare, who shall remain in a similar state as her workplace. While many of the situations she winds up in may appear somewhat, er, contrived, you should ask yourself this: “How would I go about retrieving my keys from a possible demon’s chambers that I may have been illegally observing?” The answer, my dear, handsome, reader, will invariably lead you to pastries. Arriving at the venue of the previous night’s escapades Lyra finds, with considerable disappointment, that the bakery, which bears a remarkably whimsical resemblance to something in a small foal’s glucose permeated fantasies, is packed well beyond the range set forth in the fire code. Lyra is not a firemare and cares about as much as one might imagine about the “Fire Department”, or the “Fire Code”, or the “Statute of Limitations in Regards to Arson”. Wait, scratch that last one. Lyra is actually in a very intimate relationship with that one, she’s still waiting for it to pop the big question. The amount of ponies waiting for embryos of triticum infused with dead Saccharomyces cerevisiae and coated in the pulverized remains of innocent Saccharum had not significantly lowered, and so Lyra thought it best to sit upon a public bench and furtively observe the comings and goings of the ponies. The ponies and a dragon. Hmmmm, a dragon. A dragon. Dragon. *slap* DRAGON! “Wait a second, I bet Spike can help with my little ‘situation’. Haha. Hahahahahha, Mhahahhahah-*cough* Note to self: Refrain from mad cackling in public, diminishes covert-ish-ness-el-or-something. I really need to carry a dictionary with me.” ======&&*&&====== Spike was having a rather good day. Not an amazing day, Rarity still hadn’t proclaimed her undying love for him, but all around a good day. His days were usually good the days after Twilight sends a report, friendship or otherwise, to Celestia, or when she takes those little blue pills, but, no, Twilight’s anxiety medication/elephant tranquilizer wasn’t to thank for her ease today. Compounding the day’s contentedness, and perhaps being directly responsible for it, was the errand Spike had been sent on by his sister in all but blood, and species. That errand pertaining to the procurement of a certain class of sweets, sweets so, well, sweet, that rumors abound to it actually being created by satanic rituals performed by its creator. The confectioneries referred to are none other than one Pinkamena Diane Pie’s triple-layered, sugar coated, sugar filled, all around glucose infused, nutritionists’ nightmare, bane of Celestia’s will, and universally both sought after and feared desert: the Chimmy Cherry Changa. While nopony actually knows what the Chimmy Cherry Changa contains, though cherries are generally thought to be involved, it is known that it was born of the Pink Terror’s abhorrence for anything containing less diabetes inducing substances than her. Spike preferred the tangy aftertaste of a ruby far more than any foodstuff ponies had invented, save for the infamous “Baked Bads”, but Twilight enjoyed analyzing the makeup of the various foodstuffs produced by her tertiary colored friend. Spike is no scientist, but he is pretty sure that anything edible produced from the baker-mare’s kitchens is not conducive to healthy living. Healthy living of the physical form at least. What prolonged exposure to the Pink One’s Pinkness results in for your soul is not known, but it is reasoned that it may be very similar to prolonged exposure to the -REDACTED-’s 1500 Megawatt Heavy Duty Super-Colliding Super Button. At least, that’s what She’s telling me. Your narrator’s extra-equestrian knowledge aside, Spike was feeling content and optimistic. Then Lyra happened. Lyra in and of herself was not cause for considerable alarm. Lyra galloping toward you, foaming at the mouth, and holding a burlap bag in her mouth, however, is cause for considerable alarm. Spike would have been experiencing said considerable alarm, if it wasn’t for the fact that Lyra zapped him with a bit of ye olde unicorn horn juice. And promptly stuffed, to quote a certain fashionista, “poor Spikey-Wikey” into her burlap bag, and wiped some of her spilled milkshake onto the exterior of the bag from its previous location surrounding her mouth. Trotting off with a brisk tempo in her gait she happily sung a little carefree tune, or, rather, tried to sing, burlap bags are, despite popular opinion, not conducive to a singing voice to rival Whinny Houston. ======&&*&&====== “Ugh, Twilight, five more minutes. Twilight? Where in Equestria am I? Why is there a bag next me?...and why’s my back feel like it has dried milkshake on it?” Groggy, and slightly terrified out of his mind, Spike asked these rhetorical questions with no particular haste, and besprinkled with language that a particular pony would not approve of him using. BRIGHT LIGHT! BRIGHT LIGHT!!!! SWEET SUNNY CELESTIA THAT LIGHT IS BRIGHT!!!! (You can infer a source of illumination is indeed of the umpteenth degree when you narrator is slightly miffed by its intensity. Stupid lights...*grumble grumble*) Getting past what the wrath of Celestia must feel like if concentrated in your retinas, Spike attempted to improve his plight by speaking thusly: “Heh heh, okay, you got me Twi. Good one. Ha ha ha...? Twilight? Is this about me eating the jeweled flower vase? I already said I was sorry, and don’t tell me you don’t know how hard it is tell what something is when you’re looking for a midnight snack. Remember that time with the glass roses Celestia gave you for your fifteenth birthday? The whole castle heard you scream, and don’t even get me started on how you tried to hide your bleeding tongue from Celes...tia...” Spike would have continued his little anecdote if not for the fact that a pony clad in a black jumpsuit, and cutesy-wutesy wittle green and white laterally striped socks, walked into his field of view, levitating a hammer in her magic. “OK! OK! I ADMIT IT WAS ME THAT BROKE MISTER SMARTY PANTS’ EYE!!! I POKED IT OUT WHEN I WAS TRYING TO WAKE TWILIGHT UP!!! I DIDN’T MEAN TO DO IT HONEST I SWEAR!!!! DRAGON’S HONOR!!!! AND I WAS THE ONE WHO ATE THE LAST BOWL OF RAINBOW LOOPS!! AND...” Spike went on for some time in this state, with his eyes closed. When he finally opened them, to see if he was in the big cave in the sky, he saw a pony. A unicorn pony. Mint green. With golden eyes. Sitting on her haunches. With a video camera. “Is that all?” “...” “I’m going to say that’s a ‘yes’!” “...” “I have to admit, I’m a little shocked to find out you’re into that sort of thing.” “Lyra.” “I mean, I know I hear about it all the time but I never that YOU of all ponies, er, dracos, sorry, would be into-” “LYRA!!!” “-My Little Monkey: Bananas are Potassium Rich. Yes Spike?” “What am I doing here?” Spike asked much more calmly than he felt. “Oh that’s easy, I dragonnapped you!” “Why?” “So I could forcibly enlist your aid!” This line was spoken with a grin that practically shouted cocksureness in the logic of the speaker. “For what?” “Breaking into Sugar Cube Corner so I can steal my keys from a corner of Her (*insert lightning strike here*) room.” “You mean Pinki-” Spike would have continued, however a hoof-shaped gag blocked his draconic eloquence. He wondered, for perhaps the millionth time, why ponies never thought about how unsanitary that was, and how his teeth were designed to pulverize gemstones. “SHHHHHH! Never speak that name in my presence. The last time I heard Her (*insert dramatic orchestral piece*) name, I had to run thirty-seven miles through Hollow Shades, in a flour bag, being chased by Changelings, Batpony militia, a manticore, two teenage hydras, and the first chair cellist of the Canterlot Symphony Orchestra. I learned two things that day: bows make terrible bows, and Her parties don’t always end in glucose-induced comas.” Spike bit Lyra lightly. “OWWWWWWWW! You BIT ME!” She said retracting her hoof instinctually. “YOU DRAGONNAPPED ME!” “YEAH BUT I’M ME, I EXPECT WHAT I DO. YOU CAN’T JUST DO THINGS, THAT MEANS I HAVE TO WORK HARDER TO KEEP MY REPUTATION!” “YOU’RE CRAZY! I LIVE WITH TWILIGHT BUCKING SPARKLE I KNOW CRAZY, BUT YOU’RE CELESTIA-DAMNED INSANE!” “Calm down Spike. Spike. Spike! SPIKE!!! CALM YOUR LITTLE SCALED FLANK DOWN. We need to stay calm to for my will to be don-” “I DON’T NEED TO ACT CALM, THIS IS A VERY NATURAL REACTION TO BEING HELD AGAINST MY WILL!” “True, but if you work with me I’ll just hoof this”, Lyra shook the video camera in her telekinetic grip, “little bad colt over and nopony has to know about your fascination with Stalliongrad ballet.” “I, BUT, BUT . . . oh, ponyfeathers. Fine, yeah, whatever, it’s not like stranger things haven’t happened to me.” “YES, HAHA, EXCELLENT NOW I’LL-” “Why did you have a hammer and black jumpsuit?” “Huh? OH! That! The hammer was for my stockpile of “Things that I’ll Probably be Banned from Owning in the Future”, and the jumpsuit is just fun to wear, it’s so tight and smooth. It’s like being inside my skin, except I’m already in my skin. Huh. I guess it’s like my skin being inside my other skin that’s black, and made of rubber. I like my black skin.” “Oh. What?” “Fuhgetaboutit. We have things to discuss, my little draconian cohort. Illegal things, hahahahaha, Mhahahahahaha, MHAHAHAHAHAH- laugh with me Spike-MHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...” “Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha?...” “...MHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAH...” “...Hehheh...” “...MHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH...” “...mhahahah, MHAHAHAHAHHAHA-this is actually really fun, I can see why you do it all the time-MHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA...” “...MHAHAHAHAHAHAH- I know right?-MAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...” And so they continued until Spike accidentally coughed and set Lyra on fire. Luckily for her, the damp concrete of her eight-story basement is profoundly flame-retardant! ======&&*&&====== “Okay Spike, you remember the plan?” “What plan?” “I don’t know, that just seemed like the right thing to ask.” “...” It is rather difficult to properly execute a look of inquiring unamused perplexity, but Spike pulled it off admirably. At least a 9/10. “Don’t give me that look, that’s the same look my parole officer gave me when he found me trying to tunnel under the magical detectors keeping me under house-arrest, with a fork. I know most ponies would try a spoon first, but I was really hungry and it’s easier to grab clovers with a fork than a spoon. Although, now that I think about it, I own a shovel. Huh. Several actually, military-grade too. I guess I didn’t think that through too well, but at least it wasn’t like that time with Cele-HEY! Where are you going?” This question was posed as our favorite little draco casually started walking toward Sugarcube Corner, from which he and Lyra where a short distance away in a rather sizeable shrub. “To get your keys.” “But I don’t have a plan yet!” “*sigh* Just let me handle it, okay? I just want to go home, reshelve the historical-fiction section, and take a nap. Until Twilight sets the library on fire and I have to go roll around in the fire until Rainbow Dash and the weather team can come put it out.” “But the Pink One will surely-” This statement of assured damnation was cut short by the door of Sugarcube Corner coming to rest in its doorframe after being pulled inward will all the force a baby dragon could muster, which is a surprising amount actually. Learned that when I tried to get a boxing cutie-mark back in the day. “Pitted against their peers.” my hind hoof! Your narrator’s fascinating life aside, Lyra was sure that she had doomed the young drake to a fate far worse than the tortures of living with Twilight Sparkle, which are, admittedly, vast in both scope and intensity. Being the responsible mare she is, which is to say, fearing the body may somehow lead back to her, our horned protagonist took it upon herself to come to Spike’s aid. Or, at least, profit from his untimely demise. “I wonder what they’ll put for his epitaph? ‘He died as he lived: surrounded by mares.’ Nah. ‘Faithful assistant, friend, and instant-messenger.’ No they wouldn’t get the reference, stupid ponies and their irreverence for history! I know the documents are old, but so is the imported cheese in Rarity’s icebox, and that’s never stopped me from breaking into her house and eating it. Nopony sees my genius, nopony but me! I’ll have a statue one day, and when birds defecate on a marble effigy of me, who will question my logic? WHO!? Hey Bon Bon!” Lyra interrupted her own dreams of avian defecation, and grandeur, with a wave to her neighbor, and what appeared to be her visiting sister, as she trotted toward the alleyway behind the bakery. “Bon Bon, is that the mare you always write about?” “*sigh* Yeah.” “I think she’s into you, you should totally ask her out.” “What? NO! NO NO NO NONONONONONONONONONONONO, THAT’S LYRA, MY NEIGHBOR, NOT Her...” ‘Her...’ was accompanied by a dreamy sigh. “Oh, right. Lyra is your neighbor. So Colgate is your ‘Amor Sempiternus’?” “No, that’s my dentist, my ‘Amor Sempiternus’ is-” Bon Bon was about to reveal her, to quote one of her “Novels”, ‘Amor Sempiternus’, but growing up I was told eavesdropping on ponies is bad, therefore I think it prudent to remove the rest of the conversation from your seditious ears and send you to your room. Now go think about what you’ve done audience, and know that this hurts you more than it does me! Wait, I think I said that wrong. Stupid “101 Ways to Troll an Audience” and its easily confusable quotes! Now go away audience, I need to brood in peace. With my things. That you can’t have. So there! Hah! I don’t need you! I’ll just stay here. All alone... PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!!! I see you fell for ‘ole seventy-one: “Pity the author.” Hahahahahahahaha classic. Author's Note Questions, comments, concerns? If any of these apply to you, dear reader, I implore you to investigate the comment section below and leave message. For the children. Chapter III: Relations of Lyra's Further Shenanigans and the Chance Encounter it PromptedMusings on Lyra Heartstrings, or the Likely Result of the Mixed Chromosomes of Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie Pie Chapter III: Relations of Lyra’s Furthered Shenanigans and the Chance Encounter it Prompted First of all, dear reader, I wish to apologize for my behavior at the end of the last chapter. It was wholly uncalled for. Anywho, now that Mother is satisfied, perhaps we can continue this narrative? Indeed? Indubitably! After resolving to acquire a first-row seat to Spike's untimely demise, Lyra began to formulate a scheme as devious as it was foul. Pertaining to the juxtaposed nature of the Bubbly-Maned One’s joviality and crippling cynicism, perhaps bordering on schizophrenia. It was quite plain for all to see that there was simply no action or order of actions to obviate the young drake’s consummation of ephemerality. Thinking it prudent to delay no longer, for she had been idly, and wholly naturally we assure you, sweating and presenting a smile so grand so as to be anatomically inconceivable, and risk being linked with the murder via stander-bys’ later testimonies, she hurried, with great stress on appearing unstressed, toward the alley behind the pastry shop. Seeing a bush with a horn scooting around the Ponyville market, and subsequently stuffing itself within a trash pail, may seem, at first consideration, to be an odd spectacle indeed. Ponyvillians, however, are well known for their eccentric hobbies and idle musings, and so think little of their fellows practicing extreme flora contortionism. I tried my hoof at said sport once upon a bygone day. I still feel as if my spinal column is shattering under the pressure of Canterlot Mountain every time I trip upon a wayward twig or faggot. But, I suppose there is no need to dwell on such things as my mild vegetation induced Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Arriving in the concealment of the shadows and general gloom of the filth stricken path, our fearless, and dashing, protagonist proceeded to at once let the illuminating power of justice and love send her screaming murder into the locked back entrance of the bakery. This proved, yet again, that Lyra and affidavits do not mix. Though the paper was actually a crudely drawn stick-figure of what appeared to be Rainbow Dash and Scootaloo with barely legible hoof-writing that read, “A match made in Taur-Tartaro-Tartarus.” There was a roughly drawn tiara following the words. You’d be surprised at how easy it is to confuse an affidavit with an ineloquent abandoned insult. Lyra quickly magicked that little black-mailing beauty into her saddle-bag. Diamond Tiara hadn’t been paying her “dues” on time. Lyra figured that a strategically placed hint or two about a certain paper winding up in a certain prismatically maned pegasus’ hooves would fix that up directly. “Hahahahaha! Yes! I get Diamond Tiara to pay her overdue library fees and Twilight will let me use her first edition copy of An Egghead’s Guide to Elucidating Speech for Means of Conversing with the Laypony for sure. I know there just HAS to be a secret government codex in there. I mean, why else would Twi get a new edition of that on everyone of her birthdays? And why am I saying this out-loud?” Shaking her head violently, she began to scan her immediate vicinity for anyway to breach the locked portal barring her entrance. And did you really think Lyra was extorting foals? That’s absurd! Everypony knows that you can’t acquire enough bits to buy any serious black-market military hardware like that. Take it from Lyra, she did the math. Several times. And performed a few field trials. And, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding, is now on the Equestrian sex-offender registry. She vehemently protested her innocence of molestation and demanded that she be tried for extortion of a minor instead, buuuuuuuuuuut noooooooooooooo, “Stranger Danger” was all the rage back then. Bunch of foals. Everypony knows the majority molestations occur on weekends from 7pm-12pm in Princess Molest-*ahem*-Celestia’s chambers, as reported by the Equestria Inquirer. Overcoming my attention deficit, our object of, shenanigan inducing, focus had spotted an open window close enough to the ground that, with the assistance of a few miscellaneous trash cans, could be used to illegally enter the premise. Gathering the necessary objects with her crazy demonic unicorn horn juice, Lyra shakily began her ascent, one hoof at a time. Making progress ever so slowly, physics, the bane of burglars the world over, grew weary of the task and, with the help of government black budget operators no doubt, designed to cause some overdue chaos. Sensing the impending doom of her makeshift ladder, and having no desire to dirty her coat (What? A mare can’t take pride in her appearance?), she scurried toward the pinnacle of the ramshackle device. Instinctively using her magic to steady her quickly crumbling hooving, Lyra dived through the window just as the mass of garbage containers smacked the ground with a muffled thud. And promptly impaled her horn on a sack of flour. “Oh horsefe-*cough*-thurrrrrrrs-*wheeze*-,” Fun fact, flour is not conducive to effective exclamations of disgruntlement. As popular opinion is well opposed to I’m sure. Resolving to prevent her lungs, and general upper respiratory system, from becoming sufficiently readied to be baked in an oven at four-hundred degrees fahrenheit for three hours, or until golden-brown, or whatever color the illustrious reader prefers his/her food, Lyra quickly removed the bag from it’s resting place upon her horn. She then simultaneously flung the bag into a corner of the dark closet pantry she was in and used her golden sparkle powers to wipe her face of offending white matter. Get your dirty thoughts outta here. This ain’t that kinda story, unless you imagine really hard. I mean, not like that, uh, yeah. Moving on. Not stopping to think of the plentiful innuendos that adolescents of a future age could derive from her recent predicament, Lyra quickly scanned the oppressive darkness, and mildew mixed with flour, with her magical green ice cream cone powers. (I’m not even trying anymore.) Finding the room sufficiently clear of potential hazards, and spiders, ewwww, she silently sneaked her way to the door. After a hazardous journey filled with every imaginable creaky board and loose nail imaginable, she found herself pressed against the portal to damnation. Otherwise known as a door whereupon being pried open could reveal a face full of party cannon. I shall leave it to the, grand and elegant, reader to decide if the use of party cannons by third parties on civilians is a violation of Equine Rights. Like landmines filled with custard. We still aren’t sure where the Destroyer of Introverts acquired sufficient military grade explosives to send three pounds of custard outward at speeds exceeding four hundred -insert local and/or fictional Equestrian measurement of speed- per second. We are sure that the answer has greater universe shattering implications than the question. Taking a moment to shudder in fear with thoughts pastry filled soirees and baked goods debauchery, Lyra slowly pressed the door open. Press... *CREAK* Stop. Heavy breathing. Press... *CREEEEEEAK* Stop. Similarly labored breathing. Press... *CREAK CREEEAK CREAK! CREAK!! CREAAAAAAAAAK!!! CREA-* Buck it. SLAM *WHUMP* *Creaaaa-* Glare *aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-* Intense ocular fixation of disdain and distemperment. *-aaak* “When I finally finish my time-machine, I am so murdering the pony who invented doors. Bucking doors.” Lyra would have likely ruminated further on her designs of chronocide, but, as the Gods of humorous circumstance willed it, found herself the object of attention of several dozen ponies, most of them in some phase of consuming delicate and doughy delectables. After several moments of awkward silence, somepony in the back of the room spoke up, “Lyra.” her voice was deadpan. “He he he, um, hi, Officer Mist.” Lyra was clearly distressed, if her sweating and scratching of the back of her neck with her hoof was any indication. “That’s Officer Misty Morning to you Miss Heartstrings.” The now firmly established officer of the law was making her way toward the green mare. Most everypony else was quietly edging away from the two, as if the two were drawing swords in preparation for a duel. “Oh, yeah, right. Officer Miss-in-Mourning, got it.” Apparently realizing that she was indeed Lyra, Lyra grew a smirk and her demeanor seemingly gained equal parts snarkiness and bravado. “I’ll be sure to add ‘Disrespect of an Officer’ to your impressive criminal list.” Barely a pony’s length away now. “Two words, Officer, autrefois convict.” “Three words, Miss, breaking and entering.” “Yeah, well, your face! UHH!”, “UHH!,” Was accompanied by an extraordinarily graceful and righteous sticking out of the tongue. “That’s ‘Assault of an Officer.” “Yeah, well, your face! Again! And your tail too! So, yeah. BURN, er, something.” Lyra’s face morphed from a triumphant cocky smirk to a self-reflective questioning gaze over the course of the last -*ahem*- “Insult”, if such a string of unequaled eloquence can be named that, which was made all the more amusing by that fact that she had never rolled her tongue back into its natural dwelling. Thereby making her facial expressions SO FICKING CUTE, OHMAGAWD I CAN’T STAND IT-UNGH!!! Right...right, deep breaths. Think of nature. A lion ripping a gazelle’s legs apart while it’s still kicking and trying to run, then it accepts its fate and fades into the darkness as its entrails are devoured in the maw of the malicious beast. That’s better. I can do this. Thank Celestia for Equestrian Geographic. Those sickos. Officer Misty Morning was now barely a nose length away from Lyra, she spread her wings, did I mention she was a pegasus?, and embraced Lyra in a spine-crushing hug. “How you doing sis?” Author's Note Huh. I seem to have made a chapter title so long that it shoves the word count downwards. I think that's a victory. I CAN GAME THE SYSTEM MAN! Anywho, questions, comments, concerns, rants and exclamations of frustration and unequivocal disdain? Check out the comment section below! And please, please, please rate and comment. I'm begging you. Look at my interweb face, it looks like Pinkie Pie and Applebloom having a puppy-dog face competition. Chapter IV: Sorority of Sinister SiblingsChapter IV: Sorority of Sinister Siblings Musings on Lyra Heartstrings, or the Likely Result of the Mixed Chromosomes of Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie Pie and Its Adventures Chapter IV: Sorority of Sinister Siblings Now, now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Celestia and Luna this pony is sexy.” and, while that is very true, you should be thinking this: “He totally just made that last chapter up as he went along, especially the end.” While that is completely true, in fact every, entirely true and accurate, story I’ve relayed to audiences has been, um, improvised, only in the most minute of details of course, I must attest the whole and pure validity of these anecdotes. With my compulsory prologue out of the way we can continue. As per the norm with Lyra’s reunions with her family, Lyra found herself consumed in a kidney-bruising embrace after being quizzed in various criminal laws and their similarly various loopholes. The current example of reunion was chiefly composed of none other than Lyra’s only sister, Misty Morning. Misty Morning was a pegasus with an off-white mane and tail, a coat that seemed to shift and glimmer as if it longed to shroud everything about it, and, perhaps paradoxically, brilliant mint green eyes. It very well could be said that she resembled near terrestrial water vapor condensing due to temperature difference between ground and higher atmospheric elevations, in the morn no less. To reiterate, she looked like what you would expect. She happened to be an officer, in case you somehow missed that. An officer of finance. An agent of doomsday. A member of They Who Taketh Our Funds to Pool Our Funds. A lady of lament. A messenger of monetary mastication. To say more concisely, a tax collector. The horrors that this, this, abomination, of “justice” and other such nonsense as the “rule of law” and “sound financial management,” wreaked upon good, honorable citizens is despicable. Her, in lieu of a word or calligraph that accurately describes it, “profession” was not the oddest thing about her, however much I might detest that. Neigh, the oddest thing about her was her family. Now, I’m sure you expect me to make her out as the “normal” one in a family of nutjobs. And I’m quite sure you expect me to attempt cliched comedy skits with it that weren’t funny even when they were new. Never make such unfounded assumptions. It shall transfer you to no great station in life. When I say, “the oddest thing about her was her family,” I mean that her family, including her, are quite the unorthodox bunch. Starting long ago with Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Auntie Roseberry Dew, who was well renowned in her day for collecting objects and novelty decorative pieces that we might call gewgaw. (I assure you that word is founded in reality.) Some say Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Auntie Roseberry Dew was a close friend Her Most Immaculate and How Does She Never Get Stains On Her Coat I Can’t Wear White Hoof-Cuffs Without Getting Them Soaked in Everything Majesty, Princess Celestia of Eques-waitforit-tria. Trading knick-knacks and antiques and telling the most elaborate stories of them. Circuitous and verbose stories if you ask me, I would never sink to such lows as to fill my lack of proper reporting and affluence of procrastination with purple prose that is verisimilitudinous of true intellect. Truly, my humility knows no bounds. Returning to the genealogy lesson at hoof, we shall find that, through the generations, a certain level eccentricity was maintained and radicalised. From Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather Marred Weather, a most appropriate name, who produced and, illicitly, tested the first contemporary theories of meteorological warfare. To Great Grandmother Kernel Corn, another most appropriate name, who pioneered in the field of battlefield nutrition, devising and issuing the first canned goods light enough for soldiers to carry with them. Beforehoof, the mares and stallions of war relied on the bulky and, also quite apropos, succulent targets that the large refrigerated wagons that supplied nourishment in far-flung wastelands made for. She was affectionately nicknamed “Colonel Corn.” Although she was technically a Commandant. Being a Marine and all. Returning to the time period of this story, we find that most of the former customers of Sugarcube Corner have mysteriously vanished. Sometime after hearing Lyra’s sister was in town the townsfolk furtively, so as not to let them smell the fear, galloped the hay out of there. Most of the rest vanished after realizing Misty was a tax agent. The two sisters paid no heed, however, and instead proceeded to inform the other of her life since they last spoke. I shall present the information in an abridged, narrated format, as the two talked through speech, body language, their family’s own verbal code, and even some primitive telepathy Lyra knew. The relevant information is as follows: Misty is going to be in town for the foreseeable future, helping whip the locals into good economic shape. They’re both still single. Not surprising. *cough* Ahem, what? Hollow Shades is a wonderful place to live, according to Misty. The bat ponies have the most exotic and effective invasive interrogation techniques. Ponyville is as boring as ever, according to Lyra, the only ponies that see any action are the Elements of Harmony, and Derpy. Plus, the Import-Export Guy (Interesting Note: This was communicated using all the ways listed above.) only comes once every two-months. Mom and Dad are still on vacation in the Western Islands training local militia groups in exchange for a small villa, a not-so-small sum of precious metals, and enough jungle fruit to feed a small army. So they finally have a reliable food source for their insurgency then? Yeah, but Mom likes it there so much she wants to abandon the plan for the Southern Griffon Kingdoms and overthrow some of the local republics and tribes instead. You seen a dragon around here? Yeah he came in about five minutes ago, walked upstairs. Why? He’s trying to get my keys back from the Pink Devil that inhabits this foul place. Seems nice enough for me. Could use some darker colors, but- Give it time. Want some help with those keys? Yeah sis. And the b- And the body? Yeah... Got you covered. Mr. and Mrs. Cake watched the whole thing in a mixture of awe, then fear, and finally dismissiveness, muttering something about, “Mares these days.” Then they went about their business trying to find a way to keep some twenty-five pounds of recently ordered baked goods warm. ======&&*&&====== I’m quite confident that all of you kind and patient readers are quite eager, some may go so far as to say restless, to hear of the continued adventures of Spike the Fearless. Unfortunately for you wandering drunkards, the only Spike hear is Spike the Retriever of Key Rings. So it is that after casually walking up the stairs Spike oriented himself and began his walk toward the Room of our long anticipated foe. It being Pinkie Pie’s day off, however, meant she was off gallivanting about the town in search of “Friends” and “Smiles” and other such frivolous frivolities. Thus is is that our very own Spike the Retriever of Key Rings simply walked through the open door, located the spot that Lyra told him she last remembered holding the keys in her telekinesis, and, with much pomp and circumstance, plucked ‘em up and started on his way back to Lyra. Perhaps it is apposite to note that Spike undertook all these actions described with a rather severe frown, much like after he eats a particularly bitter gem with lemon juice, and intermittent mumblings about how he, “Never agreed to any of this,” and Lyra, “just had to follow them [Him and Twilight] to Ponyville.” In fact, Spike was just in the middle of describing, to nobody in particular, how he doesn’t even get paid for what he does. And his allowance doesn’t count. It could even be assumed that he would have continued on this rant and eventually gone home to Twilight empty-clawed and sulking. Lyra, then, inadvertently took the place of Pinkie when her sister and she snatched the keys from Spike’s claw, quickly stabbed him with a syringe of propofol, covered him in a burlap bag, and then stuffed part of the bag in his mouth to prevent him yelling out. Pinkie doesn’t like unhappy ponies, or dracos, and, if Pinkie was a Psychologically Unstable Unicorn from a long line of genetic crazy, it could be ascertained reasonably that she would consider doing something similar to what Lyra and Misty just did. “Hey, sis?” “Yeah, Misty?” “This isn’t Pinkie Pie is it?” “No sis.” “This is Spike?” “Yep.” “What are we-” “Take my keys and go back to my place, you remember where it is?” “Yeah, the one with the bomb shelter out back?” “That’s the one.” “Well, what are you going to do with him?” “Don’t worry sis, I got this.” Lyra uttered these words while standing on her hind legs and propping herself up by placing one of her hoofs on the bag covered Spike and the other hoof in the crook of the first. And I’m pretty sure somewhere a dramatic orchestral piece played. ======&&*&&====== LATER THAT DAY DING-DONG “Hmm, Oh! Sorry, we’re past public hours. Please come tomorrow.” DING-DONG “Oh, Celestia.” Twilight Sparkle rose from her cushion in front of desk and made her way toward the Library door. “This better be important.” *Muffled speech* *Gulp* “Hehe, well, here goes nothing.” Twilight opened the door only to have her expectations of a prankster/hostage crisis dashed by a medium-sized burlap bag wiggling around and producing muffled yells. There was a note attached to it. Twilight Sparkle, Tell Spike I appreciate the assistance, and he can expect a shipment of delectable gems within the week. Vesania ab Gloria, Lyra Heartstrings “What in Equestria?” Twilight magicked open the bag and had a nonplussed Spike come crawling out panting. “Spike?” “Twilight, I’m taking my sick days. All of them.” “Umm, what hap-” “I’ll let you know when I get back from Dr. Sure Sense.” “Why are you going to my psychologist?” “Because if I don’t, I doubt I’ll ever be able to be touched by a pony again.” “So what happened?” “Lyra, Lyra happened.” Author's Note And here we are. After nearly a week of procrastination and general laziness I managed to have a spark of inspiration long enough to finish this chapter. Since I started Musings I always intended for it to be a side-project. Writer's Block Be Gone, if you will. And I always intended for them to come in sets. So from now on, I'm going to be updating Musings much more sporadically, but in bursts of three or four chapters at a time. And before the end of the month I should have my first one-shot out and two or three-ish chapters of Flamma out. So that's the update, for the four or so people who care. I'm such a big-shot! Questions, comments, concerns? I encourage you to hit up the comment section below. AND FOR THE LOVE OF LUNA IF YOU LIKE OR DISLIKE THE STORY TELL ME WHY! That is all.
Chapter I: Remembering and SchemingMusings on Lyra Heartstrings Chapter I: Remembering and Scheming There are two things Lyra hates. Well, actually, she has a fair bit larger list of grievances and gripes than that, but for all of our sakes let us leave it at two. These two objects of her spite are such: Public restrooms (notoriously unsanitary) and guards who felt the villainous compulsion to uphold their occupation’s moniker. There are several reasons for Lyra’s immense disdain for the abominable cretins: their haughtiness, dull stoicism, poor sense of humor, and obscenely reflective armor (seriously what do those guys do to those things?). But chief amongst these is their apparently sacred duty to make her life a Mission Impossible bloopers reel. I mean really. She tries to break into the Canterlot Museum of Natural History’s archives and a guard apprehends her dangling a few feet above the curator's desk, she tries to break into Twilight Sparkle’s secret madpony laboratory and she startles Spike with her covert ops. gear (a black stocking cap with eye and ear holes cut out) and gets sent into Celestia’s bed (luckily the guards only caught her sneaking out the inner castle walls), even just trying to break into BonBon’s house to find out if she had bought a gallon of milk last Tuesday or a quart and being arrested for “disturbing the peace, constantly”. Truly Equestria’s honor guard/army/navy/airforce/marines/petricultists were bidden by fate to ruin her innocent reconnoitering. As a good and loyal citizen of Equestria and subject of their eternal majesties the diarchs of the land, Lyra had never once attempted to do anything that would compromise the security of the nation and make way for the glorious reckoning that the thumbed overlords would bring. Welllllllllllll, at least not since the last time she was hospitalized. Right now to be precise. So this is the situation that Lyra finds herself within at the concurrent time of our brief recounting of the highlights of her tale thus far. Hospitals would be one of the omitted residents of her long running list. It’s not that she despised hospitals themselves, she actually found hospital food delicious, to the amazement of her peers, she simply despised the inevitable questions that came with internment in the institutions. “Name please.” Lyra Heartstrings. “Age.” A lady never tells, good thing for you I’m a mare. Twenty-four. “Residence.” Ponyville, Equestria. Single living arrangement. “Do you remember-” -what you were doing that got me here? Yep. “Which is?” A matter of profound personal importance and secrecy. “Come now Miss Heartstrings, what did you do that dislocated your left two legs and right foreleg?” Well he always did like it rough... “Come again?” Drift Winds. A real stud that one. I can’t remember the last time a partner dislocated three of my legs. “Ummmm...” (The good doctor had a noticeable blush) I guess I really am losing my mixed martial arts ability. “Wha-? *ahem* I mean, uh, yes indeed it appears you have. Dear Celestia why do I always get the psychotic coquettish one? *cough* Well it appears everything is in order, your insurance has paid the bill. You may leave whenever you please.” Thank you doctor. I leave at once. She then magicked the nearby window open, leapt through the oddly quaint looking portal, and calmy trotted past the bewildered onlookers with seemingly practiced ease. Before promptly cackling madly and initiating a gallop of the erstwhile adverb with the same appearance of practiced ease. Buildings buzzed by in a broad spectrum of pastel colors created by flora and ornamentation placed ad infinitum. And their inhabitants looked much the same for dissimilar reasons The ocular onslaught was greatly diminished upon arrival at the mint green unicorn’s home. There were some differences between her house and most others in the town. For one, the only flora visible on the lot were the nondescript bushes that often times occupy the ground immediately adjacent to a quaint suburban esque house, and a pecan (pronounced: p-can, pfft, Yankees) tree a little on the smaller side with some spanish moss strewn about its branches. The obligatory generic grass, of generic coloring, shading, height, smell, and all other facets of grass which I do not feel the need to list explicitly, was present also. Whilst we took in the rather underwhelming presence of Ponyville’s Second Most Dangerous and Psychologically Unstable Unicorn’s, three years running I might add, place of residence. Our protagonist proceeded toward her home abruptly changing pace from a full-on gallop to a placid trot as she passed through the gate to the idyllic little white picket fence surrounding her lot. Most ponies would find her behavior both unnerving and surely the products of an insane mind. That’s not to say the residents of Ponyville thought otherwise on the second account, but for the former: Ponyvillians had grown accustomed to Lyra’s quirkiness insomuch as they rarely stared dumbfounded at her longer than a paltry number of seconds. Lyra had reached the front door by this time and, as has happened to all of us at least once, realized she did not have her keys. In fact, she didn’t even have her saddlebags. Once again ignoring the oddness that an equinoid would have, or even be able to produce or operate, anything close to a key or locking mechanism, she began to mentally retrace her steps to attempt to locate her keys current resting place. After a series of mental exercises, so intense and sophisticated that I shall not endeavour to explain it in any detail to the likes you, Lyra had determined that there was only one place that her saddlebags and their precious cargo could be: the scene of her latest heist, Sugarcube Corner. One might ponder what business our protagonist might have at the local bakery. And if One were to have a narrator as informed, and as devilishly handsome, as moi then One might know. Lyra was, as all Ponyvillians are, completely ignorant of the source of the powers of one certain mare. This certain mare, who shall henceforth be referred to as Puce Pastry (in a perhaps futile attempt to discourage her wrath), was infamous throughout Ponyville, indeed all of Equestria, for her seemingly logicless, well, everything really. So our heroine decided to go about finding answers the only way she knew how: breaking into Puce’s single room apartment above the bakery and watching her sleep. To some: breaking into a house unseen and watching a pony sleep all night without any form of rest seems quite the daunting challenge (and the product of insane twisted logic). To Lyra (equipped with suction-cup horseshoes, night vision goggles, and enough crazy to take one off the tracks of the train of): it was mere child’s play. A demented child with WAY too much free time and military grade hardware perhaps, but a child nonetheless. With this, warped and twisted, plan in her head Lyra set forth just as the final rays of Celestia’s namesake escaped their heavenly origin and splayed themselves about Ponyville. She went over the contents of her saddlebags one last time. Sheer face scaling horseshoes? Check. Night vision goggles? Check. Extra batteries? Check. Ten caffeine filled syringes? Check. Sudoku book? Check. Notebook? Check. Three quills? Check. Ten capped inkwells? Check. Buy milk? Not check. ~~Therapist appointment?~~ “Alright, good to go. I knew Twilight’s seminar on ‘Checklist Formatting, Categorizing, Editing, Elucidating, and Implementing. Advanced.’ would work wonders for me.” And with that she began a merry trot towards her destination singing a macabre tune with a much too cheerful countenance and disposition. A hooful of minutes later saw a single soul dawn a set of suction-cup horseshoes, a pair of night vision goggles, and an injection of concentrated caffeine. With a practiced ease she began her ascent toward the single window, on the second story, from which candlelight still shone. Positioning herself at an angle that the light would not touch to any major degree, she peeked her curious little peepers out and saw a sight that I wager many of you would pay much to see firsthand, or hoof as the case may be. By a little light pink mattress and bedspread raised off the floor by an oak frame stood, in the light of candlelight coming from a, surprisingly enough, candle on a generic wooden end table, Puce Pastry herself, in all her light red colored glory. “What was she doing?” You might ask. And I shall tell. She was stooped over a little woven basket at the end of the bed which held the demon mare’s evil henchstallion alligator: Gingival. Our dear Puce was sharpening his wicked salivary ducts with a bristled instrument of torture. Surely anypony with a right mind would flee post-haste and cry themselves to sleep every remaining night in their putrid mortal existence after witnessing such eldritch horrors. Lyra, however, is far from right and, indeed, her mind. Thus, thou shalt not be spared from any imaginable horror, and some unimaginable, that wouldst transpire this night. Just as the maintenance of the reptilian dietary orifice was becoming monotonous for Lyra to observe, Puce did something extraordinary. She reared up on her hind legs and expelled a vast quantity of gaseous respiratory waste whilst holding her left foreleg to her evil pink death maw. Unfortunately for her this left her in a rather precarious postural position, being quadrupedal and what-not, and ended up succumbing to gravity’s tenacious command, and her body’s tenacious insistence, that she fall onto her bed. Truly a most malicious act of life’s necessary processes. Seeing a petite pink pony brushing an even more diminutive toothless alligator, and then rearing up for a deep yawn before falling backwards onto her bed with a satisfied sigh must indeed be quite the scare. Diabetes inducing horror aside, Puce was not quite through with being conscious. Forcing herself back up with a “Oh -censored- you silly filly.”, and a truly horrific laugh she started her march of doom toward the window, and Lyra. In vivid, and disturbingly technical, detail Lyra imagined her fate at the hooves of The Pink One. First, she would throw her a “Breaking Into my House and Spying on me Party” party. Next, she would give her a “special” cupcake, but the special ingredient would be -pause for dramatic effect- concentrated rainbow! Finally, with her spicy alias namesake consumed by an unsuspecting Lyra, Puce Pastry would wrongfully accuse Lyra of being an agent for an alien empire seeking to conquer all of ponykind and report her to the heavenly diarchs who would take it upon themselves to personally torture her untilallofhersecretswereforcedfromhermindandshewasleftabrokenmessonthecoldfloo- STOP. Lyra was not, is NOT, panicking. No she is trained for this kind of thing. Calm DOWN! She knew what she had to do, it was elementary when you really thought about it. She had to magick her keys into the shadows of Puce’s room, use them to extinguish the candlelight, drop from the window, and abort the ill-fated mission. Lyra grasped the keys in her saddlebag with her magic and quickly slipped them through the bottom left corner of the window. Having no time for proper caution, she quickly sent the keys racing against time through a dust infused track deep in shadows. Not caring to be caught, she rammed the keys into the candle with the proper amount of force, sending it, and her keys, tumbling through the unlocked door of the room and somersaulting down the stairs. Caffeine still coursing through her veins, and arteries, Lyra quickly jumped from the window and promptly landed so that three of her legs were in intense pain. Biting her lip to keep from yelling out, she limped toward the direction of Ponyville General Hospital. Being very glad she had decided to bring along a book of sudokus. After reliving these events, Lyra decided that the only way to go about reclaiming her keys was diplomacy. Bloody, infuriating, hawkish diplomacy. And if that didn’t work, well, she was itching to try out some, heh, invasive questioning techniques. Hehheh, hehehehehe, HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE, MHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-ow. Remember kids, cackling evilly while having recently recovered from three dislocated limbs is never a good idea.
Chapter II: Forcible EnlistmentMusings on Lyra Heartstrings Chapter II Forcible Enlistment If there is one thing Lyra knows, it’s that nitroglycerin and blenders don’t mix (If you don’t believe her, try it yourself). However, if there are two things she knows, it’s the erstwhile combination of a kitchen appliance and the liquid explosive that is now prohibited from being within thirty miles of any blender wielding Lyra, and the only sensible way to retrieve a wayward set of keys is through amiable, neighbourly, cloak and dagger domestic intrigue. Therefore, in the interest of reconnaissance, and lunch, our dear protagonist makes her way to the bakery, which shall go unnamed, which employs and shelters the vile mare, who shall remain in a similar state as her workplace. While many of the situations she winds up in may appear somewhat, er, contrived, you should ask yourself this: “How would I go about retrieving my keys from a possible demon’s chambers that I may have been illegally observing?” The answer, my dear, handsome, reader, will invariably lead you to pastries. Arriving at the venue of the previous night’s escapades Lyra finds, with considerable disappointment, that the bakery, which bears a remarkably whimsical resemblance to something in a small foal’s glucose permeated fantasies, is packed well beyond the range set forth in the fire code. Lyra is not a firemare and cares about as much as one might imagine about the “Fire Department”, or the “Fire Code”, or the “Statute of Limitations in Regards to Arson”. Wait, scratch that last one. Lyra is actually in a very intimate relationship with that one, she’s still waiting for it to pop the big question. The amount of ponies waiting for embryos of triticum infused with dead Saccharomyces cerevisiae and coated in the pulverized remains of innocent Saccharum had not significantly lowered, and so Lyra thought it best to sit upon a public bench and furtively observe the comings and goings of the ponies. The ponies and a dragon. Hmmmm, a dragon. A dragon. Dragon. *slap* DRAGON! “Wait a second, I bet Spike can help with my little ‘situation’. Haha. Hahahahahha, Mhahahhahah-*cough* Note to self: Refrain from mad cackling in public, diminishes covert-ish-ness-el-or-something. I really need to carry a dictionary with me.” ======&&*&&====== Spike was having a rather good day. Not an amazing day, Rarity still hadn’t proclaimed her undying love for him, but all around a good day. His days were usually good the days after Twilight sends a report, friendship or otherwise, to Celestia, or when she takes those little blue pills, but, no, Twilight’s anxiety medication/elephant tranquilizer wasn’t to thank for her ease today. Compounding the day’s contentedness, and perhaps being directly responsible for it, was the errand Spike had been sent on by his sister in all but blood, and species. That errand pertaining to the procurement of a certain class of sweets, sweets so, well, sweet, that rumors abound to it actually being created by satanic rituals performed by its creator. The confectioneries referred to are none other than one Pinkamena Diane Pie’s triple-layered, sugar coated, sugar filled, all around glucose infused, nutritionists’ nightmare, bane of Celestia’s will, and universally both sought after and feared desert: the Chimmy Cherry Changa. While nopony actually knows what the Chimmy Cherry Changa contains, though cherries are generally thought to be involved, it is known that it was born of the Pink Terror’s abhorrence for anything containing less diabetes inducing substances than her. Spike preferred the tangy aftertaste of a ruby far more than any foodstuff ponies had invented, save for the infamous “Baked Bads”, but Twilight enjoyed analyzing the makeup of the various foodstuffs produced by her tertiary colored friend. Spike is no scientist, but he is pretty sure that anything edible produced from the baker-mare’s kitchens is not conducive to healthy living. Healthy living of the physical form at least. What prolonged exposure to the Pink One’s Pinkness results in for your soul is not known, but it is reasoned that it may be very similar to prolonged exposure to the -REDACTED-’s 1500 Megawatt Heavy Duty Super-Colliding Super Button. At least, that’s what She’s telling me. Your narrator’s extra-equestrian knowledge aside, Spike was feeling content and optimistic. Then Lyra happened. Lyra in and of herself was not cause for considerable alarm. Lyra galloping toward you, foaming at the mouth, and holding a burlap bag in her mouth, however, is cause for considerable alarm. Spike would have been experiencing said considerable alarm, if it wasn’t for the fact that Lyra zapped him with a bit of ye olde unicorn horn juice. And promptly stuffed, to quote a certain fashionista, “poor Spikey-Wikey” into her burlap bag, and wiped some of her spilled milkshake onto the exterior of the bag from its previous location surrounding her mouth. Trotting off with a brisk tempo in her gait she happily sung a little carefree tune, or, rather, tried to sing, burlap bags are, despite popular opinion, not conducive to a singing voice to rival Whinny Houston. ======&&*&&====== “Ugh, Twilight, five more minutes. Twilight? Where in Equestria am I? Why is there a bag next me?...and why’s my back feel like it has dried milkshake on it?” Groggy, and slightly terrified out of his mind, Spike asked these rhetorical questions with no particular haste, and besprinkled with language that a particular pony would not approve of him using. BRIGHT LIGHT! BRIGHT LIGHT!!!! SWEET SUNNY CELESTIA THAT LIGHT IS BRIGHT!!!! (You can infer a source of illumination is indeed of the umpteenth degree when you narrator is slightly miffed by its intensity. Stupid lights...*grumble grumble*) Getting past what the wrath of Celestia must feel like if concentrated in your retinas, Spike attempted to improve his plight by speaking thusly: “Heh heh, okay, you got me Twi. Good one. Ha ha ha...? Twilight? Is this about me eating the jeweled flower vase? I already said I was sorry, and don’t tell me you don’t know how hard it is tell what something is when you’re looking for a midnight snack. Remember that time with the glass roses Celestia gave you for your fifteenth birthday? The whole castle heard you scream, and don’t even get me started on how you tried to hide your bleeding tongue from Celes...tia...” Spike would have continued his little anecdote if not for the fact that a pony clad in a black jumpsuit, and cutesy-wutesy wittle green and white laterally striped socks, walked into his field of view, levitating a hammer in her magic. “OK! OK! I ADMIT IT WAS ME THAT BROKE MISTER SMARTY PANTS’ EYE!!! I POKED IT OUT WHEN I WAS TRYING TO WAKE TWILIGHT UP!!! I DIDN’T MEAN TO DO IT HONEST I SWEAR!!!! DRAGON’S HONOR!!!! AND I WAS THE ONE WHO ATE THE LAST BOWL OF RAINBOW LOOPS!! AND...” Spike went on for some time in this state, with his eyes closed. When he finally opened them, to see if he was in the big cave in the sky, he saw a pony. A unicorn pony. Mint green. With golden eyes. Sitting on her haunches. With a video camera. “Is that all?” “...” “I’m going to say that’s a ‘yes’!” “...” “I have to admit, I’m a little shocked to find out you’re into that sort of thing.” “Lyra.” “I mean, I know I hear about it all the time but I never that YOU of all ponies, er, dracos, sorry, would be into-” “LYRA!!!” “-My Little Monkey: Bananas are Potassium Rich. Yes Spike?” “What am I doing here?” Spike asked much more calmly than he felt. “Oh that’s easy, I dragonnapped you!” “Why?” “So I could forcibly enlist your aid!” This line was spoken with a grin that practically shouted cocksureness in the logic of the speaker. “For what?” “Breaking into Sugar Cube Corner so I can steal my keys from a corner of Her (*insert lightning strike here*) room.” “You mean Pinki-” Spike would have continued, however a hoof-shaped gag blocked his draconic eloquence. He wondered, for perhaps the millionth time, why ponies never thought about how unsanitary that was, and how his teeth were designed to pulverize gemstones. “SHHHHHH! Never speak that name in my presence. The last time I heard Her (*insert dramatic orchestral piece*) name, I had to run thirty-seven miles through Hollow Shades, in a flour bag, being chased by Changelings, Batpony militia, a manticore, two teenage hydras, and the first chair cellist of the Canterlot Symphony Orchestra. I learned two things that day: bows make terrible bows, and Her parties don’t always end in glucose-induced comas.” Spike bit Lyra lightly. “OWWWWWWWW! You BIT ME!” She said retracting her hoof instinctually. “YOU DRAGONNAPPED ME!” “YEAH BUT I’M ME, I EXPECT WHAT I DO. YOU CAN’T JUST DO THINGS, THAT MEANS I HAVE TO WORK HARDER TO KEEP MY REPUTATION!” “YOU’RE CRAZY! I LIVE WITH TWILIGHT BUCKING SPARKLE I KNOW CRAZY, BUT YOU’RE CELESTIA-DAMNED INSANE!” “Calm down Spike. Spike. Spike! SPIKE!!! CALM YOUR LITTLE SCALED FLANK DOWN. We need to stay calm to for my will to be don-” “I DON’T NEED TO ACT CALM, THIS IS A VERY NATURAL REACTION TO BEING HELD AGAINST MY WILL!” “True, but if you work with me I’ll just hoof this”, Lyra shook the video camera in her telekinetic grip, “little bad colt over and nopony has to know about your fascination with Stalliongrad ballet.” “I, BUT, BUT . . . oh, ponyfeathers. Fine, yeah, whatever, it’s not like stranger things haven’t happened to me.” “YES, HAHA, EXCELLENT NOW I’LL-” “Why did you have a hammer and black jumpsuit?” “Huh? OH! That! The hammer was for my stockpile of “Things that I’ll Probably be Banned from Owning in the Future”, and the jumpsuit is just fun to wear, it’s so tight and smooth. It’s like being inside my skin, except I’m already in my skin. Huh. I guess it’s like my skin being inside my other skin that’s black, and made of rubber. I like my black skin.” “Oh. What?” “Fuhgetaboutit. We have things to discuss, my little draconian cohort. Illegal things, hahahahaha, Mhahahahahaha, MHAHAHAHAHAH- laugh with me Spike-MHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...” “Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha?...” “...MHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAH...” “...Hehheh...” “...MHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH...” “...mhahahah, MHAHAHAHAHHAHA-this is actually really fun, I can see why you do it all the time-MHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA...” “...MHAHAHAHAHAHAH- I know right?-MAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...” And so they continued until Spike accidentally coughed and set Lyra on fire. Luckily for her, the damp concrete of her eight-story basement is profoundly flame-retardant! ======&&*&&====== “Okay Spike, you remember the plan?” “What plan?” “I don’t know, that just seemed like the right thing to ask.” “...” It is rather difficult to properly execute a look of inquiring unamused perplexity, but Spike pulled it off admirably. At least a 9/10. “Don’t give me that look, that’s the same look my parole officer gave me when he found me trying to tunnel under the magical detectors keeping me under house-arrest, with a fork. I know most ponies would try a spoon first, but I was really hungry and it’s easier to grab clovers with a fork than a spoon. Although, now that I think about it, I own a shovel. Huh. Several actually, military-grade too. I guess I didn’t think that through too well, but at least it wasn’t like that time with Cele-HEY! Where are you going?” This question was posed as our favorite little draco casually started walking toward Sugarcube Corner, from which he and Lyra where a short distance away in a rather sizeable shrub. “To get your keys.” “But I don’t have a plan yet!” “*sigh* Just let me handle it, okay? I just want to go home, reshelve the historical-fiction section, and take a nap. Until Twilight sets the library on fire and I have to go roll around in the fire until Rainbow Dash and the weather team can come put it out.” “But the Pink One will surely-” This statement of assured damnation was cut short by the door of Sugarcube Corner coming to rest in its doorframe after being pulled inward will all the force a baby dragon could muster, which is a surprising amount actually. Learned that when I tried to get a boxing cutie-mark back in the day. “Pitted against their peers.” my hind hoof! Your narrator’s fascinating life aside, Lyra was sure that she had doomed the young drake to a fate far worse than the tortures of living with Twilight Sparkle, which are, admittedly, vast in both scope and intensity. Being the responsible mare she is, which is to say, fearing the body may somehow lead back to her, our horned protagonist took it upon herself to come to Spike’s aid. Or, at least, profit from his untimely demise. “I wonder what they’ll put for his epitaph? ‘He died as he lived: surrounded by mares.’ Nah. ‘Faithful assistant, friend, and instant-messenger.’ No they wouldn’t get the reference, stupid ponies and their irreverence for history! I know the documents are old, but so is the imported cheese in Rarity’s icebox, and that’s never stopped me from breaking into her house and eating it. Nopony sees my genius, nopony but me! I’ll have a statue one day, and when birds defecate on a marble effigy of me, who will question my logic? WHO!? Hey Bon Bon!” Lyra interrupted her own dreams of avian defecation, and grandeur, with a wave to her neighbor, and what appeared to be her visiting sister, as she trotted toward the alleyway behind the bakery. “Bon Bon, is that the mare you always write about?” “*sigh* Yeah.” “I think she’s into you, you should totally ask her out.” “What? NO! NO NO NO NONONONONONONONONONONONO, THAT’S LYRA, MY NEIGHBOR, NOT Her...” ‘Her...’ was accompanied by a dreamy sigh. “Oh, right. Lyra is your neighbor. So Colgate is your ‘Amor Sempiternus’?” “No, that’s my dentist, my ‘Amor Sempiternus’ is-” Bon Bon was about to reveal her, to quote one of her “Novels”, ‘Amor Sempiternus’, but growing up I was told eavesdropping on ponies is bad, therefore I think it prudent to remove the rest of the conversation from your seditious ears and send you to your room. Now go think about what you’ve done audience, and know that this hurts you more than it does me! Wait, I think I said that wrong. Stupid “101 Ways to Troll an Audience” and its easily confusable quotes! Now go away audience, I need to brood in peace. With my things. That you can’t have. So there! Hah! I don’t need you! I’ll just stay here. All alone... PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!!! I see you fell for ‘ole seventy-one: “Pity the author.” Hahahahahahahaha classic. Author's Note Questions, comments, concerns? If any of these apply to you, dear reader, I implore you to investigate the comment section below and leave message. For the children.
Chapter III: Relations of Lyra's Further Shenanigans and the Chance Encounter it PromptedMusings on Lyra Heartstrings, or the Likely Result of the Mixed Chromosomes of Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie Pie Chapter III: Relations of Lyra’s Furthered Shenanigans and the Chance Encounter it Prompted First of all, dear reader, I wish to apologize for my behavior at the end of the last chapter. It was wholly uncalled for. Anywho, now that Mother is satisfied, perhaps we can continue this narrative? Indeed? Indubitably! After resolving to acquire a first-row seat to Spike's untimely demise, Lyra began to formulate a scheme as devious as it was foul. Pertaining to the juxtaposed nature of the Bubbly-Maned One’s joviality and crippling cynicism, perhaps bordering on schizophrenia. It was quite plain for all to see that there was simply no action or order of actions to obviate the young drake’s consummation of ephemerality. Thinking it prudent to delay no longer, for she had been idly, and wholly naturally we assure you, sweating and presenting a smile so grand so as to be anatomically inconceivable, and risk being linked with the murder via stander-bys’ later testimonies, she hurried, with great stress on appearing unstressed, toward the alley behind the pastry shop. Seeing a bush with a horn scooting around the Ponyville market, and subsequently stuffing itself within a trash pail, may seem, at first consideration, to be an odd spectacle indeed. Ponyvillians, however, are well known for their eccentric hobbies and idle musings, and so think little of their fellows practicing extreme flora contortionism. I tried my hoof at said sport once upon a bygone day. I still feel as if my spinal column is shattering under the pressure of Canterlot Mountain every time I trip upon a wayward twig or faggot. But, I suppose there is no need to dwell on such things as my mild vegetation induced Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Arriving in the concealment of the shadows and general gloom of the filth stricken path, our fearless, and dashing, protagonist proceeded to at once let the illuminating power of justice and love send her screaming murder into the locked back entrance of the bakery. This proved, yet again, that Lyra and affidavits do not mix. Though the paper was actually a crudely drawn stick-figure of what appeared to be Rainbow Dash and Scootaloo with barely legible hoof-writing that read, “A match made in Taur-Tartaro-Tartarus.” There was a roughly drawn tiara following the words. You’d be surprised at how easy it is to confuse an affidavit with an ineloquent abandoned insult. Lyra quickly magicked that little black-mailing beauty into her saddle-bag. Diamond Tiara hadn’t been paying her “dues” on time. Lyra figured that a strategically placed hint or two about a certain paper winding up in a certain prismatically maned pegasus’ hooves would fix that up directly. “Hahahahaha! Yes! I get Diamond Tiara to pay her overdue library fees and Twilight will let me use her first edition copy of An Egghead’s Guide to Elucidating Speech for Means of Conversing with the Laypony for sure. I know there just HAS to be a secret government codex in there. I mean, why else would Twi get a new edition of that on everyone of her birthdays? And why am I saying this out-loud?” Shaking her head violently, she began to scan her immediate vicinity for anyway to breach the locked portal barring her entrance. And did you really think Lyra was extorting foals? That’s absurd! Everypony knows that you can’t acquire enough bits to buy any serious black-market military hardware like that. Take it from Lyra, she did the math. Several times. And performed a few field trials. And, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding, is now on the Equestrian sex-offender registry. She vehemently protested her innocence of molestation and demanded that she be tried for extortion of a minor instead, buuuuuuuuuuut noooooooooooooo, “Stranger Danger” was all the rage back then. Bunch of foals. Everypony knows the majority molestations occur on weekends from 7pm-12pm in Princess Molest-*ahem*-Celestia’s chambers, as reported by the Equestria Inquirer. Overcoming my attention deficit, our object of, shenanigan inducing, focus had spotted an open window close enough to the ground that, with the assistance of a few miscellaneous trash cans, could be used to illegally enter the premise. Gathering the necessary objects with her crazy demonic unicorn horn juice, Lyra shakily began her ascent, one hoof at a time. Making progress ever so slowly, physics, the bane of burglars the world over, grew weary of the task and, with the help of government black budget operators no doubt, designed to cause some overdue chaos. Sensing the impending doom of her makeshift ladder, and having no desire to dirty her coat (What? A mare can’t take pride in her appearance?), she scurried toward the pinnacle of the ramshackle device. Instinctively using her magic to steady her quickly crumbling hooving, Lyra dived through the window just as the mass of garbage containers smacked the ground with a muffled thud. And promptly impaled her horn on a sack of flour. “Oh horsefe-*cough*-thurrrrrrrs-*wheeze*-,” Fun fact, flour is not conducive to effective exclamations of disgruntlement. As popular opinion is well opposed to I’m sure. Resolving to prevent her lungs, and general upper respiratory system, from becoming sufficiently readied to be baked in an oven at four-hundred degrees fahrenheit for three hours, or until golden-brown, or whatever color the illustrious reader prefers his/her food, Lyra quickly removed the bag from it’s resting place upon her horn. She then simultaneously flung the bag into a corner of the dark closet pantry she was in and used her golden sparkle powers to wipe her face of offending white matter. Get your dirty thoughts outta here. This ain’t that kinda story, unless you imagine really hard. I mean, not like that, uh, yeah. Moving on. Not stopping to think of the plentiful innuendos that adolescents of a future age could derive from her recent predicament, Lyra quickly scanned the oppressive darkness, and mildew mixed with flour, with her magical green ice cream cone powers. (I’m not even trying anymore.) Finding the room sufficiently clear of potential hazards, and spiders, ewwww, she silently sneaked her way to the door. After a hazardous journey filled with every imaginable creaky board and loose nail imaginable, she found herself pressed against the portal to damnation. Otherwise known as a door whereupon being pried open could reveal a face full of party cannon. I shall leave it to the, grand and elegant, reader to decide if the use of party cannons by third parties on civilians is a violation of Equine Rights. Like landmines filled with custard. We still aren’t sure where the Destroyer of Introverts acquired sufficient military grade explosives to send three pounds of custard outward at speeds exceeding four hundred -insert local and/or fictional Equestrian measurement of speed- per second. We are sure that the answer has greater universe shattering implications than the question. Taking a moment to shudder in fear with thoughts pastry filled soirees and baked goods debauchery, Lyra slowly pressed the door open. Press... *CREAK* Stop. Heavy breathing. Press... *CREEEEEEAK* Stop. Similarly labored breathing. Press... *CREAK CREEEAK CREAK! CREAK!! CREAAAAAAAAAK!!! CREA-* Buck it. SLAM *WHUMP* *Creaaaa-* Glare *aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-* Intense ocular fixation of disdain and distemperment. *-aaak* “When I finally finish my time-machine, I am so murdering the pony who invented doors. Bucking doors.” Lyra would have likely ruminated further on her designs of chronocide, but, as the Gods of humorous circumstance willed it, found herself the object of attention of several dozen ponies, most of them in some phase of consuming delicate and doughy delectables. After several moments of awkward silence, somepony in the back of the room spoke up, “Lyra.” her voice was deadpan. “He he he, um, hi, Officer Mist.” Lyra was clearly distressed, if her sweating and scratching of the back of her neck with her hoof was any indication. “That’s Officer Misty Morning to you Miss Heartstrings.” The now firmly established officer of the law was making her way toward the green mare. Most everypony else was quietly edging away from the two, as if the two were drawing swords in preparation for a duel. “Oh, yeah, right. Officer Miss-in-Mourning, got it.” Apparently realizing that she was indeed Lyra, Lyra grew a smirk and her demeanor seemingly gained equal parts snarkiness and bravado. “I’ll be sure to add ‘Disrespect of an Officer’ to your impressive criminal list.” Barely a pony’s length away now. “Two words, Officer, autrefois convict.” “Three words, Miss, breaking and entering.” “Yeah, well, your face! UHH!”, “UHH!,” Was accompanied by an extraordinarily graceful and righteous sticking out of the tongue. “That’s ‘Assault of an Officer.” “Yeah, well, your face! Again! And your tail too! So, yeah. BURN, er, something.” Lyra’s face morphed from a triumphant cocky smirk to a self-reflective questioning gaze over the course of the last -*ahem*- “Insult”, if such a string of unequaled eloquence can be named that, which was made all the more amusing by that fact that she had never rolled her tongue back into its natural dwelling. Thereby making her facial expressions SO FICKING CUTE, OHMAGAWD I CAN’T STAND IT-UNGH!!! Right...right, deep breaths. Think of nature. A lion ripping a gazelle’s legs apart while it’s still kicking and trying to run, then it accepts its fate and fades into the darkness as its entrails are devoured in the maw of the malicious beast. That’s better. I can do this. Thank Celestia for Equestrian Geographic. Those sickos. Officer Misty Morning was now barely a nose length away from Lyra, she spread her wings, did I mention she was a pegasus?, and embraced Lyra in a spine-crushing hug. “How you doing sis?” Author's Note Huh. I seem to have made a chapter title so long that it shoves the word count downwards. I think that's a victory. I CAN GAME THE SYSTEM MAN! Anywho, questions, comments, concerns, rants and exclamations of frustration and unequivocal disdain? Check out the comment section below! And please, please, please rate and comment. I'm begging you. Look at my interweb face, it looks like Pinkie Pie and Applebloom having a puppy-dog face competition.
Chapter IV: Sorority of Sinister SiblingsChapter IV: Sorority of Sinister Siblings Musings on Lyra Heartstrings, or the Likely Result of the Mixed Chromosomes of Twilight Sparkle and Pinkie Pie and Its Adventures Chapter IV: Sorority of Sinister Siblings Now, now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Celestia and Luna this pony is sexy.” and, while that is very true, you should be thinking this: “He totally just made that last chapter up as he went along, especially the end.” While that is completely true, in fact every, entirely true and accurate, story I’ve relayed to audiences has been, um, improvised, only in the most minute of details of course, I must attest the whole and pure validity of these anecdotes. With my compulsory prologue out of the way we can continue. As per the norm with Lyra’s reunions with her family, Lyra found herself consumed in a kidney-bruising embrace after being quizzed in various criminal laws and their similarly various loopholes. The current example of reunion was chiefly composed of none other than Lyra’s only sister, Misty Morning. Misty Morning was a pegasus with an off-white mane and tail, a coat that seemed to shift and glimmer as if it longed to shroud everything about it, and, perhaps paradoxically, brilliant mint green eyes. It very well could be said that she resembled near terrestrial water vapor condensing due to temperature difference between ground and higher atmospheric elevations, in the morn no less. To reiterate, she looked like what you would expect. She happened to be an officer, in case you somehow missed that. An officer of finance. An agent of doomsday. A member of They Who Taketh Our Funds to Pool Our Funds. A lady of lament. A messenger of monetary mastication. To say more concisely, a tax collector. The horrors that this, this, abomination, of “justice” and other such nonsense as the “rule of law” and “sound financial management,” wreaked upon good, honorable citizens is despicable. Her, in lieu of a word or calligraph that accurately describes it, “profession” was not the oddest thing about her, however much I might detest that. Neigh, the oddest thing about her was her family. Now, I’m sure you expect me to make her out as the “normal” one in a family of nutjobs. And I’m quite sure you expect me to attempt cliched comedy skits with it that weren’t funny even when they were new. Never make such unfounded assumptions. It shall transfer you to no great station in life. When I say, “the oddest thing about her was her family,” I mean that her family, including her, are quite the unorthodox bunch. Starting long ago with Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Auntie Roseberry Dew, who was well renowned in her day for collecting objects and novelty decorative pieces that we might call gewgaw. (I assure you that word is founded in reality.) Some say Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Auntie Roseberry Dew was a close friend Her Most Immaculate and How Does She Never Get Stains On Her Coat I Can’t Wear White Hoof-Cuffs Without Getting Them Soaked in Everything Majesty, Princess Celestia of Eques-waitforit-tria. Trading knick-knacks and antiques and telling the most elaborate stories of them. Circuitous and verbose stories if you ask me, I would never sink to such lows as to fill my lack of proper reporting and affluence of procrastination with purple prose that is verisimilitudinous of true intellect. Truly, my humility knows no bounds. Returning to the genealogy lesson at hoof, we shall find that, through the generations, a certain level eccentricity was maintained and radicalised. From Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather Marred Weather, a most appropriate name, who produced and, illicitly, tested the first contemporary theories of meteorological warfare. To Great Grandmother Kernel Corn, another most appropriate name, who pioneered in the field of battlefield nutrition, devising and issuing the first canned goods light enough for soldiers to carry with them. Beforehoof, the mares and stallions of war relied on the bulky and, also quite apropos, succulent targets that the large refrigerated wagons that supplied nourishment in far-flung wastelands made for. She was affectionately nicknamed “Colonel Corn.” Although she was technically a Commandant. Being a Marine and all. Returning to the time period of this story, we find that most of the former customers of Sugarcube Corner have mysteriously vanished. Sometime after hearing Lyra’s sister was in town the townsfolk furtively, so as not to let them smell the fear, galloped the hay out of there. Most of the rest vanished after realizing Misty was a tax agent. The two sisters paid no heed, however, and instead proceeded to inform the other of her life since they last spoke. I shall present the information in an abridged, narrated format, as the two talked through speech, body language, their family’s own verbal code, and even some primitive telepathy Lyra knew. The relevant information is as follows: Misty is going to be in town for the foreseeable future, helping whip the locals into good economic shape. They’re both still single. Not surprising. *cough* Ahem, what? Hollow Shades is a wonderful place to live, according to Misty. The bat ponies have the most exotic and effective invasive interrogation techniques. Ponyville is as boring as ever, according to Lyra, the only ponies that see any action are the Elements of Harmony, and Derpy. Plus, the Import-Export Guy (Interesting Note: This was communicated using all the ways listed above.) only comes once every two-months. Mom and Dad are still on vacation in the Western Islands training local militia groups in exchange for a small villa, a not-so-small sum of precious metals, and enough jungle fruit to feed a small army. So they finally have a reliable food source for their insurgency then? Yeah, but Mom likes it there so much she wants to abandon the plan for the Southern Griffon Kingdoms and overthrow some of the local republics and tribes instead. You seen a dragon around here? Yeah he came in about five minutes ago, walked upstairs. Why? He’s trying to get my keys back from the Pink Devil that inhabits this foul place. Seems nice enough for me. Could use some darker colors, but- Give it time. Want some help with those keys? Yeah sis. And the b- And the body? Yeah... Got you covered. Mr. and Mrs. Cake watched the whole thing in a mixture of awe, then fear, and finally dismissiveness, muttering something about, “Mares these days.” Then they went about their business trying to find a way to keep some twenty-five pounds of recently ordered baked goods warm. ======&&*&&====== I’m quite confident that all of you kind and patient readers are quite eager, some may go so far as to say restless, to hear of the continued adventures of Spike the Fearless. Unfortunately for you wandering drunkards, the only Spike hear is Spike the Retriever of Key Rings. So it is that after casually walking up the stairs Spike oriented himself and began his walk toward the Room of our long anticipated foe. It being Pinkie Pie’s day off, however, meant she was off gallivanting about the town in search of “Friends” and “Smiles” and other such frivolous frivolities. Thus is is that our very own Spike the Retriever of Key Rings simply walked through the open door, located the spot that Lyra told him she last remembered holding the keys in her telekinesis, and, with much pomp and circumstance, plucked ‘em up and started on his way back to Lyra. Perhaps it is apposite to note that Spike undertook all these actions described with a rather severe frown, much like after he eats a particularly bitter gem with lemon juice, and intermittent mumblings about how he, “Never agreed to any of this,” and Lyra, “just had to follow them [Him and Twilight] to Ponyville.” In fact, Spike was just in the middle of describing, to nobody in particular, how he doesn’t even get paid for what he does. And his allowance doesn’t count. It could even be assumed that he would have continued on this rant and eventually gone home to Twilight empty-clawed and sulking. Lyra, then, inadvertently took the place of Pinkie when her sister and she snatched the keys from Spike’s claw, quickly stabbed him with a syringe of propofol, covered him in a burlap bag, and then stuffed part of the bag in his mouth to prevent him yelling out. Pinkie doesn’t like unhappy ponies, or dracos, and, if Pinkie was a Psychologically Unstable Unicorn from a long line of genetic crazy, it could be ascertained reasonably that she would consider doing something similar to what Lyra and Misty just did. “Hey, sis?” “Yeah, Misty?” “This isn’t Pinkie Pie is it?” “No sis.” “This is Spike?” “Yep.” “What are we-” “Take my keys and go back to my place, you remember where it is?” “Yeah, the one with the bomb shelter out back?” “That’s the one.” “Well, what are you going to do with him?” “Don’t worry sis, I got this.” Lyra uttered these words while standing on her hind legs and propping herself up by placing one of her hoofs on the bag covered Spike and the other hoof in the crook of the first. And I’m pretty sure somewhere a dramatic orchestral piece played. ======&&*&&====== LATER THAT DAY DING-DONG “Hmm, Oh! Sorry, we’re past public hours. Please come tomorrow.” DING-DONG “Oh, Celestia.” Twilight Sparkle rose from her cushion in front of desk and made her way toward the Library door. “This better be important.” *Muffled speech* *Gulp* “Hehe, well, here goes nothing.” Twilight opened the door only to have her expectations of a prankster/hostage crisis dashed by a medium-sized burlap bag wiggling around and producing muffled yells. There was a note attached to it. Twilight Sparkle, Tell Spike I appreciate the assistance, and he can expect a shipment of delectable gems within the week. Vesania ab Gloria, Lyra Heartstrings “What in Equestria?” Twilight magicked open the bag and had a nonplussed Spike come crawling out panting. “Spike?” “Twilight, I’m taking my sick days. All of them.” “Umm, what hap-” “I’ll let you know when I get back from Dr. Sure Sense.” “Why are you going to my psychologist?” “Because if I don’t, I doubt I’ll ever be able to be touched by a pony again.” “So what happened?” “Lyra, Lyra happened.” Author's Note And here we are. After nearly a week of procrastination and general laziness I managed to have a spark of inspiration long enough to finish this chapter. Since I started Musings I always intended for it to be a side-project. Writer's Block Be Gone, if you will. And I always intended for them to come in sets. So from now on, I'm going to be updating Musings much more sporadically, but in bursts of three or four chapters at a time. And before the end of the month I should have my first one-shot out and two or three-ish chapters of Flamma out. So that's the update, for the four or so people who care. I'm such a big-shot! Questions, comments, concerns? I encourage you to hit up the comment section below. AND FOR THE LOVE OF LUNA IF YOU LIKE OR DISLIKE THE STORY TELL ME WHY! That is all.
