Fire and Sky: Shorts


                                            Originally posted November 2017


                                            A collection of shorts surrounding Fire and Sky.


                                            --------------------------------


                                            "The Interview"


                                            "I dunno, Boss. Something about this just rubs me really, really wrong."

                                            > "Really? I'd have figured an audience would be the one thing you'd be absolutely at home with."

                                            "Hah, hah. Difference between doing your thing when people just happen to be watching, and doing it because they're watching. And forget this Tartarus-chained leash!"

                                            > Pausing, you raise a hind hoof to kick at the offending strap as it (again) brushes your shoulder.

                                            "I swear, if an image of me shows up of me wearing this thing anywhere-"

                                            > "Spitfire!"

                                            > Kneeling down, Anonymous puts a hand on your shoulder and matches his eyes to your own.

                                            > "I get it. This isn't going to be fun, for either of us. I get it, okay? But, please; we don't really have much of a choice, and I need you to just swallow it down for a few hours. Can you do that for me, please? For us?"

                                            > You hesitate, then sigh - ruffling your wings and slumping dejectedly.

                                            "Yeah, I can. Sorry - I'm being a bit of a brat, aren't I?"

                                            > "A bit, yeah."

                                            > That he so readily agrees actually hurts more than admitting in the first place.

                                            > Which in turn just tells you how much of a brat you were being; you shouldn't be saying those sorts of things in expectation of immediate absolution.

                                            > Maybe it was time to buckle down and swallow your pride.

                                            > Perhaps seeing how much he'd hurt you, Anonymous puts a hand on your shoulder:

                                            > "But you're also entirely right to be upset that we have to go putting our lives out there for public gawping. I get that. And if we get through this, we can both go out and get a couple of beers."

                                            > Reaching out with a wing, you let it lightly settle across his reaching arm.

                                            "...'preciate it."

                                            > He grins a touch, then stands.

                                            "Alright. Now, let's see what's waiting for us in there."


                                            > The magazine's headquarters had rejected the monoliths of glass and steel that rose around it in favor of maintaining a rather more original look:

                                            > Brick walls stained with age and narrow hallways barely large enough to pass in testify to the age of its founding.

                                            > Part of you is pleased; it wasn't anywhere near Equestria's architecture, but far closer than the impersonal towers that surrounded it.

                                            > Besides, they... wobbled.

                                            > Cloudhomes moved under wind too, but drifted with it; human skyscrapers swayed back and forth in an eerie pattern - sometimes with, sometimes against - that offended your pegasus senses.

                                            > On the other hand, the narrow hallways in this old building sometimes felt too narrow.

                                            > The further in you go the more they seem to close in around you.

                                            > Specters of the many long months spent in a cage.

                                            > Or the weeks in a cell while you thought Anonymous was dead.

                                            > The leash really didn't help do away with that sense either.

                                            > And then, abruptly, you're through a door and being welcomed into a small office.

                                            > "Hello, hello! Mister Anonymous, and Spitfire is it? Come in and have a seat!"

                                            > Despite it being even more crowded than the hallways, it feels less claustrophobic:

                                            > A window in the back offers a narrow view of a filthy alleyway, and for that you're deeply thankful even if it probably wasn't a true escape.

                                            > Anonymous takes a seat, as does the man interviewing you.

                                            > None has been provided for you, but a quick glance around reveals a currently unused seat that you're all too happy to snag with a wing and quickly reposition at your owner's side.

                                            > Leaping up onto it, you gather the leash beneath yourself and pointedly sit down on it.

                                            > An eyebrow is raised by the interviewer, but Anonymous says nothing.

                                            > "...right, well, I'm Fred Rackham. We'll, uh, start out with some basic questions."

                                            "Right."

                                            > You can't hide your nervous swallow.

                                            "Let's get started."


                                            > The microphone is set out on the table between the three of you, the program started, and the questions start to fly.

                                            > If nothing else, you can say that Fred is skilled at what he does.

                                            > The first few questions are easy, simple things:

                                            > What kinds of work do you do, what jobs, how do you manage living out of an aircraft...

                                            > It doesn't void the knowledge that tougher questions are coming, but you find yourself becoming more relaxed nonetheless.

                                            > Aside from not giving away that he had been teaching you to fly regularly, there's little to think about and just talking is enough to set you somewhat at ease:

                                            > "A question for your pony, Mr. Anonymous: When you were crashing - landing - the plane... what did you feel?"

                                            > Ignoring the roundabout way of address, you quickly answer:

                                            "I felt I was going to beat it."

                                            > The look of surprise is universal across all of them.

                                            "Oh, don't get me wrong. Anonymous dying to my left and the plane flying on the last bits of fuel - right up until then I was scared so hard I was practically shedding feathers. But at that moment..."

                                            > Pausing a moment, you let your eyes go unfocused as you stare off into the past.

                                            "...it's hard to explain to someone who hasn't flown. Not ridden, actually flown. There's... a kind of a space in your mind. You get into it, nothing matters; it's just you and the air. You fly to win, and if you start thinking too hard you lose. It's all by feel."

                                            "I thought back to our first real job together - when I'd been losing my cool then too. But I lived through that, and told myself I could live through crashing too. Would have to, to save Anonymous. And... that was it. I would win. I would beat it too."

                                            > Inevitably, of course, the easy questions must end:

                                            > "Anonymous, you've spoken before about being aware of Spitfire's prior service in the Equestrian military. Were you aware of this when you acquired her, and how do you feel about it now?"


                                            > Thank Celestia you'd admitted that to him before all of this.

                                            > Anonymous only finding out about it now would have been...

                                            > Problematic.

                                            > "I wasn't when I first picked her up, though I had suspicions. Kept a few security measures in place at first, but on the whole I wasn't afraid."

                                            > "So you felt she was already tame?"

                                            "Tame?!"

                                            > Both men raise an eyebrow at your outburst, and you bristle in your seat.

                                            > Turning back to Rackham, Anonymous shakes his head:

                                            > "I didn't think she was 'tame'. I thought she was a reasonable being who I could talk to an reasonable manner."

                                            "Yeah. The only 'unreasonable' thing was what had been done to me!"

                                            > "...right."

                                            > Somehow you don't think that bit is getting into the actual article.

                                            > "Look, Mr. Rackham... the answer is things weren't always the best for us. But I gave her some space instead of trying to make her 'tame', and now - well, I don't even have the control for that shock collar on me-"

                                            > "Can I ask why it's there, if you don't have it?"

                                            "Can I get this one, Boss?"

                                            > Anonymous nods, knowing just what you are about to say.

                                            > "Go ahead, Spits."

                                            "It was my call to keep it. Even after he got rid of the control, I didn't want to pretend I was free. It keeps me remembering that I could just as well be shocked until I begged just for being a pony."

                                            > "So, you would say you keep it to remind yourself of why it's important to obey - even if Mr. Anonymous is more... lenient."

                                            > A small flame of annoyance begins to smoulder in the back of your mind.

                                            "Not what I meant at all. More that I don't want to forget for a second that even if he wasn't my-"

                                            > The word sticks in your throat, but you force it out anyhow:

                                            "-Master, I could easily be treated far worse. Tortured - let's call it what it is. And that there are a lot of ponies out there who don't have it as good as me."

                                            > "I see."

                                            > You don't think he does.

                                            > The attempt at explanation seems to have completely flown over his head.


                                            > "So he hasn't ever used the shock collar on you."

                                            > "Oh, I have. Once or twice. Of course, there was the one time..."

                                            "Yeah. We got into a huge fight. I... mouthed off in a way I shouldn't have-"

                                            > "-I swung at her head-"

                                            "-so I kicked right back-"

                                            > "-hit me right in the gut, too. And then I got her with the shock collar."

                                            > Anonymous rubs the back of his head.

                                            > "Truth be told, that... was not one of my better moments. All other things aside, I should have known better. I should've been able to control myself, and that I went to town on Spitfire instead of keeping my cool. It wasn't right, especially after what I'd just asked her to do."

                                            > "Which is, if I may ask?"

                                            > "Plane full of pony kids."

                                            "Foals."

                                            > "Yeah, that."

                                            "Right before that, we'd flown a group of foals down to a - a sort of training camp. I was... out of it. Lost control too. And I really did push An- Boss' buttons real good."

                                            > You shuffle your wings uncomfortably, the circumstances of your discussion temporarily forgotten.

                                            > Next to you, Anonymous shakes his head.

                                            > "Yeah. You were... but deciding to beat you silly like that still wasn't right."

                                            > He pauses, then speaks more softly:

                                            > "Spitfire? I don't think I've ever said sorry for that, and - I should. Whatever you are, when you're in that plane you're my partner-"

                                            "I know."

                                            > The grin you shoot him almost manages to cover the pain of that memory - almost.

                                            > Across the table, the interviewer coughs.

                                            > "So, you would say that is your lowest moment... together."

                                            > "Probably."

                                            > Anonymous nods, but you aren't too sure.

                                            > Still grinning wide, you add in a singsong tone:

                                            "Oh, there was that one time I considered killing you."

                                            > The splutter Rackham gives makes the inevitable follow up question well worth it.

                                            > "She - you - what - killing you?!"

                                            > "Spitfire..."

                                            > That warning tone suggests you really ought to stop, but you've become just slightly fed up with the leading questions and dismissive tone.


                                            "Yeah. Was back in our first few weeks together. I woke up in the middle of the night, thought about stuff, and realized I - I could kill him. A good kick, maybe two, and that'd be it."

                                            > You pause, drinking in the shocked expression on his face.

                                            > How many ponies did he get who'd admit to thinking about that?

                                            "So why didn't I? Because I - we - are better than that. Even when I was at my lowest, when he was chaining me to my bed at night because he wasn't sure he could trust me, I couldn't do that. It wouldn't have helped with anything. Just another pointless death. Well, I saw a lot of pointless death and misery, and I didn't like adding more to it."

                                            > "And - he didn't - the shock collar... Mister Anonymous, you know that most people would not keep a dangerous pony around like that!"

                                            > Sighing, Anonymous shakes his head.

                                            > "What she's leaving out is that I was awake for it. If she'd come after me, I'd have taken her down... but she didn't, so I figured she isn't really dangerous. Pissed, yeah. Spits was pissed. But not dangerous."

                                            > Your grin only widens; you'd been expecting he'd fill in that other part.

                                            "You want to know how we ended up actually trusting each other? It's because of things like that. Because he didn't force me to dance around bowing and scraping. He accepted that I wasn't going to be - happy being a slave. What he really cared about is what I did."

                                            > Somehow in the midst of that you'd ended up standing on the chair with wings extended.

                                            > The leash had ended up kicked off the chair, hanging down to the floor and weighing on your neck.

                                            > Now you sit yourself back down, noting with a degree of satisfaction the surprise still lingering on Rackham's face.

                                            > Good.

                                            > Maybe now he'd have an idea of how your actual bonds were forged.

                                            > Not by "obeying" or submitting to him, but by actual trust.


                                            > "And - you would consider that degree of trust important for your... relationship? Most owners that I have spoken to seem to place a higher value on obedience or respect."

                                            "Absolutely."

                                            > "You ever put your life into someone's hands, Mr. Rackham? Not like, let someone else drive you to work. I mean like, 'jump off this high wall with your eyes closed and hope they catch you' kind of thing."

                                            > "I, uh-"

                                            > Seeing where Anonymous is going, you add in:

                                            "Every time we go up? It's exactly that. When I jump from the plane based on when he tells me, when he follows the navigation plan I give. We trust, or..."

                                            > You glance towards Anonymous, hoping this isn't treading too close.

                                            "...someone dies."

                                            > "Agreed."

                                            > You let out a little breath of relief at his concurring with you.

                                            > "I told her at one point, if she wasn't going to give me at minimum cooperation, then she could leave. I wouldn't try to force her into serving me, because that would only lead to one of us being hurt."

                                            > "I see. And... this is the sole reason for your trust?"

                                            "...yes?"

                                            > "Yes?"

                                            > Both Anonymous and yourself answer simultaneously; looking at each other, you both shrug - him with arms, you with wings.

                                            > "I'm not entirely sure what other reason there would be."

                                            > "Consider that you both operate out in rural areas for a significant amount of time, and that you've admitted to so much as living in close quarters-"

                                            > Rackham pauses, and when no response is forthcoming shrugs himself and apparently decides to go full-in blunt.

                                            > "Some would say that you keep her around for... more intimate purposes, and-"

                                            "Oh, fuck you!"

                                            > "Spitfire!"

                                            > Ignoring Anonymous' sharp admonition, you fluff up your wings again and glare across the table at Rackham.

                                            "Let me tell you right now - if he tried to force that on me? I would have kicked his head in. How hard is it for you to get that I-"

                                            > You struggle for the right word.


                                            "-tolerate living like this because he's good to me. If he wasn't? If he treated me like - like a whore? I wouldn't give him a Tartarus-chained inch, and-"

                                            > Breathing deep, you close your eyes a moment and try to get a better grip on your anger.

                                            > From the beginning he'd been frustrating you, angering you.

                                            > This was just the final straw.

                                            > But that doesn't mean you had an excuse for going off.

                                            "...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lost it. But you just don't get it: I'm not just happier because he treats me fair, I'm only still here because he does.

                                            > "And your thoughts, Mr. Anonymous?"

                                            > Your owner - your captain - smiles.

                                            > It's a thin, cold, and slightly angry smile that suggests he was glad you'd apologized, but also mildly annoyed by losing the chance to do the telling-off himself.

                                            > "Spitfire's said, I think, everything I need to."

                                            > "I see... before we conclude, would you mind if we took a few pictures for the article?"

                                            > "Sure."

                                            "Yeah, I guess..."

                                            > "Okay, so if you just sit with your back to that green sheet - yes, just like that. Thank you, Mr. Anonymous, and then if your pony would just come here-"


                                            --------


                                            > "I can't believe you did that."

                                            "He wanted me to sit. On. Your. Lap."

                                            > "Yes, and you damn near chased him out of the room!"

                                            "I am not a - a lap cat!"

                                            > Laughing, Anonymous tips his drink back and downs another gulp of beer.

                                            > You eye the bottle clutched between your hooves and decide to take a mouthful yourself.

                                            > It tastes truly awful - nothing like the rich, dark, almost spicy ales that'd once been brewed by the pegasi cities.

                                            > But alcohol is alcohol, and the mild buzz is pleasant enough.

                                            "I just don't get what was so hard for him to pick up on. I'm not your pet or something. And certainly not a bed whore!"

                                            > Anonymous just laughs.

                                            > "You really don't get it, do you?"

                                            "What is there to get? He's the one missing the point, not me."

                                            > "Easy, Spits."


                                            > You glance around, realizing that more than a few eyes in the bar were still resting on you.

                                            > It wasn't exactly unfriendly - the bar staff hadn't refused you service, and the rest of the patrons' glances were more questioning than hostile.

                                            > But it was still attention, and in the dimly-lit and crowded bar that was already too much.

                                            > Dropping your voice, you go on:

                                            "...okay, fine. I still don't get what I'm missing, though."

                                            > "You think he really wanted to pay attention to what you were saying?"

                                            > Another small laugh, accompanied by a shake of his head.

                                            > "Nah. He was fishing for an angle. Rag-press like that, he wants to print his view and he'll dig and dig around until he gets enough to support it."

                                            "...so, wait, he isn't going to-"

                                            > "Uh-uh. Was kind of funny, though, watching you trying to nail it through his head without knowing that. Nah, if we wanted a good, fair report we'd have to go to one of the big papers - the Times, the Post, y'know."

                                            > Downing another swig of your beer, you grumble softly:

                                            "Well, that explains a Tartarus-blasted lot. So why were we bothering with him again?"

                                            > "Because the donations on the internet are drying up, we ran out of respectable papers to interview for a week ago, and rag press-"

                                            > Anonymous reaches into his pocket and pulls out the check to wave at you.

                                            > "-will pay for 'special interviews'.

                                            "So, you did make me a whore. A whore to the... what'd you call them?"

                                            > "Rag press."

                                            "Yeah. That."

                                            > You lightly swat at him with a wing, but your heart really isn't in it.

                                            > There was a point made there, after all.

                                            "So, what happened to being open with each other, huh?"

                                            > "I... actually thought you kind of understood it. Going into a tiny old building like that, how grubby the offices were..."

                                            > Rubbing the back of his head, Anonymous grimaces.

                                            > "Sorry."

                                            "Nah, s'fine."

                                            > Burying your muzzle in the wing, you nose around until you find the feathers that'd been bothering you.


                                            > A quick tug, and they're out - to be spat to float gently down onto the table.

                                            > Of course, the itch quickly jumps to beneath your collar.

                                            > Lifting a hoof, you use it to weakly kick at the collar a few times - sending the leash jingling softly - but at the same time you're well aware it's mostly in your head.

                                            "I dunno. I guess part of me still wants to be optimistic, thinking we'll go into these things and actually change something..."

                                            > "I know, Spits."

                                            "Let even more see how good we're doing. That you and I can work together like this."

                                            > The itch has jumped to an ear, but you manage to reduce any response to just an annoyed flick.

                                            "I guess... y'know that's kind of what we did back home? Me and the Wonderbolts. We didn't just show off flying, but our teamwork and coordination too. All the stuff I was saying back there, about trust and all that - it applied to the 'bolts too."

                                            > "You were thinking you could do some of that inspirational stuff here too, huh?"

                                            "Yeah."

                                            > Another ear flick - out of pure annoyance this time.

                                            "I guess that was kind of a stupid thing to hope for, huh?"

                                            > "Nah."

                                            > You gasp a bit as Anonymous takes the offending ear between finger and thumb and starts rubbing.

                                            > Oooh, that feels good.

                                            > Far, far more good than you'll ever admit to him.

                                            > ...also stop making such a happy face, girl.

                                            > You look like a stallion just got finished with you, for Celestia's sake!

                                            "Y-You don't think so?"

                                            > "Nah."

                                            > A pause, as he reconsiders.

                                            > "Okay, with that particular rag? Maybe. But in general, Spits... no, it's not crazy to want to yell it out for anyone who'll listen."

                                            > Finally he lets go of your ear - he was trapping you, you could've moved away if you wanted to - Anonymous leans back in his seat.

                                            > You take the opportunity to swig another mouthful of the watery beer.

                                            > "Besides, I've just got a feeling about these sorts of things - and I figure you're bound to run into someone who'll listen pretty soon."


                                            --------------------------------


                                            "Christmas"


                                            > If there's one thing to be said about humans, it's this:

                                            > They know how to decorate.

                                            > From the ground, you could see individual homes - the wreaths, the 'icicles', the inflatable characters, the sleighs, and all.

                                            > But from the air...

                                            > From the air it was a sprawling carpet, a kaleidoscope pastiche of blinking, winkling, gleaming, flashing, pulsating lights in a mesmerizingly blanket spread miles-wide.

                                            > A miles-wide monument to their decadence, putting even the lanterns that had once lit Cloudsdale through Hearth's Warming Eve to shame.

                                            > ...but a damn beautiful one from the air, if you dare say so.

                                            > Like moonlight glittering on snow.

                                            > Tucking your wings, you roll hard into a dive - piercing straight through the whispy edge of a cloud - tendrils breaking off to trail after you in a swirling helix.

                                            > Less than twenty feet from the rooftops, you snap your wings open.

                                            > A burst of snow, deposited the night before, puffs up around you - fine grit coating your body only to melt away a moment later under the heat radiating from you.

                                            > Another roll as you scan the streets for-

                                            > There he is.

                                            > This time you come down rather more softly, and Anonymous looks up as your hooves sound on the icy sidewalk.

                                            > "Hey there. Enjoy yourself?"

                                            "You have no idea."

                                            > Pausing, you shake wildly - spraying the last droplets of snowmelt and sweat that had clung to you.

                                            > Anonymous had wisely recognized the signs, backing firmly away as the droplets splatter about.

                                            > "You all done? Or do I need to find a towel?"

                                            "I'll be fine. We're pegasi, we get winter coats - remember?"

                                            > "As if I could forget."

                                            > Smirking, Anonymous leans over to ruffle your withers with his hand - though wisely keeping it still gloved.

                                            > "You've gotten so fluffy!"

                                            "Hey, hey, hey!"

                                            > Ducking away, you stick your tongue out.

                                            "They're guard hairs! I am not fluffy!"

                                            > Yes you a- ackpth! Hey, quit it!"

                                            > Giggling, you lower the wing you'd used to flick icy droplets in his direction.

                                            "Hah. Another win for me."


                                            > Rolling his eyes, Anonymous pulls his heavy coat back around himself.

                                            > "Yeah, yeah. Let's go get some hot food."

                                            "Hot food sounds... amazing."

                                            > "I know a good place; c'mon. We can grab an Uber back to the docks when we're done."

                                            > The 'good place' turns out to be a bare hole-in-the-wall establishment wedged between two towering old apartment buildings.

                                            > Paint peels from walls, and faded photos of humans you didn't know but who were surely important to the man at the register lined the walls.

                                            > A bare few naked bulbs hung from the ceiling, doing little more to dispel the shadows than the vaguely-flickering strands of bulbs hung over the dirtied windows at the front.

                                            > Not that any of this was bad.

                                            > It left you with a sense of... familiarity, more than any of the supermarkets with their rows and rows of food in neat boxes and shiny-wrapped plastic packages.

                                            > The hissing of boiling water or oil.

                                            > The broad mix of smells wafting on steam or smoke from the cramped kitchen behind the desk, one that leaves your head tilted up and nostrils flared .

                                            > The yelled commands in urgent voices, some in languages you did not understand.

                                            > On the contrary - if anything, it made you...

                                            > Homesick.

                                            > This was the kind of place you'd known at home:

                                            > A place where the owners would rise before dawn to start cooking and worked until long after the sun went down.

                                            > The kind of place you'd shot through in and out on eager wings before making the early-morning group exercises with the rest of the bolts.

                                            > Where you'd crash in - sometimes literally - after another successful tour, rewarding yourself for another job well done.

                                            > Where they'd leave a pie cooling out on the windowsill, knowing Soarin - ever on the edge of being late, but always appearing with belly full a second before you could chew him out - would grab it and leave behind a little bag of Bits in return.

                                            > Hell, this time of year there'd probably have been Hearth's Warming carolers.


                                            > You could almost hear the notes of old songs, echoing out over Cloudsdale as the sun was lowered and the sky was lit by stars from above and swarms of gently-drifting colored lanterns from below.

                                            > ...wait.

                                            > Your ears prick, swiveling attentively.

                                            > That was singing!

                                            > Head held high, you catch another burst of notes as the door is opened.

                                            > Following it out you immediately find yourself turning down a nearby alleyway.

                                            > The voices only grow stronger, until you clamber over a wall and find yourself among-

                                            > Three?

                                            > No, four.

                                            > Four ponies in a little circle, singing softly among each other.

                                            > Without even realizing it you've added your voice to the song; their ears and then heads turn as they become aware of you but nopony stops.

                                            > Soon enough another pony arrives, also drawn by the soft swinging.

                                            > At last the song ends, the last few notes fading away.

                                            > Everypony looks among each other, nopony seeming to know what to say.

                                            > Finally one pony - the one who'd arrived after you - points to himself:

                                            > "Sunshower."

                                            > "I'm Creme Brulee. That's my sister-"

                                            > The mare speaking points to another - nearly identical beneath the scarves wrapped around her.

                                            > "-Crema Cremada."

                                            > As if an invisible wall had come crashing down, everypony crowds in.

                                            > "Aurora Gaze."

                                            "Spitfire."

                                            > "You're from around here?"

                                            > Crema Cremada nods.

                                            > "Yes. We live a few floors up; our owner's a nice old woman. She doesn't mind if we go out. You?"

                                            > "A few blocks down. I'll probably get a lecture for being late with my errand, but I heard the singing..."

                                            "He's grabbing dinner next door."

                                            > Aurora Gaze stares at the ground, hesitating.

                                            > "...runaway."

                                            > Sunshower extends a wing out across Aurora's back.

                                            "They don't mind you... y'know, singing about our own ways? Making our own nation?"

                                            > "Like I care if they would."

                                            > Creme Brulee shakes her head at the bitter comment.

                                            > "Mistress doesn't, but we got ice thrown at us when we were singing out on the sidewalk. That's why we're back here."


                                            "...probably wouldn't give a damn. He's pretty relaxed."

                                            > "Someone else would."

                                            > Sunshower nods to Creme Brulee.

                                            > "I accidentally wished someone a happy Hearth's Warming by accident yesterday. It... didn't go over well.

                                            > You hiss softly through your teeth, noting the darkened patches in her custard-yellow coat.

                                            "Your owner didn't stop that?"

                                            > "He wasn't there. And no one else would."

                                            > "Hey, when exactly is Hearth's Warming this year?"

                                            "Uh..."

                                            > Eyes going slightly crossed, you try to calculate the difference between Equestria's Moons and this world's years.

                                            "...four days from now, I think?"

                                            > "That sounds right, yes."

                                            "It's good that you're all - still trying, though. The three tribes stood on their own by coming together once, and even if it's not so easy this time we can win by still sticking together."

                                            > "Yeah. We can't forget it."

                                            > "Damn straight."

                                            > "Can't stop us from remembering."

                                            > You open your mouth to respond, but your ears cock at a distant call of your name.

                                            "Sorry, all. That's my time up."

                                            > Halfway through turning, you pause.

                                            > Your legs were fine, but your heart weighed heavier than you could know.

                                            "...I'm glad I found you all, though. I'd - missed this. Maybe more than I realized."

                                            > "Same."

                                            > "Yeah..."

                                            > This time, there's a little smile on your face as you go; Aurora Gaze and Creme Brulee already seemed to be arranging a place for the former to stay for a little while.

                                            > Yet, as you re-emerge back onto the sidewalk the smile is already fading.

                                            > "Hey there, Spits. Dinner's done; you about ready to go?"

                                            "Yeah."

                                            > "...you alright, Spitfire?"

                                            "I... Yeah. Let's go home."

                                            > Back to the plane, tied up against the dock.

                                            > Home, yes - but a cold one this time of the year.

                                            > Cold in touch and heart.

                                            > Or...

                                            "...hey, is there like - a Wal-Mart or something around here?"

                                            > "Uh... I guess? They're Goddamn everywhere."


                                            "And do you have like, twenty dollars to spare?"

                                            > "What're you going on about, Spits?"

                                            "An idea."


                                            --------


                                            > "This is a stupid idea."

                                            "This is a fantastic idea."

                                            > Hovering alongside the plane, you continue playing out the strand of lights in your hooves.

                                            > Behind you, Anonymous clutches a roll of tape - sticking the strands to the metal skin despite his grumbling.

                                            > "I'm really certain this is like, five different kinds of illegal, Spitfire."

                                            "Only if we take off. I read the guidebook."

                                            > "And I'd like to fly tomorrow too!"

                                            "So we can take it off then."

                                            > "If I slip and fall in the water, I'm blaming you!"

                                            > Sticking your tongue out, you snicker at him:

                                            "I'll catch you if you start falling, slowpoke."

                                            > "What, so we can both end up soaked and freezing again? You looking to get all cuddled up under a blanket with me like last time? You know I'd have to get out of my wet clothes, right?"

                                            > ...it's a good thing that the poor lighting on this dock keeps him from seeing the rosy coloring of your cheeks.

                                            "Hah, hah. Is this the last strand?"

                                            > "Uh, yeah."

                                            "Cool. Let's run it up to the cockpit."

                                            > The last wire is dangled in through one of the cockpit's rooftop hatches; Anonymous slams the hatch shut all but for a slight crack for it - and as an afterthought, tapes over the gap too.

                                            "Plug it in!"

                                            > "Yeah, yeah - hold on a second."

                                            > He does, though, and in an instant the whole plane is bathed with the soft glows of red, white, and green bulbs strung from nose to tail.

                                            > Both of you are silent a moment, just taking in how the patterned lights cast shifting shadows through the glass.

                                            > After a moment, Anonymous reaches up to switch off the interior lamps.

                                            > Darkness floods in only to be pushed back by wandering patches of multihued light coming in from outside.

                                            > He speaks first:

                                            > "Wow."

                                            "Yeah..."

                                            > Both your voices were soft.

                                            > A second later, you add:

                                            "...wanna get dinner?"

                                            > "That sounds good, yeah."


                                            > He'd bought some sort of wrap - fried vegetables and cheese and delightfully spiced sauce, in a thin but crispy dough-wrap that left juices and oil dripping down your chin.

                                            > You'd both decided to sit in one of the bubbled canopies near the tail, wrapped in blankets against the night's fierce chill and looking out of the bay you'd landed in.

                                            > Far in the distance other lights twinkled, now mirrored by the strands now strung along the plane.

                                            > In the shifting lights, you stuff the last of the wrap into your mouth and savor its fading flavor.

                                            > "That was..."

                                            "...fantastic."

                                            > "Yeah."

                                            > Neither of you are speaking in much more than whispers.

                                            > As if to do so would break the peaceful moment.

                                            > ...in fact, neither of you are speaking much now at all.

                                            > Just watching.

                                            > Staring.

                                            "Hey, Anonymous?"

                                            > “Yeah?”

                                            "I didn't get you a present."

                                            > He snorts in amusement.

                                            > "Didn't really either, y'know? So you don't have to worry about that."

                                            > Wordlessly you point up to the strands of lights outside, greens and reds and whites dancing along like little distant lantern-bearers.

                                            > "...aaand, that doesn't count."

                                            "Yes it does."

                                            > "Does not."

                                            "Does too."

                                            > Both of you are grinning widely at this point.

                                            > "I say it doesn't. And besides, you got me the best present I could ask for - being able to stay flying."

                                            "I'm pretty sure that's not a present either."

                                            > "Then we're equal."

                                            > Another long pause in silence.

                                            "Hey, Anonymous?"

                                            > "Yeah?"

                                            "Merry Christmas."

                                            > His arm settles across your withers - a comfortable and reassuring warmth.

                                            > Ever so slowly you lean in against him, until the back of your head is resting in the crook of his shoulder.

                                            > "...to you too. And what brought this on, if I can ask?"

                                            "Just - while you were getting the food, I ran into some other ponies. We sang a bit-"

                                            > "You can sing?"

                                            "Badly."

                                            > "I want to hear you sing."

                                            "No you don't."

                                            > "Yes I do!"

                                            "Do you want the story or not?"


                                            > Laughing, he uses the arm across your back to tousle your mane.

                                            > "Okay, okay. Give it to me."

                                            "...well, y'know, our holiday around now... Hearth's Warming Eve? It's - an old tradition. From when the tribes came together. We stood together and were stronger for it. And I was just..."

                                            > You fall silent, as he rubs at the back of your head.

                                            "...I guess, with all the shit that's happened - I'm glad I've got you. Since you stand by my side as much as the other way around, despite that I'm... a slave. And - it didn't seem right to just go back and not do anything for it."

                                            > "Dawww. That's sweet, Spits."

                                            > Cheeks burning, you duck your head.

                                            "Shuddup."

                                            > "I'm not teasing. I'm glad to have you too. So, uh... Merry Hearth's Warming, I guess?"

                                            "It's not for another four days."

                                            > "So I'll say it again then."

                                            > This time, you extend a wing out across his back.

                                            > Both of you remain sitting there a long time more - leaning against each other, wrapped in blankets.

                                            > Supporting each other.

                                            > Until at last sleep comes for you both.


                                            -------------------------------------------------------


                                            "The Novel"


                                            > Waking up to find a package left just outside the plane wasn’t entirely unusual.

                                            > Having a package meant for your pony, though…?

                                            > Can’t say you ever remember that before.

                                            > Then again, you’d not had her that long either, so there’s probably a first time for everything.

                                            “Hey Spiiiits!”

                                            > “Wha’izzit?” Her exhausted voice echoes from somewhere back in the plane.

                                            “Did you order something? A, uh-”

                                            > You twist and bend the package in your hands, trying to judge its contents.

                                            “-a catalog or something? A book?”

                                            > “Uh, no? I can’t order anything, remember?”

                                            “Hasn’t stopped you from stealing my credit card before!”

                                            > “That was once, and it was for a bottle of water from a machine. Shaddup!”

                                            > Chuckling, you tuck the package under an arm and crawl back inside.

                                            “You care if I open it? It’s labeled for you, ‘care of Anonymous’ - I don’t recognize the return address.”

                                            > Hooves on metal announce Spitfire’s approach - her mane somehow already groomed into its trademark swoop and wings preened up into smoothness.

                                            > How that pony could love mornings so much is a total mystery to you.

                                            > “Lemme see it.”

                                            > Expertly catching the lobbed package in her jaws, she pins it beneath one hoof and tears it open with a quick twist of her head.

                                            > Out slides what looks like some kind of soft cover book, but Spitfire’s interest falls on the loose sheet of paper that floats out with it.

                                            > “Eh, lemme see… ‘To, Spitfire, care of Anonymous; From, Harper Collins publishing. It has come to our attention that the enclosed work contains depictions of ‘Spitfire’... eh, someone’s trying to write about me or something.”

                                            “Oh yeah? What do ya bet it’s a steeeeamy romance novel, huh?”

                                            > “Hey, keep running your mouth and I’ll shed feathers in your oatmeal.” Spitfire bats a wing in your direction, and you raise your hands in mock-surrender.

                                            “So? Keep going, then.”

                                            > “Fine, fine. Lemme see, uh… ‘depictions of ‘Spitfire’, we are seeking your full and encompassing permission … to use the likeness of yourself in a published work… in full legal consultation, yadda yadda…”

                                            > She tilts her head curiously, one ear flicking as she continues to read.

                                            > “...refusal will result in no published content … will require legal authorization of Anonymous to utilize the likeness of his property…”

                                            > Ah, shit.

                                            > Spitfire snorts softly, but you’re already by her side - a hand descending to scratch between her ears.

                                            “It’s probably some asshole trying to get a ‘real and true’ memoir published by sneaking it in as fiction again. Remember the guy who tried to publish the “interviews” about how we were actually evil agents of the ‘new world order’ and tried to sneak it by as fiction?”

                                            > “Yeah, I do. Hey, I’m going to stretch my wings a bit. Burn off the last drowsiness with a little morning exercise. That okay?”

                                            > And burn off any leftover annoyance, you knew.


                                            > That was just how she handled it.

                                            “No worries, Spits. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

                                            > “Heh. Thanks.”

                                            “What do you want me to do with the… whatever this is?”

                                            > Spitfire pauses, craning her neck to glance back while already halfway out the nearest hatch.

                                            > “Eh, take a look if you want. But I’d say just throw it out. And say ‘no’.”

                                            “Got it. Have a good flight!”

                                            > “Thanks. Your oatmeal’s on the hot plate!”

                                            > So it was.

                                            > When you bring it back to the tiny desk that served as both your workspace, though, the package was still there.

                                            > Eh, may as well.

                                            > Not like a little bad reading was going to spoil your appetite.

                                            > Tearing open the inner package you find to your surprise that it is not a properly-printed book but a manuscript - informal type on standard-size paper sheets, bound in nothing more than standard metal rings.

                                            > Huh.

                                            > Turning it over, you find a simple title on the top:

                                            > ‘Princess Twilight and the Fiery Captain’?

                                            > The name ‘Twilight’ is vaguely familiar - some kind of Equestrian minor ruler? - but you didn’t recognize the author’s name at all.

                                            > You’d have to ask Spitfire who both of them are.

                                            > Another few pages are flipped and you start in on ‘Chapter 1: Embers Aglow’.

                                            > Spitfire had been right about one thing: This was definitely fiction.

                                            > Not some kind of hit-piece portraying you as drug runners, terrorists, or evil agents of world domination, though.

                                            > Just something about Spitfire meeting with this ‘Princess Twilight’, whoever she is.

                                            > In fact, the writing here is kind of… slow? Staid? Monotonous?

                                            > Whoever did this bit didn’t really have their heart in it.

                                            > You chuckle gently to yourself; did Spitfire actually have fan-writers?

                                            > She did say she was kind of well-known back in Equestria.

                                            > A few more pages are flipped ahead and several lines scanned.

                                            > Then you scan them again.

                                            > Pause.

                                            > Blink.

                                            > Read them a third time just to be sure.

                                            > You flip a few pages again, and find a little giggle bubbling up through your throat.

                                            > There was no way…

                                            > Oh my God, it was.


                                            --------


                                            > “‘Please, Captain, are these cuffs truly necessary?’ Princess Twilight Sparkle cried, her eyes tracing the pegasus mare’s trim and muscled coat.

                                            ‘Absolutely! It is clear you know nothing of discipline, Captain Spitfire barked, ‘and I will not serve an undisciplined princess! It falls to me to instruct your sorry rump in it, and by Celestia I will!’

                                            > And Princess Twilight Sparkle’s rump was very sorry indeed, because she saw the thin but supple crop in Spitfire’s hooves and knew the fire it would kindle in her ample curves.

                                            > “This is hardly the proper way to instruct, Captain!” whimpered Twilight. “If you want to teach, I have plenty of volumes explaining-”

                                            > SWISH-CRACK!

                                            > “EEEP!”

                                            > Chains clattered as Twilight jumped on all four hooves when the crop traced its fiery touch across her posterior.


                                            > Though she could hardly see her haunches shackled as she was, she knew a stroke such as that would surely leave a quickly-reddening line running nearly from cutie mark to cutie mark.

                                            > “AGH!”

                                            “Let that be an early warning for you, ‘Princess’. Now, something for that constantly-running mouth of yours…!”

                                            > Another round of clinking - this time not her own shackles, but of the bridle carried in Spitfire’s jaws.

                                            > Deft and familiar gestures brought the straps around her head, buckling them into place: The cheek pieces, cutting into her soft coat. The throatlatch, almost chokingly tight under her chin. The browband, which snapped onto the heavy iron restrictor already anchored onto her horn.

                                            > Twilight gave a little fearful whinny as Spitfire tugged hard on the strap, cords of muscle standing out as she tightened each in turn.

                                            “Open your mouth!”

                                            > So firm was Spitfire’s command that Twilight Sparkle did not hesitate for even a second. Her mouth opened, accepting the metal bar pushed in between her teeth.

                                            > Her tongue probed and pushed, testing the limits of the bit’s travel, and found it prevented nearly all movement.

                                            > “Pleath…”

                                            “ ‘Pleath’ what, Princess?”

                                            > Her vision was filled with Captain Spitfire’s smirking, smoldering expression.

                                            “ ‘Pleath’ this?”

                                            > Lavender lips were met by bright yellow ones; Twilight gave a shocked ‘Mmmmmph?!’ but, bound as she was, could do little to resist.

                                            > Little at all - with the bit secured across her mouth, her tongue was trapped beneath the unrelenting iron as well.

                                            > Left utterly unable to resist as the Captain’s tongue invaded her mouth, Twilight was only able to whine as her mouth was thoroughly explored by the invader.

                                            > Finally the two broke apart, both breathing heavily.

                                            “So weak…”

                                            > Spitfire’s whisper was delivered straight into Twilight’s ear, the little brush of hot air tickling the velveteen fuzz coating it.

                                            > Still open-mouthed and panting from the intensity of the meeting, Twilight was caught off-guard when the bitter-tasting leather of a long, thin, supple crop was jammed in next to the bit.

                                            > “Mmmmph…”

                                            “Do NOT let that drop, Twilight Sparkle.”

                                            > Cuffs clinked gently as Twilight shivered, the severe bridle preventing her from turning her head to follow the captain’s slow walk around her. But she could hear the other mare circling, stalking, peeling her apart with her fiery gaze.

                                            > And she could feel where Spitfire’s feathers brushed her flanks, over her croup, and down along her haunches.

                                            “A leader needs discipline, Princess! And it is abundantly clear you lack any such thing. So, you will hold this whip in your sorry mouth until I am done. Every moan, whimper, or whine you make, I will add another stroke to your sorry hide! And if you drop it, the price will be a hundred times worse!”

                                            >”Eggghhh?”

                                            > Twilight tilted her head (as much as the bridle would allow) in confusion; what kind of test was tha-


                                            > “EEEEEEEEP!”

                                            > Twilight stiffened as she felt the Captain’s dextrous tongue dance beneath her tail, wicking the dampness already spilling from her marehood.

                                            > Her whinnying squeal almost let the crop fall from her jaws; at the last second she remembered to clamp down on it.

                                            > Straining against the straps binding her, Twilight was however unable to reject the pleasured whimper escaping her throat.

                                            “Failing already, Princess?”

                                            > Spitfire purred, lifting her head from the Princess’ nethers.

                                            “Then I guess we’re going to be having a lot of fun with that crop!”

                                            > Ears laid flatly back, Twilight found herself struggling to restrain further moans as the Captain’s tongue returned to its dextrous work.

                                            > She was far, far more skilled than anything - or anyone - Twilight had ever experienced before.

                                            > Not only did her tongue delve deep within, it also proved surprisingly dextrous: Seeking out and assaulting the fleshy bud at the base of Twilight’s marehood.

                                            > Spitfire even seemed to have developed a preternaturally-skillful sense of when Twilight was about to wink; each time that hyper-senstiive bud emerged from its hood, the Captain’s tongue was there to greet it and draw yet another whine from Twilight’s throat..

                                            > And yet, Twilight thought, that was not even the most teasing thing about this experience.

                                            > That, rather, was the seemingly-unfathomable endurance Spitfire displayed:

                                            > Burying her muzzle deep beneath Twilight’s tail and pleasuring the mare relentlessly, long after she knew her own lungs would have been burning for any kind of relief.

                                            > The tiny fraction of her brain still capable of logical reasoning told her that of course Spitfire would be quite capable of stretching her time without oxygen; she was, after all, an athlete.

                                            > The rest of her brain told her that it didn’t matter; the only thing that mattered was the utter pleasure radiating throughout her body.

                                            > Pleasure that resonated from her eartips to her hooves, seeming to only grow larger and larger and-


                                            --------


                                            > The tap-tap of Spitfire’s hooves touching down against the plane’s skin heralded her return - a fact she didn’t bother disguising much, if at all these days.

                                            > “Hey boss, I’m back!”

                                            “Cool, I’m in the back.”

                                            > More hooftaps, and Spitfire’s head emerges through the bulkhead door.

                                            > “You’re just laying down still? C’mon, we don’t want to be too late! And what are you reading? Is that the thing we got?”

                                            “Yeah, it is. C’mon, take a listen to this -”

                                            > You clear your throat and gesture dramatically.

                                            “-and Spitfire kissed her again, overwhelming her both with the aggressive approach and the overwhelming scent of her own arousal. Twilight could do little to resist, her mind mostly focused on the lines of glowing heat seemingly carved into her rump by the crop.”

                                            > “Oh, you are rutting kidding me. Please tell me you’re rutting kidding me!”


                                            > Squeezing down the giggle that threatens to spill from your lips, you just keep reading.

                                            > Spitfire - the actual Spitfire - slowly lets her wings go slack, jaw dropping as she is bombarded by your words.

                                            > “You got to be - someone wrote me torturing Princess Twilight Sparkle?!”

                                            “Torturing?”

                                            > You can barely hold your guffaws now, and all resistance against the incredibly wide grin plastered across your face:

                                            “Oh, yeah. You’re ‘torturing’ her alright!”

                                            > A few pages ahead, you find another good spot to continue reading from -

                                            “Check this bit out. There’s something here where you twist her all around with rope, teaching her how to ‘ignore the strain’.”

                                            > -but never get the chance.

                                            >You’d barely noticed the twitch of her hindlegs before Spitfire tackled you, hooves scrabbling at the manuscript.

                                            > “Give me that thing!”

                                            “No way!”

                                            > “Give it! I can’t believe someone wrote me doing - doing THAT with Princess Twilight Sparkle!”

                                            “Whaaat, she not your type?”

                                            > Spitfire fixes you with the kind of skewering glare that is absolutely zero percent sexy, one hundred percent promised pain.

                                            > “Bite me, Anonymous. She was my Princess!”

                                            “And?”

                                            > “And?! We - We served them, not molested them!”

                                            “Ohohoho, if that’s what you’re worried about - don’t worry, Spits. ‘Chapter 23; Fighting Fire With Fire’-”

                                            > A fresh look of despair crosses Spitfire’s face.

                                            > “Don’t you dare tell me…”

                                            “-in which Princess Twilight Sparkle, recovered from her experiences, comes back having done a whole lot of research of her own into exactly how to properly restrain a pegasus-”

                                            > “Don’t you dare!”

                                            “And proceeds to return everything ‘you’ had done to her with interest. H-Hold on…”

                                            > Twisting around to whisk the manuscript away from the furious pegasus’ snapping jaws, you turn many pages further until you find approximately the right zone:

                                            “Okay, here we go. I swear, there’s so much in here about where it’s best to tie a pegasus’ wings-”

                                            > “She wrote about the wings?!”

                                            “-and listen to this: ‘She strutted about the trembling pegasus, horn blazing as cord deftly wove itself around taught muscle and straining limbs. When she was done, Spitfire found herself stretched even to the limits of her lithe and limber body, suspending in the air in a strained arch which left her utterly immobile, and utterly defenseless.’”

                                            > “I am going to rutting murder-”


                                            “Shhh, shh. It’s just getting good. ‘Now, Captain, I understand you have something of a reputation for stamina,’ Twilight smirked, “and fortunately, I happen to be a devoted fan of research. I hereby requisition your services for some quite specific exploration.’ ‘Mmmmmph!’, moaned Spitfire, orange eyes flicking frantically through the wide variety of toys Twilight had arranged before her. Her struggles only increased as she felt the warm tendrils of magic weaving, worming, and prickling through her feathers and along her toned flanks to’ - OW OW OW MY EAR!”

                                            > “Then give it!”

                                            “No, I want to finish it!”

                                            > “You finish it, I’ll finish you!”

                                            > Managing finally to get a firm grip with her teeth on the sheaf of paper, Spitfire pulls the entire thing from your grip and retreats back with a flap of her wings.

                                            > Another flap and a kick of her powerful hindlegs, and she is up in the old flight engineer’s compartment, above the cabin.

                                            > Out of your immediate reach, though not of a ladder if you cared to go get one.

                                            > Looking at the well-toned leg she had left hanging back down (perhaps as something of a warning), you come to the conclusion that trying to follow her up there would be a short and painful endeavor.

                                            > Instead you settle down into one of the bunks, returning to actual work and listening for the occasional moan (of despair, not the fun kind) from Spitfire’s redoubt.

                                            > From the sounds of it, she’s actually committing herself to reading the entire thing.

                                            > Certainly it takes long enough for her to come back, dropping back down to the floor with a harsh clang-clang as her hooves near-simultaneously touch down.

                                            > Face and cheeks still flushed deeply red, Spitfire drops the manuscript on her bunk with a piercing slap and stares at you.

                                            “...well?”

                                            > Spitfire snorted again, nostrils flaring wide. “You know, when you’re a Wonderbolt, you get used to the idea of stallions - and some mares - thinking about you that way. You’re young, fit, glamorous, and frankly the suits don’t leave a whole lot to the imagination.”

                                            > You pointedly keep any quips trapped well behind your teeth.

                                            > “So.” Sighing again, Spitfire growls and shakes her head - still flushing hard. “So, I can still say this is honestly the first time I’ve ever actually found a full-on fan-fiction novella of me doing - that. And it’s… thorough. Whoever wrote it had a lot of time and a… vibrant imagination.”

                                            “Oh, so that bit about tying the wings isn’t an to-”

                                            > “Bite me.”

                                            > Your smirky grin only grows wider.

                                            “Careful, I might.”

                                            > Spitfire once again fixes you with one of her trademark acidic captain’s glares, and you chuckle.

                                            “So. Any idea who’s responsible? I didn’t recognize the name.”


                                            > “I’d swear I’ve heard the name somewhere, but winds take me if I can remember from where. I’ll say this, though - whoever they are, they must’ve at least seen Twilight Sparkle. They’re, uh-”

                                            > She blushed, deeply. “- frankly accurate about her - her build. She was not an athlete.”

                                            “You met her? This ‘Twilight’?”

                                            > “A few times, mostly just at formal state stuff. Knew one of her friends, though. Whoever this is, I think they were closer than me.”

                                            “So what you’re saying is, if it’s all that accurate there’s a fair chance Twilight Sparkle is a huge closet pervert as well?”

                                            > “It is not ‘accurate’!”

                                            “Oh, I don’t know. It seemed to get you pretty well.”

                                            > Sputtering, Spitfire snaps an evil eye at the innocent-looking sheaf of papers.

                                            > “The next time we’re out over the ocean, I am going to throw it out of the plane, then get out myself and make a thundercloud for no particular purpose except to strike it with lighting.”

                                            “You do that. But you still don’t know who wrote it?”

                                            > “Nah. Whoever this ‘Sweetie Belle’ is, I can’t particularly place her anywhere.”


                                            > Meanwhile, in a home somewhere very, very far away…

                                            > “So. Explain again, sister dear…”

                                            > Sweetie Belle winced.

                                            “So like, I heard about this thing where you could get, like, fan-fiction published, right?”

                                            > “Wait. Stop. Right there. Where did you hear this, exactly?”

                                            > Wincing at Twilight Sparkle’s sharply-barked interjection, Sweetie lashed her tail nervously.

                                            “Um. Like, there was this story, ‘Terminator: Animalia’? It’s a crossover between this kids’ book series and a post-apocalyptic story about - anyway, they made a bunch of printings. Like, actual books!”

                                            > Twilight, for her part, simply lay down on the floor again to allow her to re-bury her muzzle between her hooves.

                                            > Rarity steadied herself and took a very deep breath, relying on will alone to allow the headache to subside.

                                            > “And so you concluded that you could send your own… creations-” The word was spat with such vigor as to give the impression she had recently found an inset in her mouth. “-to be printed as well.”

                                            “Uh-huh!”

                                            > “Because they’re ‘fan-fiction’.”

                                            “Exactly. They’re fiction, about ponies I am fans of.”

                                            > Snorting and pinning her ears back, Sweetie Belle, pawed at the floor.

                                            “And I even used the money Anonymous set aside for me to do it! I didn’t have to sneak around him or anything!”

                                            > “I… am ruined,” Twilight Sparkle mournfully announced, “the second they receive that package they’ll look through it. They’ll read it. They’ll read all about me getting - getting - tied down and beaten and molested! Who knows what else your filthy mind has thought up done to me, Sweetie Belle, and they’ll read about me liking it, and that’s the worst-”


                                            > Rarity interjected with a polite cough. “Actually, Twilight, your indignities are hardly the least of our concerns. You see, I am a mare of business, and I happen to know that unlike Equestria, printing is common enough here that the companies have… rules. Rules that are a problem for us.”

                                            >Tail having fallen suddenly still, Sweetie replied with a trembling voice:

                                            “W-What?”

                                            > “You see, dear, mostly they refuse to publish any fiction that includes living persons. Or ponies. But if someone does submit something, they would reach out and ask said persons if their permission is given. For us ponies, Sweetie Belle, they ask our owners. That is how I found out. That is why I called both of you here. So let me ask you, Sweetie Belle:”

                                            > Rising to her hooves, Rarity marched - not approached, not even stalked, but marched - to her younger sister’s side, leaning in to touch her nose to Sweetie’s.

                                            > “Who exactly else did you include in this story?”

                                            “Um… oops?”


                                            -------------------------------------------------------